Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

“Do you have sisters, Mr. Wilkins?” she asked as she draped a cloth over the wound. The lack of feminine influence might explain his uneven temperament.

  “One. She died. And another woman who was almost a sister.”

  Sensing sadness, Molly didn’t probe. Wiping her hands on a clean towel, she turned toward the door. “Mind the arm while I’m gone. Until it’s splinted, it’s very vulnerable.”

  “You’re not going to sew him up?”

  “And stay away from the whiskey,” she called back as she started down the hall. “I may need you later.”

  “Goddamnit, you come back here!”

  She found Dr. Murray sitting in the dark in his bedroom. She hoped he was lucid. “The bones are in place,” she reported. “There doesn’t seem to be significant tendon or muscle damage and capillary function is good.”

  “Still alive then. Bravo, Clara Barton.” He gave a half-chuckle.

  “You sound quite professional. Where did you train?”

  As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the vial of laudanum on the bed table. “On the battlefield of Atlanta. And later at Andersonville. My father—”

  “Was a brilliant surgeon,” he cut in. “Matthew McFarlane. I remember the name from his articles in the Medical and Surgical History of the War of the Rebellion. Suicide, wasn’t it?”

  The familiar bitter taste of rage rose in her throat. She would not discuss her father with this damaged, defeated man. Someday the truth would come out. Someday Daniel Fletcher would pay for what he’d done. She would see to it.

  But for now, she had to put that from her mind and focus on saving her husband’s arm. “Is there anything more I should do before I close the incision?” Although she had sewn wounds and assisted Papa many times, she had never performed surgery on her own. She felt certain she had followed procedure and done all she could, but she needed to make sure. A simple mistake could be deadly.

  “I was at Fredericksburg,” Murray said, ignoring her question. “We hacked and sawed for days and still they came. Bodies stacked up like cordwood and the ravens had a feast of limbs. The cries never stopped. I hear them still.”

  “Doctor?” she prodded, growing impatient. “What about the arm?”

  He sighed. In a voice so weary she had to lean closer to hear, he said, “Flush it with carbolized water then sew it in layers from the inside out. Use silver wire for muscle tissue—there are several tubes in the cabinet. For the surface you can use horsehair ligatures but boil them in alcohol first. Leave four strands sticking out for drainage. Top it with carbolic dressing then splint it, but don’t use plaster for now, and don’t bind it too tight . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She waited. Outside, the wind gusted, whipping through the eaves with a sound like a woman’s cry. After a long silence, she said, “Anything else?”

  “Oh, you can pray, I guess. But it doesn’t help.”

  The stitching was tedious but not as stressful as repairing the broken bones. The motions were so repetitive they became almost automatic, allowing her occasional glances at the man across from her. He looked as weary as she felt. Yet he had remained steadfastly by her side from the moment they had begun, and she was glad of that. Oddly, having his male vitality present had strengthened her.

  She knew so little about men. From the time she was thirteen, not long after Mama’s passing, she had been in training at her father’s side. No beaus, no girlish chatter, no party dresses for her. Instead, she had spent her youth in field hospitals, watching with trepidation as her father performed his surgeries, then cleaning up the blood when he had finished. Over the years she had gained intimate knowledge of how the male body functioned, but she had no idea how a man’s mind worked. And she had a feeling the man across from her had a mind more complex than most.

  “Higher, please. And a little to the left.”

  He repositioned the lamp.

  She ran a loop, pulled it tight. Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed the dinner hour. She hoped Mrs. Beckworth wouldn’t mind tending the children awhile longer. She seemed to enjoy having them about. Molly didn’t know how she would have managed without the dear woman’s help.

  “Where is the woman who was almost a sister?” she asked, less from curiosity than a need for distraction from the cramping in her back.

  “I think she married my brother.”

  She looked up. “Henry?” Had their marriage made him a bigamist?

  “Jack. And don’t call Hank Henry. He won’t answer to it. Never has.”

  She finished one layer, adjusted the strands left for drainage, started another.

  “What happened to your husband?” he asked.

  “There is no husband.” When he didn’t respond, she glanced up to find him studying her. The play of light across his features made him look quite severe, and for a moment she was reminded of Papa and how exacting he had been and how desperately she had tried to measure up.

  She snipped one stitch, started another. “The children are my sister’s. She died of lung fever last month. Their father was on the Sultana . After five years of war, he dies in a steamboat accident. Ironic, isn’t it?” She didn’t mention the children’s stepfather. The less known about Fletcher, the better.

  After tying off the last stitch, she dropped the needle onto the tray. The black stitches looked like a parade of drunken ants on a slab of raw meat. He would have a scar, but with luck and hard work, Henry—Hank—might regain full use of his arm. Assuming he woke up. “After we splint and bind it, we’re done.”

  With Wilkins’s help, that chore took only a few minutes. Satisfied with the results, she gave Henry—Hank—water through the dropper then did a final check.

  Fingertips warm, pulse strong, color good. Once the swelling subsided and the drainage stopped and she was sure circulation was unimpaired, she would put a hard plaster bandage over the arm. But for now she’d done all she could. It was over. Finished. And the patient was still alive.

  Suddenly the smell of blood and sickness made her stomach lurch. Shoving past Wilkins, she rushed to the washstand in the corner.

  After emptying her stomach, she grabbed a fresh towel, wiped her face, then dropped it onto the pile of bloody rags beside the bed. “I apologize for that,” she said with a wry smile. “It happens every time. Nerves, I guess.”

  He shrugged. “I’m used to it. My wife’s pregnant. Her third. She’s a good breeder.” He said it with a grin that almost rocked her back on her heels. White teeth. Dimples. Dancing aqua eyes. He didn’t even look like the same man.

  The grin faded. “You won’t tell her I said that? About being a good breeder? She’s, um, prim. It’s because she’s English. They’re different. Not as bad as the Scots, but . . . well . . . I think it’s the red hair. Or the hats.”

  She blinked at him, beginning to think she preferred Brady Wilkins when he was angry. At least then he made sense.

  Pulling a gold watch from his trouser pocket, he flipped up the lid with his thumbnail, checked the time, then snapped it closed. “I told her not to come, but she never minds.” His expression indicated he considered his wife’s inability to follow orders an endearing trait. “A lot like you in that respect. If she took the branch line out of Redemption last night, she won’t get here until early morning. Unless she told them who she was.” He slipped the watch back into his pocket.

  “And who is she? Queen Victoria?”

  He seemed surprised by the question. “My wife.”

  She laughed in his face. “You’re that important, are you?”

  “Our water is. The railroads can’t get from here to Santa Fe without Wilkins water.” This time his grin showed menace. “And they pay dearly for it.”

  The man’s arrogance was monumental. “By giving you special privileges?”

  “That, and giving my wife anything she wants.”

  “Or you’ll shut them off?”

  “Or I’ll shut them off.”

  She studied this man who was as changea
ble as quicksilver, smiling one moment, threatening the next. He was beyond her experience and sorely tested her understanding. Yet she appreciated that he loved his wife enough to let it show, that he valued his brother above any price, that he hadn’t faltered when she’d needed him. “You’re a bit of a blackmailer, aren’t you, Mr. Wilkins?”

  Unbelievably, the grin stretched wider. “Damn right.”

  For a moment they looked at each other. She sensed that uneasy connection again, and tried to ignore it, telling herself she would be gone in a few days. She would never see him or his brother again. She wasn’t a part of the family he watched over so vigilantly. “Get some rest, Mr. Wilkins. I’ll stay for a while to be sure there are no complications. If I need you, I’ll send word.”

  “Can’t . . . breathe,” a voice rasped.

  Astonished, Molly whirled to see Henry tugging at the bindings on his ribs.

  “You big bastard, you’re awake!” Brady Wilkins crowed. “You finally woke up!”

  Seeing Henry’s growing agitation, Molly tried to reassure him before he pulled off his bandages or reinjured his arm. “Stay calm, Henry. You’re safe. We’re with you. You’re going to be just fine.”

  Brady Wilkins clapped a rough hand on his brother’s good shoulder. “Hear that, Hank? She says you’re going to be just fine.”

  Henry blinked, his eyes rolling and unfocused, his breath coming in short quick bursts through tightly clenched teeth. “Who’s . . . Hank?”

  Four

  YOU’RE ALIVE. YOU’RE BREATHING. YOU’RE ALL RIGHT.

  Then why did it feel like someone was yanking his stomach up through his throat every time he moved his head? He tried to sit up, couldn’t. His chest felt trapped in a vise. Over the drumming in his head, he heard his own breathing, a hoarse gasping that didn’t sound right, didn’t feel right.

  Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed to work.

  Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

  Pain—relentless, spiking with every breath—in his arm, his head.

  He fought to calm his panic so he could figure out what had happened to him and where he was and who these people were standing over him. But whenever he tried to think, everything jumbled up in his mind until he couldn’t remember anything. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

  A figure moved closer. A woman. She bent close and spoke in a calm, soothing voice. “You’re safe, Henry. Stay calm. I’m here to help you.”

  Who the hell was Henry?

  Her voice was familiar, but her face was only a blur. He tried to remember, but the effort sent him sliding back toward the void. Terror thundered through him. “Don’t go,” he choked out as blackness pressed against the edges of his vision.

  “I won’t. I’m here.”

  He felt her hand on his cheek, her palm cool and soft against his skin.

  “You’re safe, Henry. You’re all right. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

  Her touch was his lifeline, her voice his beacon. In desperation, he clung to it with all of his mind as the smothering darkness sucked him under.

  “WHAT’S WRONG WITH HIM? WHAT DID HE MEAN, ‘WHO’S Hank’?”

  Still rattled by Henry—Hank’s—sudden awakening, Molly straightened to find Brady Wilkins frowning ferociously at his brother. But she knew him better now and sensed it was worry, not anger, that made him look so severe. Oddly his need for reassurance steadied her. This she could handle.

  “It happens,” she said, sounding calmer than she felt. “Especially with head injuries. It’s called amnesia. It’s a form of forgetfulness. Sometimes there are gaps, and the patient never fully remembers what happened immediately before or after he was injured, but it’s rare to forget everything. If so, it’s usually temporary.”

  “How temporary?”

  “A few days, maybe a week or two. I’m not sure.” When she saw his look of distress, she added quickly, “You mustn’t make too much of it, Mr. Wilkins. He woke up. That’s good.”

  “Good? He didn’t even know who he was. How can that be good?”

  “He could see and speak and move. That’s all good. If the damage was severe, he wouldn’t be able to do even that.”

  “Christ.” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “What do we do now?”

  After a moment to think about it, Molly said, “We wait for him to wake up, then we get as much water down him as we can, try to keep him calm, and let his body do its work. He’s strong. He should heal fast.” If his arm didn’t become infected. If one of his broken ribs didn’t puncture a lung. If there was no bleeding in his brain. Too many “ifs” and not enough skill. She felt out of her depth and sinking fast. “Perhaps I should get Dr. Murray. He’s probably more familiar with—”

  “No!” Wilkins spun toward her, raw terror in his eyes. “Whatever needs doing, you do it. I don’t trust him.”

  If the situation had allowed, she would have laughed. “And you trust me?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. You’re just a liar. He’s stark crazy.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Sighing wearily, she nodded. She would do what she could—not for this man—but for Henry. “Get some rest then. I’ll watch over your brother for now. And please tell Mrs. Beckworth I’ll be delayed here for a while, possibly all night.”

  After he left, she settled into the chair beside the bed to begin her vigil. Now that the crisis was over, every aching muscle made itself known. But she felt heartened. She had accomplished something important here, something that might impact the rest of this man’s life.

  Because of her, Henry Wilkins was whole. Because of her, he might live a complete life. Surely that might mitigate the terrible injustice she had done him.

  Looking toward the window, where the nearly full moon softened the angular planes of El Capitan’s rocky face, she realized that for the first time she felt confident in her nursing skills—not intimidated by the task put before her or overwhelmed by the burden of responsibility those skills carried with them—but proud. She had saved a man’s arm. What a wonderful thing to be able to do that.

  She turned back to study Henry—Hank—counting his breaths, watching to see if his fingertips turned blue, if his face flushed with fever or he opened his eyes again. If he did and questioned who she was, what should she tell him? Now that it seemed her husband might recover, what was she to do about their marriage? And the money she so desperately needed?

  She would have to act quickly. Even now, Fletcher might be nearing El Paso. But how could she leave until she knew for certain her husband would survive? There could be infection or fever or seizures from his head injury. Dr. Murray was clearly incapable. Who would take care of Henry—Hank—if she left?

  Sighing, she tipped her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

  You’ve made a fine mess of it now, haven’t you, Molly?

  IN THE EARLY DAWN LIGHT HE STUDIED THE WOMAN STRETCHed on the unmade cot beside his, trying to figure out who she was and why she was there. He had a hazy memory of a woman leaning over him, her hand on his cheek—and a man who called him a big bastard as if they knew each other. But beyond that, nothing. No idea who they were, or where he was, or what had happened to him. He didn’t even know his own name.

  He tried to sit up to see how bad he was hurt or if he was missing any parts, but the motion made him dizzy and nauseated, so he gave up and checked by feel.

  Despite stabs of pain in his back and ribs, he could move his legs, which was a relief. His right arm seemed to work, but the left was so sore and swathed in bandages he didn’t even try to move it. He felt another bandage above his left temple, which probably accounted for the headaches and dizziness and trouble seeing, and his ribs felt like a horse had rolled on him. None of which explained why he couldn’t remember anything. It was as if his life had begun the moment he opened his eyes and saw those people standing over him.

  How could that be? How did a man forget his own name?

  “What the hell happene
d?” he muttered.

  The woman jerked upright on the cot. Her head snapped toward him, eyes groggy and unfocused. “W-What?”

  He squinted against the morning light, pleased that there was only one of her now and that the blurriness was fading, which told him at least his vision was improving.

  The first thing he noticed was her conformation—small, long legs, trim through the waist, and a lot of shiny sorrel-colored hair that tended more toward brown than chestnut. And kind eyes. Hazel, with maybe a green cast—he wasn’t sure—and so charged with intelligence they seemed to shimmer in her pale face.

  A pretty face. Strong. All cheekbones and deep-set eyes, with a determined chin and a mouth that might have been stern if not for the small crescent-shaped scar at the outer right corner of her top lip. Rather than disfiguring, it softened the angles of her face, making it seem she was on the verge of smiling even though her eyes told him she wasn’t, and probably didn’t very often.

  In fact, she almost looked afraid.

  Of him?

  Hazy memories teased his befuddled mind—a crowded place, her looking back at him past rows of people—on a train? Then later, a gentle hand on his cheek—a soft voice with a Southern accent urging him not to give up. He wondered if it was hers.

  “Say something,” he ordered in a raspy voice.

  She blinked. “About w-what?”

  “Anything. Just talk.”

  “How do you feel? Are you in pain?”

  Definitely her voice. “What happened? What’s wrong with me?”

  She finally moved, almost leaping from the bed. In the time it took her to cover the short distance between the two cots, everything about her changed—her expression, her posture, even the tone of her voice. Within an eye blink, she had slipped behind a mask of cool efficiency as if the fear had never been.

  “You were in a train derailment,” she said as she turned down the wick of the oil lamp sitting on the table between the cots. “Your injuries are substantial but not mortal. A broken arm, several cracked ribs, and a head wound. The head injury is why you’re confused now. It should clear up with time.” She looked down at him, hands clasped tightly at her waist. “Can you take some water?”