Firefly

by Linda Hilton

  In the dark of her bedroom Julie fought against the words. To speak them in her heart was bad enough, but if they came to her lips, however silently, she would never again be able to deny them. Yet keeping them inside only added to the pain.

  And the pain demanded release. Involuntarily, her voice no louder than the breeze at the uncurtained window, Julie whispered, “I love you, Del Morgan.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The word “if,” Julie decided, aptly characterized the rest of that week. As she went through each exhausting but satisfying day, the litany of circumstances chanted through her brain.

  If she had not broken the spectacles, she would not have fought with her father.

  If she had not fought with Wilhelm, she would not have admitted to herself that she was in love with Morgan.

  If she had not admitted to her emotions, she would have told Morgan about her promise to Hans.

  If Morgan had known she was all but formally engaged, he might have gone ahead and found someone else to work for him, thus releasing Julie from her torment.

  When she came to that part of the sequence, she felt a cold chill, for she knew that if Morgan had terminated their working relationship, she would have gone insane.

  Although loving Morgan when she knew he would never return her feelings made her ache inside, Julie also loved her work. She quickly got over the initial queasiness of surgery, and when Paddy McCrory, Clancy’s fourteen-year-old brother, blew off three fingers on the Fourth of July, Julie’s hands were as steady as Morgan’s during the operation. Two days later, he let her wield the needle herself, and she sewed Jack Brohagen’s cut elbow with a row of fine, neat stitches. The bartender twisted his arm to look at the work and grinned.

  “Next time I lean on a broken bottle, I’ll make sure Miss Hollstrom does the mending. Looks just like embroidery!”

  She had blushed—that was one habit she couldn’t seem to break—but with pride rather than embarrassment.

  If she had not taken pride in her work, Morgan would not have teased her about it for the rest of the afternoon.

  “They really were nice stitches, weren’t they,” she commented while they cleaned the surgery.

  “Oh, not bad. I’ve seen better.”

  “You haven’t either! They were all exactly the same length and spaced exactly the same distance apart.”

  Morgan leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest.

  “I remember an old bachelor doctor back in Cincinnati who did real embroidery on his patients. On a cut like Jack’s, old Sam’l Wooden did feather stitching so pretty that people hated to take it out. He did a lot of work during the War, Union Army, of course, and he had a different stitch for each different kind of wound. Satin stitch for amputations, French knots for bullet holes.”

  She knew he was lying by the smile and the twinkle in his eyes.

  “Don’t be silly,” she retorted. “You can’t sew things together with French knots.”

  “You can’t?”

  His feigned disbelief was so guiltily exaggerated that Julie started to giggle.

  “You don’t even know what a French knot is,” she accused. “Now, if you had asked, I might have been able to put Mr. Brohagen’s elbow back together with satin stitches, but not French knots.”

  “Well, Dr. Sam’l Wooden could!”

  “He couldn’t!” Julie insisted, caught up in the game. “It just isn’t possible. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Morgan tried to stop her, but Julie wouldn’t let him. Now it was her turn to tease, and she intended to see it through to the end.

  “Men always think they know everything,” she harped while she gathered the items she needed. “And they think that when they don’t know everything, they can still bluff a woman into believing that they do. Men never bother to remember that there are certain things women know more about.”

  “Like French knots.”

  “Exactly.” She got out the needles and thread they had just put away. “I am going to demonstrate just how impossible it is to suture a wound like Mr. Brohagen’s with French knots.”

  “All right, all right,” Morgan laughed, taking up the spool of heavy black silk and replacing it on the cupboard shelf. “I believe you. My word, Julie, I was only teasing.”

  She smiled, but not directly at him.

  “I know that. I’m teaching you not to.”

  “Can’t I just apologize?”

  Julie shook her head. She had the needle threaded and only needed some strips of cotton bandage material to sew together. There were rolls of it on the top shelf, which she could reach with only a little stretch.

  If Morgan had been standing six inches to his left, he would not have blocked her reach, and her sleeve would not have caught on the nail sticking out from the edge of the cupboard door. In the single split instant it took her to realize she had snagged the sleeve, the fabric was already torn.

  Her gasp of surprise and dismay brought concern from Morgan, who could not see the damage.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’ve just—”

  If she had moved out of his way more quickly, he would have seen nothing and suspected nothing. But the clumsy haste in which she clasped the torn edges of cloth together wasn’t enough. The tear gapped to reveal bruises, faded now to a purplish yellow but still dark enough for a doctor’s eyes to see.

  Morgan pried her fingers from her sleeve without a word. When the rip fell open, his initial guess was confirmed. The marks of four fingers and a thumb stood out too clearly to be mistaken.

  All the laughter and teasing fled.

  “Who did this?”

  “My father.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted me to do something that I didn’t want to do and I was too tired to argue with him. I was going to my room, and he stopped me.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “No.”

  He believed her. And after the first shock of seeing the bruises, he realized they were not serious. But on her fair skin, they had seemed monstrous.

  “What did he want you to do that you refused?”

  He had no right to ask, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He had tried not to think about what went on in that house when Julie was away from him, because he reasoned that her life could not be as bad as his distrust of her father made him imagine. Perhaps the truth was worse yet.

  She told him about the eyeglasses and her stubborn refusal to purchase another pair.

  “If you don’t need them, why does he want you to wear them?” He was beginning to think the whole family crazy. Katharine lied about her health, Willy was spoiled like a rich widow’s dog, and now Wilhelm the miser expected his daughter to buy glasses she didn’t need.

  “He thinks the spectacles will make me less attractive to men.”

  Morgan laughed just once, then, when he saw the expression on her face before she turned away, he apologized.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  He curled an index finger under her chin and tilted it a fraction of an inch higher.

  No boisterous nine-year-old interrupted him this time. He kissed her very softly, feeling her fright in the quiver of her lips as his touched them. But she did not pull away.

  And he did not apologize.

  *

  The kiss was not mentioned Saturday morning. Julie, either out of exhaustion or shock, had slept well the night before; Morgan, she was sure, had not. At least he looked as though he had not. But she had no time to question him, nor he her, because the office was filled with patients almost as soon as Morgan unlocked the door.

  Winnie brought coffee at ten-thirty; they had no time to drink it before Katharine arrived with lunch from Daneggar’s two hours later. Julie urged Morgan to eat, which led to an argument, but in the end it didn’t matter. Lunch waited, as did the man with the boil on his face and the woman with the swollen ankle. Marshal Ted Philli
ps brought in a gunshot victim.

  Ted Phillips was a beefy man who carried his paunch proudly. He stood as tall as Morgan, maybe an inch taller, but was twice as wide. The man he supported nearly matched him in size.

  “Found him on the road comin’ back from Oro Flats,” Phillips explained as he dragged the barely conscious patient into the surgery. Julie was still cleaning up from the last case, Donnie Kincheloe’s stubborn nose-bleed. “Says a couple of old coots shot him before he could tell ‘em he was lost, not tryin’ to steal their mine. I got a feelin’ it was them same two that brought in the old man who died last week.”

  Morgan took the injured man’s feet and helped Phillips hoist him onto the table. Blood stained a dirty shirt of indeterminable color; the man had been shot at least three times that Julie could see.

  Phillips leaned forward as Julie began cutting the stained shirt away from the wound.

  “You think he’ll make it?”

  “Hard to tell.” Morgan poured ether onto a cloth and handed it to Julie. She placed it gently over the man’s nose and mouth. He struggled just a bit, but he was already too close to unconsciousness to fight the anaesthetic long. “Depends on how much damage there is inside. Was he on his horse when you found him?”

  “Nope, he was sitting in the shade, restin’. Got back on though by hisself. Rode pretty good most of the way, but o’ course I didn’t rush him. Still, it’s prob’ly close to two, three miles from town where I found him.”

  “Well, just let us get to work on him, Ted, and I’ll do the best I can.”

  The marshal nodded, tipped his hat with a bloodstained hand to Julie, and backed out. The room had seemed noisy with his bulky presence; now that he had gone, the silence deepened.

  “There are three shots, but four wounds,” Morgan observed as he rolled his sleeves past his elbows. “The one just below the ribs is a flesh wound; it can wait. The one in the right thigh is probably the worst. I’ll bet you a five dollar gold piece the bullet is stuck in the femur.”

  “Is that bad?”

  Her voice wasn’t shy and quivery any more.

  “Yeah, it’s bad. The guy’s got legs like tree trunks; I’m gonna have a hell of a time finding that slug.”

  His first task was to staunch as much of the bleeding as possible. The shoulder wounds quickly saturated the cotton cloths Julie had put on them.

  “Get fresh ones, and then hold your hand here.” He put his own finger on a spot where the pulse beat strongly. “It cuts off the circulation and gives the blood a chance to clot. I’m going to do the same with the leg.”

  It would have been easier to work with the man’s pants off, but instead Morgan just cut away the leg. They were ruined anyway, with that ragged hole where the bullet had gone through.

  Morgan took a wide leather band, not unlike a belt, and slipped it around the top of the thigh, right where the hip joint drew the muscles in. When he tightened the tourniquet, the flow of fresh blood ceased almost instantly.

  “There, that will hold the leg while we figure out what to do about this shoulder,” Morgan said in a voice reminiscent of a school teacher. While Julie placed a pile of towels and a basin of warm water at hand, he gingerly poked the area around the wound with a finger. The patient showed no response at all. Morgan picked up a towel, dipped and wrung it out, then began washing the mutilated flesh. “I don’t want that tourniquet on too long, so I’m going to work as fast as I can.”

  The bullet that had gone through the shoulder had hit and chipped the shoulder blade. Closing the entrance wound was relatively easy, but the gaping hole on the man’s back and the removal of the fragments of bone took time, and patience, and a steady hand. Julie watched in amazement as Morgan worked. After each piece of bone dropped into the waiting glass dish, the physician placed a bloody hand on his patient’s neck, then nodded with unemotional satisfaction when he found the pulse still strong.

  “I think that’s the last of them.” He let the forceps fall off his fingers and clatter to the metal table top. “Keep your hand on that spot while I cauterize and then you can close this wound. I’ve got to get at that leg.”

  Morgan wiped his hands on another damp towel as he walked around the table to the other side and the naked, bluish leg. With the blood cleaned away, the wound appeared nothing more than a neat little hole. Morgan slid one long finger into it. Blood welled up around his hand, but it did not gush, nor did it look fresh. Some of it had already clotted.

  He wiped his hand again, then reached for the glass tray of instruments.

  “I found the slug, just barely touched it with the tip of my finger. It’s in the bone deep.”

  Julie watched calmly as his strong fingers gripped the forceps again and inserted the blades into the man’s flesh. No hesitation, no trembling, just the assurance of a man doing what he knew to be necessary.

  “What are his chances?” Julie asked.

  Morgan shrugged. He had the instrument in as far as he could get it and still maneuver.

  “Fair. Maybe a little less. If I were a gambler, I wouldn’t put much money on him.”

  He was fighting death again, even though he knew the odds were not in his favor.

  Julie heard the sound of metal on metal. Morgan wasted no time congratulating himself, because a second later the blades of the forceps snapped together, empty. He swore.

  “One more try. If I don’t get it then, I’ll cut to it.”

  Julie held her breath even as she drew a gut-threaded needle through shoulder muscles. And she prayed. Not just that this attempt to remove the bullet was successful, but that this patient would live. He might very well be a claim jumper, a thief, the very wickedest of wicked men, but his life seemed suddenly very precious.

  She let her own work wait a moment while she took a dry towel from the pile and wiped it across Morgan’s forehead. In the small closed room the air was stifling, and Morgan’s hands were otherwise occupied. It was the least she could do.

  “I’ve got hold of it again,” he breathed, snapping the instrument’s handles together. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

  He pulled with slow, steady force, not daring to wiggle the forceps even to dislodge the dollop of lead. The muscles and tendons of his wrist and forearm corded with the strain of maintaining that pressure. A single stout jerk might have brought the misshapen projectile out easily, or it might have slipped the forceps off with another disappointing snap. Julie crossed her fingers and prayed again.

  “I think it’s coming,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. “Can you wipe my forehead again? Thanks.”

  She used the towel to push back the lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. Sweat dripped down his temples, and she wiped that away, too.

  He nearly fell backwards when the bullet finally gave and came free, but even then he did not so much as smile in celebration until he had examined the forceps and verified that they did indeed hold the flattened slug. After a single deep breath that was probably meant to be a sigh of relief, he removed the bullet from the forceps and reinserted the instrument into the wound.

  “I want to make sure there aren’t any slivers of bone or other pieces of lead that I missed,” he explained. “Then we’ll sew him up and wait to see if he survives.”

  Julie lost track of the time. She had heard voices in the other room occasionally, but not for quite a while. She thought she recalled hearing the door open and several pairs of footsteps descend the porch stairs, but she couldn’t be sure and it seemed quite some time had passed since then.

  They worked silently, each aware of the tension that filled the room, the desperation, the fear, the hope. And when they had finished, almost at the same time, they dropped bloody needles to the tabletop and sighed wearily.

  Morgan was the first to speak, his voice drained and emotionless.

  “Can you pour me some of that coffee?”

  “But it’s hours old!”

  “It’s also wet, and I’m thirsty.”

&nbs
p; The coffee pot Winnie had brought that morning sat on the counter by the single window, which faced the back yard. When Julie turned to pour the cold, stale coffee, she could not help but see the glorious vermillion sunset that silhouetted the mountains under the faint twinkle of the evening star. The sun was gone; only its glow remained.

  Morgan drank the bitter coffee in almost a single gulp, then made a face at the taste.

  “Gawd! Remind me never to do that again.”

  “I’ll try. Did you know it’s almost dark outside?”

  He looked over his shoulder at the window. The scarlet had even in those few seconds deepened to crimson, and that would not last long.

  “I’m not surprised. If you want, you can go home and I’ll finish up here. You look exhausted.”

  She smiled weakly.

  “So do you. Besides, you’ll need someone to help sit up with him, won’t you?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “If Ted’s not still out there waiting, I’ll bring him from the office so he can help. You go on home and get some sleep. Ted and I can carry this guy into the other room, and I’ve got a decent chair there now to sleep on.”

  “A decent chair to sleep on?” she echoed. “Are you trying to be a martyr?”

  “No, just a typical frontier physician. It won’t be the first time, believe me.”

  Julie began to gather up discarded towels and rags that had been dropped carelessly to the floor. Without looking at Morgan, she scolded him as firmly as she would have Willy. “I don’t know when was the last time you slept on a chair, but I do know it is definitely the last time. You’ve worked too hard today, and whether you intend to admit it or not, you didn’t get much sleep last night, if any. You can’t continue without sleep and expect to work your best.”

  With a rueful little chuckle and a gentle shake of his head, Morgan bent to help her clean up the mess. She could be marvelous, this Julie Hollstrom, when she wanted to be. Hanging on his every word one minute and ordering him around like a sergeant-major the next. And all this with a man lying on the table, bloodied, naked, and barely alive.