Michael Craven didn’t help at all. Their childhood friend from the states, now a resident handyman, shoveled a piece of bread into his mouth to keep from making a sarcastic comment which would most likely end in a verbal tirade from Catherine’s mother. They always had.
“Jessica is as well-trained as any doctor I’ve known.” David offered an appreciative look at his sister. “Her particular skills will relieve some of the waiting process for surgeries, and she’s a capable administrator.”
“You can’t be serious?” Mother’s cutlery dropped to the table. Catherine braced herself. “A woman overseeing those horrific surgeries? That’s unheard of!”
Jessica’s jaw set, readied to come to the defense of all capable females in the world, no doubt. David covered her hand with his to ease the fight and then exchanged an exasperated look with Catherine before returning his attention to Mother.
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Dougall”—his tone, calm and comforting, soothed her mother’s mood like a reed pipe with the mythical Cerberus—“war forces changes peace never would. And desperation of both news and resources provides ample impetus for innovation. By the way, Mrs. Dougall, I do appreciate your choice of the roasted chicken tonight.”
Mother retrieved her cutlery and offered a pleased smile, irritation temporarily forgotten. Catherine cut David a look across the table. His raised brows in response taunted innocence in his perfectly placed distraction to curb her mother’s erratic reactions. He held her gaze, and a faint glimmer lit the green in his eyes and entrapped her. A flutter, small and momentary, ushered to life a whisper of longing, spreading its quiver to her breath. Daydreams hovered for release.
She nearly cringed and wrapped a fist around her fascination with the good doctor before it became too irrepressible. Being in control of her fate and her emotions had always been her forte…until him. If she didn’t govern hope with a steadier hand, his gentleness would be her undoing.
“Perhaps my reentry into the hospital will free Catherine to assist Kara in the orphanage?” Jessica directed the question at Catherine, an edge of warning in her voice. “I wouldn’t expect a woman with your…” Jessica raised a brow, making a careful choice of her next words, “…pedigree to continue with the gruesome or menial tasks of a war nurse.”
Catherine held Jessica’s gaze. “I think working with broken people suits me quite well. It has a remarkable ability to give one perspective on what’s important in life.”
“And I wouldn’t relinquish Catherine’s assistance too quickly.” David added. “She has a quick mind, and seeks to serve in the most difficult of circumstances. I’ve been grateful for her service.”
Catherine didn’t allow the compliment to move into a blush. Common sense and a healthy dose of shame kept her humility intact. Besides, what else could she do when God’s grace compelled her to serve and her past closed the door to any former dreams?
“Anyone who has seen the state of our soldiers should be willing to work.” Jessica’s gaze rose with another challenge. “But it’s not for the faint of heart or weak of will.”
David’s voice emerged between the steely silences. “I don’t think you’ll find either of those in the nurses we have now.”
Catherine tipped her head in gratitude but kept a cautious guard on her feelings. Her friendship with David teetered emotions to a precipice of something much more, but it was an impossibility…wrong. The flagrant warning in Jessica’s eyes blasted confirmation.
“I know we’ve been limping along since the Zeppelin attack.” David looked to each person at the small dining table situated at the far end of the massive room. “And I appreciate the work all of you have done. I’m sorry we are still barely living from week to week with expenses.”
“There must be another way to seek funds,” Catherine added. The weariness in her body had to mirror only a fraction of David’s exhaustion. He rarely slept for more than a few hours at a time.
“But no one’s going to work for free.” Michael chimed in at her side. “Except me, and I’ll work for food, of course.”
He patted his firm stomach to add some levity to the discussion.
Catherine gave him a congenial nudge. “You’ve worked miracles on repairs, Michael, but the hospital, an orphanage, and this aging house, might be a challenge even for your incredible skill set.”
He looked up to the ceiling as if considering this option anew. “Too bad this wounded leg gives me limits. Just imagine what miracles I could work if I was in the physical condition I was before the Lusitania.”
Just the mention of the tragedy quelled the tension in the room with the mindlessness of loss. Ashleigh, her fiancé, Sam, and Michael, had barely escaped the sinking with their lives. Oh, what a selfish creature Catherine had been only a few months before. So determined to work society and everyone around to her own advantage. She cringed at the thought, the chill of the Lusitania’s sinking an added sobriety.
“I prefer you better now than before.” Catherine met his smile, an understanding of loss changing both of them in needed ways. “We’re the benefactors of your servant heart more than we would have benefited from your arrogance.”
He placed a palm over his chest. “You’ve never been one to mince words, have you?” He shrugged. “I think we’ve both made some good changes, don’t you?”
A tickle of emotion rose into her throat, and she cleared it, turning her attention back to the others. “Well, despite everyone’s overwhelming and somewhat saccharine magnanimity, we can’t keep adding soldiers to our hospital or children to the orphanage if we barely have enough funds to feed them. Let alone take care of them…and we’re all working so tirelessly.”
Her mind spun through possibilities, anything.
“I’d be happy to relieve you of the responsibility of Catherine’s further training, David.” Jessica’s stare focused on Catherine, her intention clear. Separation. Then she offered her brother a smile. “It would free you to administer the more advanced care your expertise provides, and it will help me keep an eye on our newest nurse.”
Catherine tried to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for Jessica’s intervention, but the gratitude fell flat. With Jessica’s clear dislike, she’d make every arrangement to keep Catherine from David as much as possible, with prodding resolution from the glint in her eyes. And that’s what Catherine wanted, wasn’t it? Distance from her gentle friend?
“Well, she’s needed in the orphanage too. With all the recent commotion about unwed mothers and abandoned babies, there’s no knowing how many orphaned children will end on our doorstep.” Mother waved a hand to her neck as if overheated. “What is this house becoming? I don’t know how much more I can bear.”
“And how is the child, Nurse Dougall?”
Catherine cleared her throat and adjusted the napkin in her lap to avoid making eye contact with David. Jessica’s threat made sense, and Catherine preferred logic. Yes. Logic kept her in control. Feelings sent her down paths of…. She shook her head to clear away the vivid memories of her night with Drew Cavanaugh. A night fermenting with regret.
“He’s taking to the bottle well.”
“Did you name him yet?” Michael asked. “I couldn’t wait to learn about Stephen’s name.”
“Why should she name him?” Mrs. Dougall reacted before anyone else. “It’s ridiculous to name a newborn. Give him at least three months to ensure he lives that long.”
“Mother.”
“Don’t look at me as if I’m harsh. It is a fact of life. When you name them, it’s much more difficult to part with them.”
“I should think it would be difficult to part with them regardless of the name.”
“You were so sickly, we didn’t name you for six months.”
“Well, she’s certainly recovered,” Michael added with a laugh. “I’ve been in the wake of her anger or in the thick of one of her schemes more times than I care to admit. Especially when we were neighbors in North Carolina. She’s terrifying.”
“Only the ones who can appreciate it.”
His sideways grin smoothed her irritation a bit and drew out a long-suffering sigh. There was such kinship in reformed rebels.
“Oh, heavens.” Mother waved her fingers in front of her face. “Catherine has easily taken years off my life with her strong-will and impulsive actions. And the men? It’s a miracle her situation isn’t worse than it already is.”
Catherine stood and dropped her serviette on the table. “I believe that’s my cue to leave. After all, one can only handle so many compliments at once.”
She kept her attention focused on her mother, ignoring the magnetic pull curiosity for David’s opinion played with her will. Did he see her the same way? Terrifying…or worse, a loose, stubborn, uncontrolled woman?
She stopped at the door’s threshold and faced her mother. “Nathanael.”
Her mother blinked. “What?”
“The baby’s name is Nathanael. It means gift from God, so no matter where he goes or what life brings him, he’ll always have a name to remind him to whom he belongs.”
Chapter Seven
His sister moved about the hospital like a woman with an auto-engine in her boots. From one end of the room to the other, inspecting each patient and cot, she took her time, as if in search of any minor defect. At first, David thought she questioned his abilities, but after further observation, he noted the true issue.
Catherine.
Of course, Jessica’s absence over the past few months had deepened her suspicions toward Catherine, but the intensity of her dislike came as a surprise. She launched into a critical examination of everything Catherine did, almost as if she wanted to catch Catherine in the act of…something. Anything.
A heavy sigh breathed from David’s chest. Maybe he’d remained clear of a romantic relationship for so long to keep free of conflict, but the twenty wounded men in the rooms around him reminded him that conflict was no respecter of gender. It was inborn – as ingrained in the bloodline as the green-eyed trait in his family.
In truth, he’d never been tempted away from his work and goals. Never too distracted from the purpose at hand to entertain thoughts of a partnership, his dreams his main focus, but war changed things…redirected dreams and focus.
“I know you’re tired of waiting on me, but I’m almost finished.”
Catherine’s declaration pulled David’s attention back to the laceration. The wound, freshly and poorly repaired from the Front, had contained bits of shrapnel and other debris before Catherine meticulously removed each shard and resutured the laceration.
She looked up, worry-lines creasing her porcelain brow. The white cap on her head barely held the massive bulk of her dark hair in place, with ragged tendrils slipping underneath the rim and curling by her ears.
“You’re doing well.”
“You sighed like I wasn’t.” One dark brow questioned his statement.
David’s lips unhitched a smile. “My sigh was not at your expense.”
Her gaze softened, and she studied him, those cobalt eyes of hers taking a fairly thorough inventory. What did she see? A staunch, reserved recluse? A lonely man consumed by work? A friend?
The first time he met her on the streets of Ednesbury, she’d used her unveiled, feminine charms to garner his interest, but now…now, with a past of wounds to curb her former passions and grace to temper her flirtatious bent, he couldn’t tell what she thought of him.
“You need a holiday.”
An unexpected response from her after his unusual mental musings. He chuckled, a sound so uncommon it caught him by surprise as well as her. “I don’t foresee such a leisure in my near future.”
“Hmm…” She pinched her lips tight and narrowed her eyes.
He could almost hear the gears in her head turning for a solution. Her mind moved in relentless motion, an untapped genius her family and society held at bay, but he saw it. A solver. She learned quickly, as driven to absorb new information as he was, and she held a natural aptitude for medicine. Stitching things together. Mending people. Whether she realized it or not.
“We’ll see about that,” came her reply. Then she turned back to her work. “But here, I’m at the end of the wound.”
David blinked back to the patient and studied Catherine’s handiwork. Tight, close sutures sealed the leg wound, clean and perfect. She proved the ideal student.
“Excellent sutures.” He nodded toward the end of the laceration. “Now, very carefully, pull the last thread through as I’ve shown you before. Tie it off.”
Her hands were steady, certain.
“That’s perfect, Catherine. As good as any formally trained nurse.”
She shot him her side-grin. “I do have a good teacher.”
“It takes a quick mind paired with the right teacher to perform at this level, and so quickly.” He nodded, a sudden surge of pride in her compliment.
“Don’t praise me too soon, Doctor. Maybe you should check my garlic poultice first.”
He examined the small compress, the garlic scent a bitter competition for the sweet hints of lavender waving from his charming nurse. “Yes, it’s fine.”
She put the poultice over the wound, and David hoped the herb worked to keep infection at bay. The last thing most of these men needed was another reason to remove a limb.
Catherine stood, stretched out her back, and then looked over at him in expectation. “Now you are free to compliment my exemplary skills.”
His chuckled emerged again. “Excellent work, Nurse Dougall.”
“Thank you.” She bowed her head in acceptance, and when she looked back up at him, their gazes locked like they had several times in the past. It was the strangest feeling, magnetizing and uncomfortable all at once.
She blinked and broke the connection. “Oh…and a letter came for you. I placed it on your desk.”
“A letter?” Perhaps a new benefactor providing much needed support for the hospital?
Catherine’s expression dulled his excitement. “It’s from Ednesbury Court, I’m afraid.”
He nodded and placed the surgical scissors back on his tray. “Thank you.”
“Support will come. I have every faith in you.”
The confidence beamed from her gaze with the force of morning sunlight, striking, powerful, and dousing doubt with a glowing assurance. What was it about her that held him captive? That turned his thoughts from surgeries or supplies and made him take notice?
“Get your hands off me.” The gruff response came from one of the new wounded. Mr. Clayton jerked his arm free from the timid volunteer, Marcia, and made as if to strike her when a convulsion of coughs wracked him back down into the bed.
David moved forward with Catherine right behind him. From his arrival, Clayton’s behavior had proved unpredictable, at best, but what could one expect with a German bullet lodged inches into his head? It was a miracle the man had survived the seven-hour journey to the hospital for long-term care, but the wounds in this war kept David guessing. Could Clayton survive weeks? Months? Longer?
“We should strap him down.” Catherine stepped up beside him. “He could easily attack a nurse, even without his leg.”
“What options do we have? All the hospital rooms are full.”
Catherine weaved between the beds along with him, lips pinched in thought. “Grandmama’s study. No one’s using it, and it’s isolated at the end of the hall.”
She moved to one side of Clayton’s bed while David stepped to other, readied to use force to protect the others if necessary.
Catherine took his flailing fingers into a firm grasp, and with a soothing touch, ran her palm across the back of his hand. “Mr. Clayton, you can’t go and behave badly to the nice volunteers.”
He flinched, his one good eye searching frantically for the familiar voice. His other eye had been taken by
the bullet, but white wraps kept the unseemly site from view.
“The Fritz cavalry. They’re comin’ over the bridge. They’ve overrun us.”
He’d spoken of little else than the first British battle he’d encountered. Most of the best rifleman had lost their lives at Vimy Ridge. The tragedy haunted Clayton, so much so that the scenes recurred in his head, even a year after the devastating loss at The Mons. Of course, with a bullet lodged halfway in his skull, there was no guess as to what images worked as reality or fantasy, a truth which made him pitiful and dangerous all at once.
“Mr. Clayton, do you think a fragile lady like me would be in the middle of such a messy battle?” She tsked and lowered to sit by his bed, her hand still holding his and voice almost teasing.
Fragile? David’s gaze shot to Catherine. Fragile wasn’t a word he’d assigned to Catherine Dougall, especially after her confrontation with Dr. Carrier. Her untamed moments, steeped in passion and fascinating determination, should encourage his distance, yet even in those he found himself cheering her on and wishing, for only an instant, a small spark from her inner fire might alight on him.
Mr. Clayton may have wished the same. Whatever charm she wielded distracted the poor man from his previous tirade. His memory hadn’t been reliable at all, drifting from the present to the past as quick as a breath, a definite characteristic of what many medical specialists referred to as ‘shell shock.’ Another new creation of war.
Clayton gave his mussed head a furious shake. “No, you shouldn’t be there. Not a lady like you.”
Catherine cast a glance to David, mouthing the word ‘morphine.’ David snapped out of his stupor.
“Well, neither of us are there now. We are in a hospital far from the fighting, and we need you to behave yourself. I’m certain you don’t wish for me to send a wire to your wife about your conduct, now do you?
David’s gaze shot up. Clayton had a wife? How did Catherine know? And sending messages to wives?
Clayton dropped his head like a penitent child. Catherine looked to David, anticipating his administration of the dosage. He stepped forward, still trying to sort her out, as mesmerized by her as Clayton. She kept surprising him, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
The Thorn Keeper Page 6
