The Doctor's Undoing. Allie Pleiter

army had been, it was well stocked. Not so here. Counting far too few rolls of bandages, Ida blew out an irritated breath.

      “Something not to your liking, Miss Landway?”

      She startled, banging her head on the cabinet. Hard. The blow sent her backward into her desk chair, nearly toppling furniture and nurse over in an undignified heap.

      “Don’t you knock?” she snapped, head stinging. Ida looked up, cringing in recognition as her eyes met the owner of that voice. “Pardon me, Dr. Parker, I hadn’t meant to be so direct. You startled me.”

      “The door was already ajar. And somehow I think you always mean to be so direct.”

      Ida grabbed the chair arm, seeing stars. “It seems I can’t find enough open doors and windows in this heat. And what’s that supposed to mean about being direct?”

      Dr. Parker pushed the infirmary door farther ajar and peered at her. “You’re bleeding.”

      Ida reached a hand up to her hairline only to feel a wet warmth that confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis. “Your cabinet has teeth.” She went to walk toward the cabinet, but found rising to be a rather painful enterprise.

      “Sit back down,” Dr. Parker ordered, motioning her into the chair. “I am a doctor, you know.”

      “Why Dr. Parker, that could almost be called a joke.” Ida sucked in a breath as a change of expression sent a stinging pain through her forehead.

      “Despite what you may have heard, I do possess a minute portion of bedside manner.” He reached into the predatory cabinet and handed back a bottle of disinfectant and a roll of bandages.

      Ida took them gingerly. “I’d have preferred to discover your lighter side under more dignified circumstances.”

      He turned and narrowed his eyes at her forehead. “Let’s hope you don’t need to discover my skill with sutures, shall we?” He made an odd motion toward his own head with his hands.

      She cocked her head at the gesture, an unfortunate choice since it sent sparks of pain flying across her hairline. Furrowing her brow against the ache only made things worse.

      Dr. Parker made the motion again, then finally rolled his eyes. “Your hair, Miss Landway. You’ll need to move it out of the way.”

      “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Ida slipped off her nurse’s cap and went to smooth her hair back—only to be rewarded with bloody fingers and an additional stab of pain. “My stars, but that smarts.”

      Dr. Parker unrolled a swath of bandage, snipped it from the roll and handed it to her. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to apply gentle pressure.”

      “No need to tell me to be nice to my own noggin. Not when it hurts like this.” She gave the cabinet an angry look. “What in blazes bit me in there?”

      Dr. Parker must have been wondering the same thing, for he was already running his hand around the corner of the shelf. “This. There’s a nail that’s come loose from the hinge.” He returned his gaze to her. “I don’t think it’s cut too deep or you’d be bleeding more than you are. You’ll be spared my stitchery, I suspect, but I’ll send MacNeil in here immediately to take care of this cabinet.” He leaned against the small desk. “Let’s have a look.”

      Looking up at him, Ida felt small. She’d tended everything from sergeants to generals and never felt ill at ease, but Daniel Parker made her jittery. Yes, he was her superior, but that didn’t explain the discomfort that always walked into a room ahead of him. “I’m sure I’m fine.”

      “Did you know,” Dr. Parker said as he peeled her hand away from the bandage and lifted it himself, “one of the first things they told me in medical school was that when a patient insists he’s fine, he seldom is.”

      “I’m not a patient, I’m a nurse.” He was close enough that she could smell the soap on his hands. She could see the spot on his cheek where he’d nicked himself shaving this morning. She closed her eyes, mentally putting a dozen miles between them before her head chose to resume swimming.

      “At present, you’re a patient. And a difficult one, were I asked to categorize.”

      Ida heard him unscrew the top of the disinfectant bottle. “You’re about to douse me with that horrid stinging stuff and I’m the difficult one?”

      He gave a low laugh. The sound surprised her, popping her eyes open despite her best intentions. He was way too close. She squinted them shut again. “Chin up, Miss Landway.” He’d applied his “doctor voice,” the one she knew every medical professional employed when about to do something that would cause pain. “This will only hurt for a moment.”

      “If you think I—” A hiss of pain cut off the rest of her thought as the disinfectant found its target. If she hadn’t been seeing stars before, she saw a whole constellation now. “Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers... I’d forgotten how much that smarts.”

      She felt Dr. Parker’s hand take hers and guide it up to hold the gauze in place. He had a doctor’s touch—precise, firm and yet a bit tentative. Theirs wasn’t the classic doctor-patient relationship—at least not in this case—and his touch told her he felt as uncomfortable as she did. In a moment or two she opened her eyes to see him leaning against the table, putting the cap back on the disinfectant, wearing the echo of a grin. Not a full smile, mind you, just the echo of one.

      Ida lowered her good brow. “You enjoyed that.”

      “On the contrary. I’m merely glad you didn’t cry. A good many of my patients end up in tears around here, so I’m grateful when I get the chance to tend to an adult.” He set the bottle down. “Genesis?”

      “A trick I learned at Camp Jackson. Keeping a patient speaking helps prevent them from tensing up in pain. Some of those boys had to endure me pulling up bandages day after day, so I’d cue them if they didn’t know their books of the Bible. Opened up a lot of conversation about the topic, too.”

      “Are you in the habit of conversing on the nature of your patients’ souls?”

      Ida couldn’t tell if Dr. Parker considered that a good thing. “Only when the Good Lord opens the door. I’d understood this to be a Christian institution.”

      “It is, but the army is not.”

      “Dr. Parker, you’d be amazed how much a man wants to talk about his soul if he thinks he’s dying. Or ought to have died. I’ll tell you, God is more in that army hospital than lots of churches.” Parker shook his head as if he didn’t know how to respond. Now that her head felt a tad clearer, Ida thought it might be time to stand her ground. “Is this a Christian institution, Dr. Parker? Does God live here at the Parker Home for Orphans?”

      She took some comfort in the fact that Dr. Parker thought for a moment before answering. She didn’t want some rote response to a question like that. Finally, he said, “I’d like to think He does, yes.” After a second he added, “That’s a rather bold question for someone who has been here two days. Why did you feel the need to ask it?”

      You’ve opened the door, Lord, I’m walking through it. “Because—” she dabbed one last time before taking the bandage from her brow “—were that the case, I’d think this place would have more joy in it.”

      That brought a gruff laugh from the doctor. “You’re expecting joy—from displaced orphans?”

      “Dr. Parker, I expect joy from everyone. I believe in joy. I thrive on it. And yes, I’ve only been here two days, but I tell you this place is more dull gray than the army was drab green. Seems to me children are naturally happy, noisy, joyful creatures. I know they’ve seen hard times, but that ought not to knock all that happiness out of them. And if that has happened, I think maybe it’s our job to give that joy back to them. So far I haven’t seen that. I hope you don’t mind my saying you could knock me over with the quiet in this place.”