Open Country (7 page)

There. It was out. Most of it anyway. Scarcely daring to breathe, Molly waited for his reaction, wondering if she had gone too far.

“You lying, cold-hearted bitch.”

Too far. And unjustly accused, she thought. She might be a liar, but not cold-hearted. And certainly not a . . .
that
. Seeing that he was jumping to all sorts of erroneous conclusions, she fixed her gaze to his and with firm conviction, said, “I need that settlement, Mr. Wilkins. I have two children to provide for, and when I saw an opportunity to get the money I desperately needed to accomplish that, I took it. But I’m not evil. I never meant harm to your brother and I never sought his death. In fact, I’ve worked hard to prevent it.” Lifting her chin, she glared at him down the length of her nose. “But if he does die and there’s money to be had because of it, I shall take it. Because Henry would have wanted me to.”

He studied her for several moments, then looked toward the window, his jaw working. “I don’t believe this. Any of it. Christ.”

Molly let out a tiny sigh of relief. She had half expected him to bound from the chair and throttle her. With his attention directed elsewhere, she studied him. He had a hard face, not as handsome as his brother’s but arresting, nonetheless. The family resemblance showed in the strong jaw and stubborn chin and high, intelligent forehead. But Henry’s eyes were a warm chocolate brown, whereas his brother’s were glacial ice. She sensed Henry would be a man easy to like, while this man would be one easy to fear.

Ruthless. Protective. Perhaps violent. Certainly driven.

He looked exhausted. The tired lines around his eyes and the deep brackets at the corners of his dark mustache made her wonder if he had ridden through the night to reach his brother’s side. She also noted he gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles lost color, which made her wonder if she had misread him altogether and what had at first seemed unbridled fury was fear for his brother instead. She hoped not. That would make him almost likable, and this would be so much easier if she thought of him as her enemy.

He exhaled wearily, and some of the tension seemed to leave him. “Don’t call him Henry. He won’t like it.” Without the edge of anger, his voice had an unusual quality. Deep and slightly hoarse. It drew his listener closer so no word was missed, even as his hostile demeanor pushed him away. “Who shaved him?”

An odd question. “I did.”

“He won’t like that either.” He gave her a measuring look. “But you don’t know him at all, do you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Yet you married him anyway.” That seething anger again, so intense even his stillness carried threat. “And if he lives? What about your money then?”

Words froze in her throat.

“Goddamn you!” He bounded to his feet. “If you hurt him—if you do a single thing to—”

“I wouldn’t,” Molly cut in, aghast to realize where his thoughts had taken him. “I am a trained nurse, not a murderer! I would never do anything—
anything
—to harm a patient!”

He loomed over her, chest pumping. Then he lifted one shaking hand, the thumb and forefinger spaced an inch apart, and leaned closer. “I’m this close to snapping your neck, lady,” he said through clenched teeth. “This close.”

Molly met his gaze without flinching, sensing if she gave in to this attempt at intimidation, it would only drive him to further threats. But it was hard. The man was utterly terrifying. “I would never harm a patient,” she said again.

“If you did . . .” He let the sentence hang, then after a moment, dropped his hand and straightened. “When Hank wakes up—which for your sake he better—you’ll have to answer to him for what you’ve done. And he’s not as nice as me.”

A horrifying thought.

“Meanwhile I’ll be watching you, so stay away from my brother.”

Suddenly she felt ill. Unclean. If this conversation didn’t end soon, she feared she would vomit all over his boots. But when she saw him start for the door, she remembered something else. “One more thing . . .”

He stopped. His wide shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath. When he turned to face her, his expression showed he was as sickened by all this as she was.

“I’m worried your brother is getting too much laudanum. I know he needs it for pain, but too much might prevent him from coming awake. Perhaps if you spoke to the doctor. I would, but . . . well . . . it might be more effective coming from you.”

Wilkins laughed, a bitter sound without joy or mirth. “Don’t underestimate yourself, lady.” He yanked open the door. “You just married Hank Wilkins, the biggest, meanest, most elusive man in the territory. I’m sure you can handle one scrawny doctor.”

Molly flinched as the door slammed behind him. Biggest
and
meanest? Dear God, what had she gotten herself into?

Strength left her, and she slumped back in the chair. Her head ached, her throat burned, and her stomach felt like it was filled with broken glass. But it was done. She would get her money. Then she would grab the children and run as far from this day and this place as she could.

Numbly she watched dust motes cast tiny sparkles in a shaft of sunlight. Do dust motes ever settle? Or like shame, do they linger in the air forever waiting to be exposed by the sun? Wearily she rose from the chair. By the time this was over, she would surely know.

 

 

WHEN SHE ENTERED THE INFIRMARY, MOLLY SAW MURRAY standing over Henry, scalpel in hand. Horrified that he had already begun the amputation, she rushed toward him then saw that although the arm was prepared for surgery, no incision had been made.

Relieved, she stepped to Henry’s right side, ready to assist if needed.

Murray neither moved, nor spoke. He wore an expression she’d seen at Andersonville. Empty. Defeated. Gone. It sent a prickle up her spine. “Doctor?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, still staring down at the exposed arm. “I thought I could, but I can’t.” Lifting his head, he gave her an unnatural, almost- grisly smile. “Do you know how many amputations I’ve performed? Hundreds. And for what?” The smile became a grimace. He threw the scalpel onto the implement tray so hard it bounced off and onto the floor. “I’m sick of it. The blood—the dying—sick of it!” With every word, his voice grew more frantic. He began to yank at the ties on his apron. “I won’t do it anymore. I can’t.”

Suddenly the door opened, and Brady Wilkins stomped into the room. When he saw Molly, his scowl deepened. “Why are you here?” he demanded angrily.

She ignored him. “We can set it, Doctor. We needn’t cut—”

“Aren’t you listening? It doesn’t matter!” Jerking the apron free, he threw it to the floor. “He’ll die anyway! They all die! There’s nothing we can do.”

“My brother’s going to die?”

“We have to try,” Molly insisted, pushing Wilkins aside.

Murray rounded on her. “You try! You say you have experience. You do it. Unless you want these cutting on your husband.” He thrust his hands into her face. They were shaking. His whole body was shaking. Sweat ran down his face. Or was it tears?

“She’s not cutting on my brother,” Wilkins argued, glaring from the doctor to Molly.

“Well, I’m not doing it!” Murray shouted, starting toward the door.

Wilkins thrust out an arm to stop him. “You have to.”

“I can’t! I won’t!” Dodging the bigger man, he stumbled from the room.

“You sonofabitch!” Wilkins shouted after him. “You get back in here!”

When it was apparent Murray wasn’t returning, Wilkins turned his fury on Molly. “Damnit, I told you to stay away from my brother.”

“Oh, hush,” she muttered, trying to think. “We’ll need more light. Towels.” She glanced around the room, trying to quell her panic and decide how to proceed. “And chloroform, just in case.”

“Chloroform? Christamighty! If you think I’m letting you cut on my—”

Anger sent her spinning toward him. “Do you want him to lose his arm?”

He took a step back. “No, but—”

“Then get out of my way or do what I tell you.” Pushing past him, she flung open the door. “Find clean toweling.”

“Where are you going?”

“To wash my hands and get a smock. Find a lamp.”

“You’re not cutting on my brother!” he called as she ducked down the hall.

When she returned, wearing a clean smock over her dress and a kerchief over her hair, he was waiting with two lamps, a stack of clean toweling, and a bottle of whiskey. He thrust the latter toward her.

“I don’t take spirits. Besides, I just washed my hands.”

“Suit yourself.” He took a deep swallow, coughed, and dragged a sleeve across his watering eyes. He gave her a grim look. “You better know what you’re doing.”

“Or you’ll snap my neck, I suppose,” she muttered as she sprayed carbolic solution over the implement tray.

“Damn right.” He lifted the bottle again.

“If you intend to help, put that away.”

He stopped, the bottle poised above his mouth. Slowly, he lowered it. “Help?”

His face had gone pale. His eyes were as blue and round as robin eggs.

“I can’t do this alone, Mr. Wilkins.”

He took a step back. “You want me to help you hack off my brother’s arm?”

Good Lord
, did he think she intended to go at the poor man with an ax? “I want you to hold the lamp while I
repair
his arm. Surely you can do that?”
You nitwit.

“I, ah . . .”

“Or would you prefer to do nothing and just let him die?”

The harsh question jerked him from his frozen state. “I’ll help.” As he put the bottle aside, Molly saw that his hand was shaking, but she had no time for sympathy. Even now it might be too late—Henry might have already gone too long without proper attention.

He gave her a sideways glance. “You’ve done this before, I hope?”

“More or less.” Lifting the atomizer, she sprayed antiseptic solution over her hands and the wound. “I assisted my father many times.”

“Assisted. Oh, Christ.” Retreating into bluster, he gave her a menacing glare. “Then you better do this right. I can still snap your neck.”

“With encouragement like that, how can I fail?”

Setting the chloroform near in case Henry revived, she selected a scalpel and took a deep breath. “I hope you’re a praying man, Mr. Wilkins,” she muttered as she pressed the blade into Henry’s arm and the blood began to flow.

“I sure as hell am now.”

The injury wasn’t as bad as Molly had anticipated. The ulna had a single clean break four inches above the wrist. With Wilkins pulling the arm straight, she was able to slip the broken ends back into position without too much difficulty.

The radius was another matter. Shattered in several places, it took almost an hour to fit the pieces back together. By the time she had finished, her back ached and her hands trembled with fatigue. “The hard part is done.”

“Jesus, I hope so.” He stared at his brother’s arm. “Looks like a gutted fish.”

The man was definitely odd. Maybe he’d been raised by badgers. Eyeing his wedding band, Molly wondered what kind of woman would align herself with such a volatile, rough-speaking man. A deaf-mute, perhaps. Or one that was insane.

Nonetheless, she sensed a subtle change had come about during the hours they had battled to save Henry Wilkins’s arm. It was almost as if an unspoken truce had formed—not one based on trust, of course—he still thought her a liar and opportunist, which, regrettably, she was—but one based on grudging respect. Assuming she was capable of respecting Satan’s minion.

“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.