A Cowboy at Heart

by Lori Copeland

  “My guess is bandits.” The doctor’s lips pursed. “It’s getting so as a man can’t take a stroll without worrying about being shot.” His gaze slid to Maummi Switzer and then came to a rest on Katie. “Are you his wife?”

  Startled, Katie’s eyes rounded. She took a backward step away from the bed. “No. I-I came to help care for him.”

  “That’s fine. You can give me a hand. I’ll need strong soap and clean water, two or three big basins, and some cloths. Make sure they are clean cloths.”

  Katie started to shake her head and looked toward Maummi Switzer for help. The older woman had far more experience at this sort of thing than she. But Maummi Switzer flicked a hand in her direction.

  “Young eyes are sharper than old ones. On the shelf in the room at the top of the stairs you will find bedsheets and such.”

  The doctor glanced up. “Old cloths will be just fine, ma’am. When we finish with them they won’t be much use anymore.”

  Maummi Switzer dismissed that with a snort. “Whatever is needful to help our Jesse, that is what we will use. Come, Jonas. We will fetch soap and water.”

  Katie hurried up the stairs and found the sheets in a starkly furnished bedroom that looked much like hers at home, only no spare aprons or black dresses hung from the pegs. She retrieved a stack of soft white fabric and hurried back to the sickroom to find that the doctor had removed his vest and was rolling his sleeves above his elbows.

  “Those will be fine. Put them on that chair. What’s your name, young lady?”

  Katie deposited the linens where directed and gave a small curtsey. “Katie Miller, sir.”

  “I’m Dr. Sorensen. Have you ever worked on a gunshot wound, Katie?”

  Her gaze strayed toward the half-naked man on the bed, and she swallowed against a dry throat. “No, sir.”

  “I’d wager to say I’ve removed enough lead from men’s bodies to fill that buggy I saw out in the yard. I doctored in the war.” He spoke in normal tones, a shock to her ears after the hushed voices she and Maummi Switzer had used. “Why, the bullets from General Bragg’s battle in Perryville alone nearly filled up a gallon bucket. If I’d been smart I would have kept them and sold the lead back to the army.”

  As he spoke he pulled things from his leather satchel and lined them up on the small table next to the bed. A fabric-wrapped bundle clinked metallically as he set it beside a covered jar of liquid. Next, he proceeded to slip a clean sheet beneath Jesse’s prone body, gesturing for her to pull it through on the other side until it was fully beneath him. Jesse moaned again during this process, and flailed his limbs.

  Dr. Sorensen nodded toward his legs. “That’s a good sign. I feared there might be damage to the nerves.”

  Maummi Switzer and Jonas arrived carrying two buckets of water and several large bowls. With the manner of presenting a gold piece to the bishop, Maummi Switzer handed a bar of soap to the doctor.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The doctor looked briefly at her and then he turned to Jonas. “I have a very important task for you.”

  “Me?” Jonas’s eyes widened and his hand flew to his collarbone. “I have no skills.”

  “You won’t need any. Open that window over there.”

  Without a word, Jonas moved toward the room’s single window and threw it open.

  “Good. Now look here. See this?” With one hand the doctor held up a cone-shaped object that looked as though it was made of fabric, and in the other he had a small glass vial. “This is chloroform. Katie, you and I and Mrs. Switzer will leave the room while Jonas administers the chloroform. Don’t worry, Jonas.” He forestalled the inevitable protest with a raised hand. “I’ve already measured the proper amount. All you have to do is empty this vial onto the cone and hold it over his mouth and nose for a minute or so.”

  For a moment Katie thought Jonas might object. His throat moved as he cast a frantic look toward Jesse on the bed, and then he seemed to come to a decision. He took the items from the doctor and moved to the place where Jesse lay on his stomach, his head facing the far wall. Dr. Sorensen gestured for her and Maummi Switzer to precede him out of the bedroom, and they all hurried through the doorway to huddle together in the living room.

  “Try not to breathe, Jonas,” Dr. Sorensen cautioned from his vantage point.

  Although the situation was grave, Katie couldn’t help feeling excited. The doctor’s practices were beyond anything she’d ever seen. She’d come to recognize which herbs could treat certain disorders, such as Martha Hostetler’s occasional stomach upset and Sarah Yoder’s headaches. She had heard of chloroform but had never seen it used. Judging by the keen look on Maummi Switzer’s face, the older woman was as interested as she.

  “All right, Jonas, that’s long enough. Now, take that cone outside and put it somewhere in the open.”

  He moved away from the doorway to allow Jonas, holding the cone at arm’s length, to pass through the room. Katie noted that the Amish man’s anxious frown had relaxed, and he wore a placid, almost happy smile. Perhaps he was pleased to have helped his friend. Or perhaps he’d breathed a little too deeply while administering the chloroform. The sound of the door opening followed his disappearance into the kitchen.

  Dr. Sorensen called after him, “When you dispose of that, you might want to lie down and have a nap.”

  After waiting for a long moment, he motioned for Katie and Maummi Switzer to return to the room with him. He marched to the pile of linens, picked up a sheet from the stack, and, with a quick movement, ripped it in two. Katie couldn’t stop a gasp. The waste of a good sheet was unheard of. But Maummi Switzer did not flinch as the doctor ripped again and then handed her a large square. Then he retrieved the jar from the table and motioned for one of the buckets of water, into which he poured a small amount of the liquid.

  “Now, Miz Switzer, if you’ll be so kind as to drape this over the edge of that bucket.” While she did as instructed, he picked up the biggest basin and placed it on the seat of the chair. “Come, Katie. You and I will both wash our hands.”

  She followed his instructions and held her hands beneath the flow that Maummi Switzer poured through the filter of the ripped bed sheet. A sharp, pungent odor rose from the water. Katie’s nose twitched with the unpleasant aroma. Whatever the liquid was in the jar, it was strong. Surely not as strong as chloroform, else the doctor wouldn’t risk breathing it himself. They lathered with lye soap, and followed the same procedure to rinse in the odd smelling water.

  Dr. Sorensen must have noticed her curiosity, for he offered an explanation. “I expect you’re aware of the high rate of infection that results from a wound like this one?”

  Katie glanced toward the bed, where Jesse’s back rose and fell at an alarmingly slow rate.

  “Ja,” answered Maummi Switzer, her tone grim. “Many do not live.”

  “That’s a fact. When I was in school there was a fellow over in England, name of Lister, who did quite a bit of study on infections resulting from surgeries like this one. He put forth the idea that infection, or sepsis, is caused by something invisible to the naked eye in the air and the surrounding area during surgery. Microorganisms, he said. He came up with a technique to kill those infectious organisms using a solution of carbolic acid.”

  While he spoke, he ripped the wasted bed sheet into three more squares and dipped them into the smelly water. Carbolic acid. Katie had never heard the unusual term.

  “Now, I’ll be honest with you, some of my colleagues think Lister is foolish at best, a charlatan at worst.” He looked over the top of his spectacles toward the older woman. “They call me the same for practicing his techniques.”

  Maummi Switzer’s mouth pursed. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  The doctor’s gaze became approving. “Exactly, ma’am. On the battlefield we operated in some mighty dirty conditions, and there were a lot of fine young men who never made it home to their families.” His lips tightened. “If Lister had been a few years ahead of his time
with his antisepsis theory, we might have saved some of them.”

  He fished one of the saturated cloths out of the bucket and handed it to Katie, and then he took another for himself. Smelly liquid dripped onto the floor as he turned to the bed.

  “You wipe down his back,” he told her, “and I’ll do his head. I want every inch of flesh saturated.”

  She did as instructed, aware that Maummi Switzer oversaw her movements with sharp attention from across the room. Jesse did not move, nor did he moan even when she dabbed the cloth around the wound. His back rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

  When he was satisfied the area had been thoroughly cleansed, Dr. Sorensen reached for the third cloth in the bucket. From it he dribbled the pungent water directly into the gash on Jesse’s head, and then into the bullet hole on his back. A slight sound came from the patient’s open mouth, no more than a whispered breath.

  “Without the chloroform that would have brought him up off this bed,” the doctor told her. He gave a satisfied nod. “Now we can get to work.”

  Katie had no idea how much time had passed before Dr. Sorensen extracted a lump of metal from Jesse’s body. He held it up for her inspection.

  “He’s a lucky man. The bullet ripped through his muscle but lodged in the pleura instead of puncturing the lung itself. Probably hurts like a billy-o to breathe, and it will for a while. But as long as infection doesn’t set in, this cowboy might just pull through.”

  Katie wilted into the chair, her breath escaping in a sigh. The procedure had been tense and bloody, and her part had mainly been wiping away the fresh blood that ran alarmingly from the wound as Dr. Sorensen prodded and probed along the bullet’s path. The man liked to talk while he worked, and she had listened to every word about the rich blood supply to the shoulder, both arterial and venous. Though she had no idea what the terms meant, she’d nodded to indicate she was paying attention and kept her gaze fixed on his hands.

  “I’ll leave some dried red clover for the blood loss. Steep it in water and give it to him four or five times a day.”

  She perked up. “I have red clover in my bag. Perhaps goldenseal as well?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Can’t hurt. My dear granny used to swear by goldenseal. Said it cleanses the blood.”

  “What of the wound in his head?” She looked at the ugly gash. At least it bled no more.

  The doctor bent over and examined the wound through his spectacles. “Doesn’t look too serious to me. If I were a betting man, I’d wager he hit something when he fell rather than somebody walloping him.” He ducked his chin and looked at her over the top of his glasses. “How are you at stitching?”

  Katie’s backbone straightened. The doctor, a real Englisch doctor, would trust her to stitch a wound? True, she’d only had to sew three or four cuts closed in her entire life, but she had a steady hand, and her quilts were much admired by the ladies of Apple Grove for her small, even stitches. “I can do it,” she answered with more confidence than she felt.

  “Good. Here’s some catgut and a needle. You do that while I go check on Jonas.” He gathered his surgical instruments and dropped them into the bucket with the acidy water, and then he reached into his satchel. “I don’t have a lot of carbolic acid to spare, and besides, I use that mostly in the surgery. Going forward you’ll use the good, old-fashioned way of keeping those wounds clean. Soap, water, and a generous splash of this.”

  He set a bottle on the table with a thunk. Amber-colored liquid gleamed in the flickering light of the lamp.

  “What is that?”

  “Whiskey.” The doctor looked at Jesse. “He’ll scream like a wildcat when you pour it on, but do it anyway. If infection sets in…” He shook his head.

  Katie swallowed. If infection set in, Jesse would die.

  The doctor left the room, and Katie moved to take his place on the bedside where the light was better. She picked up the catgut and inspected it. Always before she’d use ordinary cotton thread, but this seemed stronger, thicker. With a practiced eye, she threaded the needle.

  Before she began, she laid a hand on her patient’s bare skin. Jesse felt warm beneath her touch, though thankfully not feverish. Was it her imagination, or did his breathing settle at her touch? She formed a silent prayer, as she did every time she nursed someone, but never had she nursed a patient in such grave shape as this man.

  Dear God, please do not let him die. Heal him with a word, as You healed the soldier’s servant.

  Setting the needle against his scalp, she began her work.

  FIVE

  Awakening to consciousness was like climbing out of a pit. Jesse’s body refused to cooperate, and his limbs felt as though they were tied to his sides. His attempts to lift them resulted only in a dangerous swirling inside his pounding skull, and an upsurge of the nausea that roiled in his stomach. Where was he? Not heaven, that much was certain. Nobody could be this miserable inside the pearly gates. Maybe he’d gone in the other direction after all. Trying to pry his eyes open proved to be impossible. They remained firmly closed no matter his effort. His mouth felt as though a herd of Texas Longhorns had trampled through it. And dry. So dry.

  He sucked in a breath and pain exploded in his body. Oh, yeah. He realized he’d been dimly aware of the agony of breathing for a while now. How long, he had no idea. A groan rasped through the desert in his throat, and he was surprised to hear the result, a pitifully soft wail barely louder than that of a weak kitten.

  Instantly he was aware of a cool hand on his forehead.

  “You are awake, then?”

  A female voice, soft and low, close by. He tried again to open his eyes, but his eyelids refused to obey. Another agonizing breath, and he managed to repeat his pathetic attempt at a moan.

  “Hush, now. She needs her sleep. A full night and day she has kept watch over you.”

  Who? Who needed sleep? Watched him do what? If only he could open his eyes and see.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  Yes! Oh, please, God, I’d give a year’s pay for a sip of water.

  A hand slid to the back of his neck and tilted his head forward. Jesse ignored the shooting pain that resulted from the minute movement, for something cool and wet pressed against his lips. With an enormous effort he pried his mouth open. The trickle of lukewarm moisture tasted better than any whiskey he’d ever chugged down. He let the liquid slide down his throat, moistening parched tissue wherever it touched. Not water, but something sweeter and infinitely more delicious. He tried to suck more down thirstily, but the mug was removed and his head lowered.

  “Not too much at first,” the soothing voice whispered. “You must guard your stomach, lest it revolt.”

  The thought of the physical effort involved in vomiting sent a shudder through his weary body. Exhausted, he sank back into the soft something-or-other behind his head, for the first time aware that he was lying on a padded surface. He tried to decide what it was. Softer than grass, and smooth. A bedroll, maybe? That didn’t seem right either, but Jesse had no more time to consider the question. His body rose on a blessed swell of unconsciousness, and he hadn’t the strength to fight against it.

  He awoke sometime later to a noise somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. Pain still pounded brutally inside his skull, and his back felt as though he’d been kicked by a steer. He took an experimental breath, and at the resulting pain vowed not to try that again for quite a while. His throat was as dry as a Texas plain in August, but this time he was able to open his eyes, and though sharp knives stabbed at his head, he brought them to focus enough to take in his surroundings.

  Fading sunlight from a window to his left cast an orange tint on the whitewashed room. His gaze fell on a simple shelf hanging on the opposite wall. Dangling from one of the pegs beneath it was his belt and holster, and resting on top was his Stetson.

  Thank the Lord. I paid good money for that hat.

  He was propped up on a narrow bed, the tick beneath him stuffed wi
th something soft and moldable to his body. Behind his back was a mound of even more cushiony material, like feather ticking covered with soft cloths. He still felt as if he’d been trampled by a stampede, but at least he was conscious.

  A movement near his feet drew his attention. Maummi Switzer stood in the doorway, her arms folded in front of her apron and an equally starchy glare on her face.

  “Yet again have you nearly died from fighting and needed my care. Will you Englisch never learn to practice peace?”

  If it hadn’t hurt so badly, he would have attempted a feeble laugh. As it was, he settled for a grimace. “Neither time was my fault, you know. First time was a run-in with cattle rustlers, and this time…”

  His voice trailed off as the details of his encounter with Woodard and Sawyer swam into focus in his mind’s eye. The simpleton, Sawyer, had shot him in the back, and then he and Woodard had left him for dead.

  “I guess I owe you another one,” he told the scowling elderly woman. “This is twice you’ve saved my sorry hide.”

  She shook her head, the straps of her cap thingy waving beneath her chin. “You owe me thanks for changing your soiled clothing. The saving of your hide is thanks to the Englisch doctor and Katie Miller.”

  Two reactions rose in him simultaneously. First was embarrassment. Maummi Switzer changed his drawers? He slipped a hand beneath the blanket and felt a thin pair of woolen skivvies that were not his own. A fire erupted in his face. When she’d mended his busted leg several years before, she’d only cut off his britches above the thigh.

  Then a second realization stirred a memory from the long, pain-saturated sleep from which he’d just awoken. The soft voice and cool hand had belonged to Katie Miller, Emma’s pretty Amish friend who had been at the Switzers’ when he arrived yesterday.

  Yesterday? Thoughts swirled in his mind. Somehow he felt it had been longer.