The Doctor Takes a Wife. Laurie Kingery

about, setting a bowl of water and some folded cloths on top of the flat surface.

      She sank gratefully into the chair, and felt the soothing, cool wetness of the cloth the mercantile owner’s wife wiped on her forehead, murmuring, “You poor dear, that was a nasty fall!”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Patterson, I—I’ll be all right,” she felt compelled to say, though she still wasn’t completely certain.

      “You’ll want to look away,” she heard Dr. Walker saying, as he peeled back the blood-stained, ripped sleeve from her injury. He then took another cloth and soaked it in the water, wrung it out, used it to sponge the blood away. The cut stung like a hundred red ants were biting her at once, and Sarah bit her lip, determined not to cry out.

      Then Dr. Walker patted it dry, and used a long dry cloth to wrap around her arm, ripping one end of it into two strips to tie it expertly, binding the bandage.

      She had to admire his cool professional manner. He’d done it all in less time than it took for Mrs. Patterson to stop clucking over her.

      “Thank you, Dr. Walker,” she said, standing. “I—I appreciate what you’ve done. I’m sure it will heal up nicely now.” She’d have to return another day to see about the curtains and the wagon. Right now she wanted nothing more than to escape his gaze and that of the Pattersons and go back to the cottage. She’d doubted he’d accept payment for his impromptu doctoring, but perhaps she could bring him a cake by way of thanks.

      “It’s a blessing he was there,” Mrs. Patterson murmured in agreement.

      “Oh, I’m not done, Miss Matthews. That’s a nasty gash you have, and it’s going to need proper disinfectant and some stitches to heal properly. You need to come down to the office with me where I can do it properly.”

      Her eyes flew open. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary,” she protested.

      “And I’m sure it is. Come along, Miss Matthews,” he said, tucking her uninjured arm in his.

      “But—”

      “Best listen to the doctor, dear,” Mrs. Patterson was saying.

      “Yes, he’s treated wounds on the battlefield, after all,” her spouse added.

      She felt herself being pulled out the door, willy-nilly. She trusted his medical judgment, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to be alone with him, even if she was only a patient to him in this instance.

      Chapter Five

      His hand under her elbow, and keeping his eyes on her still pale face, Nolan led Sarah carefully down the steps to the street. Behind them, a dog had found the bonanza of apple pie splattered against the wall and on the boardwalk and was happily lapping it up.

      It was the coldest day he’d experienced since coming to Texas, but it was still nothing to what the weather would be like in his home state at this time of year. Back in Maine, there might well be a foot of snow on the ground and a bitter wind blowing. Folks would be swathed in heavy coats, hats, boots and knitted scarves. Perhaps he’d miss seeing snow eventually, but right now he savored the warmth of the sun on his face.

      Then he felt Sarah shiver.

      “Are you cold?” he asked.

      “No, I—I’m fine.”

      Nolan whipped off his frock coat again anyway and settled it around her shoulders over her shawl. She had sand, he thought—real courage and grit. She hadn’t given in to her faintness when many ladies would have, but he had to remember she’d just had a traumatic experience and had lost some blood.

      Sarah blinked at the gesture, and a little color crept into her cheeks. “Th-thank you.”

      They said nothing more during the short walk to his office. He ushered her inside, seating her in his exam chair which had a flat surface extending over each arm. He was thankful he’d had sense enough to clean and boil his suturing instruments last night, even though the hour had been late—after he’d finished taking care of a cowboy who’d been cut by flying glass in a ruckus at the saloon. The instruments lay on a metal stand, concealed by a fresh cloth, but he wouldn’t bring them out yet.

      “I’ll be right back. I’m going to put a pot of water on for coffee when we’re finished,” he said, deliberately not giving her the chance to demur before he walked down the hallway that led to his living quarters. She’d need something hot and bracing when he was done.

      Returning, he stepped over to a basin, poured a pitcher of water into it and began to scrub his hands and forearms with a bar of soap, remembering all the times the other field surgeons had made sport of him for what they called his “old maid fussiness” when he was preparing to operate. “I can amputate twice as many legs and arms as you can in half the time, Walker,” one of them had boasted. “And I don’t use gallons of carbolic, either.” News of the use of carbolic acid’s role in preventing infection had come from Europe in the last year of the war, but only a few doctors in America believed in it.

      “Yes, and you lose most of them to infection days later,” he’d retorted, “while most of mine live to re cover. So I still come out ahead.”

      He felt her curious gaze on him, watching as he scrubbed up and down, the harsh lye soap stinging his skin. Then he poured diluted carbolic acid over his hands. When he looked back while he was drying his hands on a clean towel, though, he found her staring at his open rolltop desk. He’d been looking at a small framed daguerreotype he normally left hidden in a drawer, and when he decided to stroll over to the mercantile, he’d absentmindedly left it out on the desk.

      “That’s my wife and son,” he said, when he could find his breath. “They died the summer before the war began.”

      Her eyes widened and grew sad. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, then seemed to hesitate, and he knew she was trying a polite way to ask the question.

      “Cholera,” he said, sparing her the need.

      “Oh…how terrible,” she murmured. “You had no other children?”

      He shook his head, firmly suppressing the old pain within him. “No. Now you’re going to have to be brave,” he said, knowing his words would distract her from further questions. He brought the bottle of diluted carbolic acid and a basin to the armrest. Pulling a stool over, he sat, then carefully unwrapped the bandage around her arm. He held her arm over the basin, and caught her gaze.

      “This is going to sting,” he warned. “You want a bullet to bite?”

      He’d hoped his little attempt at humor would make her smile, at least for a moment. but she only shook her head and looked away, putting her other hand to her mouth.

      “Go ahead,” she whispered.

      He poured the carbolic acid over the wound, wincing inwardly as she gasped and clamped her free hand over her mouth.

      “Sorry. I don’t want you to get blood poisoning or lockjaw from that rusty nail.”

      After removing the basin, he rolled over the tray of instruments on its stand and unscrewed his jar of boiled catgut suture in alcohol, pulled out a couple lengths and laid them on the stand among his instruments. Then picking up a suture needle, he threaded it.

      “This is going to hurt, too, I’m afraid, though not as much as that carbolic.”

      “Do what you have to do,” she said, tight-lipped, her face as white as the unbloodstained part of her bodice.

      He bent his head to his task. She couldn’t know how much harder this was for him than it had been to suture a soldier’s cuts, knowing his touch was inflicting more pain on the very woman he cared about so much. He had to steel himself to ignore her wince each time he inserted the needle into her flesh. Thanks to his experience in battlefield surgery, he was able to close this relatively uncomplicated wound quickly. When he was finished, he looked at his patient.

      Her