Oscar did as he was asked, taking great care to be gentle. The inebriate was heavier than his frame would suggest; there must be solid muscle behind it. Johanna had lifted or restrained her share of male patients in her time; she remembered Papa's indulgent pride in her sturdiness. "My Valkyrie," he'd called her.
She ignored the stab of pain at the recollection and helped Oscar maneuver their patient into the back of the buggy, where the rear seat had been removed for the carrying of supplies and patients. This time she'd come prepared. She adjusted blankets beneath and over him, made certain that he was breathing without difficulty, and took the reins again. Oscar twisted in his seat to stare at the man.
"Who is he?" he asked.
"I don't know. We'll find out when he wakes up." If he lived. Many patients didn't survive the delirium. But with a flash of the intuition she'd learned not to dismiss, she guessed that he wasn't one to lie down and die easily.
Remember… he's just another patient in need of medical attention—and a drunkard at that. They hadn't accepted inebriates at the old asylum in Pennsylvania. Could the treatment she and her father had developed be used to illuminate the causes of a drunkard's need for alcohol?
She shook her head. Papa had been the one for wild flights of theoretical fancy and unorthodox schemes. Her business now was to keep this man alive.
Careful to avoid the worst ruts in the path, Johanna guided Daisy at a walk back to the house. Most of the Haven's residents were watching for her return, alerted by Oscar's earlier warning.
Irene leaned on the porch railing, patting at her dyed red hair with a beringed hand and posing to display herself to what she considered her best advantage. God knew what she'd think when she saw the new patient.
May, the Haven's youngest at fourteen, hovered at the edge of the porch, ready to flee at a moment's notice. The former reverend, Lewis Andersen, stood like a rigid sentinel, his face set in its worn lines of disapproval and misery. Harper, of course, wasn't there. It took far more than this to awaken him from his inner world.
She and Oscar eased the man from the buggy and carried him to the porch. Lewis stared at the stranger's face and backed away as if he'd seen the devil himself.
"Stinking of damnation," he muttered. His gloved hands sketched out the meaningless, repetitive patterns he adopted when he was upset.
Irene gave a high-pitched giggle and angled for a better view. May peered at the newcomer and took a step closer, as if she felt real interest in him. Then, just as abruptly, she skittered out of sight around the corner of the house.
The spare room was at the very rear of the house, in a portion built of local stone. It was always cool in summer, and isolated from the rest. Johanna and Oscar set their patient down on the bed.
" 'Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink,'" Lewis said behind them.
"Reverend Andersen, if you would be so kind as to fetch a fresh pitcher of cold water, and a glass," Johanna suggested.
Lewis backed out of the room. He would probably feel the need to wash his hands ten or twenty times before returning with the water, but that would give her a chance to undress her stranger.
"He's very sick," Oscar said solemnly, towering behind her.
"I'm afraid so. I must undress and bathe him and put him to bed, while he is still quiet. He may become excited later on."
"Like Harper does sometimes?"
Oscar hadn't forgotten the last time Harper came out of his cataleptic state in reaction to some waking nightmare, screaming and crying until Johanna could calm him. All the residents had been afraid.
"It is possible," she said. "That's why I want to be ready. Do you think we could borrow some of your clothes for this man when he wakes up?"
Oscar grinned. "I'll go pick some out." He lumbered into the hall, footsteps thundering in the direction of his room.
Left alone, Johanna concentrated on undressing the patient. His shoes were too fancy for extended walking, and she expected to find blisters on his feet. Surprisingly, there were none. The coat had come from a quality tailor, though one might not realize it now.
His liquor-stained shirt was held closed by a few remaining buttons; if he'd had a waistcoat, it was gone. She removed his purse and then the shirt, tucking the pouch and money into the drawer of the night table. No one here would steal it, except perhaps Irene—and she wouldn't think to look.
Stripped to the waist, the stranger confirmed Johanna's guess about a muscular frame beneath the leanness. The pectorals were well developed, as were the deltoids and biceps. His waist was firm and tapered, ridged with muscle. All just as any sculptor could wish. No indication of prolonged illness or injury; not a man who had gone so far in drink that his entire body was ready to fail him. For an inebriate, he appeared to be remarkably healthy.
After a moment's hesitation, she unbuttoned his trousers and tugged them down. He was, after all, just another patient. She had no personal interest in him… no matter what some prurient townsfolk might say about a woman doctor concerned with the intimacies of male clients.
She laid his trousers across the back of a chair and briskly discarded his underdrawers. His thighs and legs matched the muscular leanness of his upper body; his hips were well-formed. In fact, every major portion of his anatomy was a masculine ideal.
Johanna licked her lips, grateful the patient was still unconscious.
Leaving him lightly covered, she went into her room, the closest in the hall to this one, and retrieved her basin and a sponge. She drew the chair up beside the bed and gently washed away the sweat from his body.
It was a thing she'd done many, many times, but her hand was just a little unsteady as she guided the sponge from his neck and shoulders down the length of each arm, across his chest, his stomach, each long leg. She turned him gently and bathed his back, glancing once at his muscular buttocks and then away.
She felt tension drain from her body as she finished and replaced the sponge in the basin. He needed a much more thorough bath than this, but she couldn't risk it now. If he had delirium tremens, the chance of hallucinations and agitation was still very real. He would have to be—
He pushed up from the bed before she realized he'd wakened. Fingers clutched at the sheets, and his head tossed deliriously from side to side.
"Where—" He coughed, and his voice cleared. He turned to stare at her. "Who are you?"
"A doctor. Johanna Schell. You're safe here."
He began to shake, violently, his teeth chattering. "Not safe," he said. "No." Fresh sweat covered his forehead and upper lip. His face went white, and Johanna recognized his impending sickness.
Quickly she removed the sponge from the washbowl and offered the bowl to him. He twisted his body and heaved into the receptacle, as if trying to keep her from witnessing his illness. He kept his back turned to her until she gave him a cloth to wipe his face.
"You shouldn't… have brought me—" He gasped. He made a warding motion with his hand. "Go 'way."
"I can't do that." She reached for his flailing hand and held it firmly. "What is your name?"
His face went utterly blank. She watched him struggle to find that information, perceiving his panic when he couldn't.
"Don't remember," he said. "Oh, God."
"You are suffering from alcohol withdrawal," she said, keeping her grip on him. "You may experience unpleasant symptoms, but you will not be alone."
The door opened behind her, admitting Lewis with the pitcher of fresh water and a glass on a tray. He set it down on the table by the bed and retreated, holding his hands out from his body as if they had become contaminated. The stranger reared up, staring at Lewis with an almost feral intensity.
"Thank you, Reverend," Johanna said. "Would you be so kind as to close the door behind you?"
He left with alacrity, doubtless to wash his hands another dozen times. Johanna poured out a glass of water and pressed it into her patient's hand, holding it steady with her fin
gers around his. "You must drink. Your body is badly depleted."
He gazed at her with the driven intensity he'd shown Lewis. Such remarkable eyes. She shook herself and lifted the glass toward him. He let her put it to his lips and swallowed the water like a man dying of thirst. She refilled it, and he finished the second as promptly.
"Excellent," she said. "Now you must rest. Rest and proper diet, plenty of water and abstinence from drink are the only cures for your condition. When you are better, we can talk."
"No." He caught her wrist as he had by the wagon road, in that same unbreakable grip. "Can't—" His throat worked, and he spread his fingers around it as if to choke himself. He released her, pushing her away as he did so. He began to run his hands up and down the lengths of his arms, slowly at first and then more and more desperately, as if he were trying to rip something away from his flesh.
"Not me," he said hoarsely. "Not me!"
Here it began, then—the delusions and hallucinations. He might be seeing insects, or snakes, or some other loathsome object. The hallucinations might continue for hours. Calmly she reached down for her doctor's bag and opened it. She carried a very small vial of chloral hydrate, which she used as sparingly as possible. This time she'd probably have no choice.
Her patient was panting now, eyes wide and wild. "Get out," he cried. He clawed at his arms, leaving red streaks. Seriously hurting himself could be the next step.
"Listen to me, my friend. I can make you feel better, sleep until this has passed."
He stopped his frenzied movements. "Help," he whispered.
"Yes." She poured a few drops of the syrup into a small spoon. "If you will take this—"
She thought it might actually work, that he would take the medicine quietly before matters proceeded to a dangerous point. He reached—as much for her as the spoon—his face unyielding. Then he froze, fingers bending into claws. His eyes rolled back in his head.
Johanna flung herself toward the bed just as his seizure began. She half lay across him, holding him down with the weight of her body. He convulsed beneath her. His heart pounded frantically, drawing her own into a sympathetic rhythm. His head slammed back on the pillow, once, again. The rigidity of his body relaxed, every muscle gone limp simultaneously.
The seizure was over. She checked his pulse and his breathing. Not good, but not fatal. Disentangling herself, she retrieved the fallen spoon and poured out new medicine. She pried open his mouth and pushed the spoon between his teeth.
He swallowed normally. She hovered over him for several minutes to make sure it had gone down, and used a clean cloth to mop his wet forehead. With her thumbs she massaged his temples and the space above his eyes, willing him to surrender.
The sharply etched lines between his brows smoothed out under her ministrations. His breathing slowed, steadied. It would be an hour before the chloral hydrate took effect, but in this state sleep might come more quickly.
She permitted herself to draw away at last, dropping into the chair and closing her eyes. She was exhausted, a state she did not enjoy admitting even to herself. Where was Papa's Valkyrie now?
The door swung open with a faint creak. "Doctor Johanna!"
Bridget Daugherty stepped into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. "Well, I'll be! The others didn't even tell me you was home. I was out in the back with the wash—" She glanced at the patient. "You been busy, I see. New guest?"
"For the time being."
Mrs. Daugherty sniffed. "Likkered up. You never took one of them in before."
"The opportunity hadn't arisen," Johanna said crisply. Bridget was a naturally garrulous soul, curious about everything and completely uneducated, but she also felt she owed Johanna a great debt for delivering her eldest daughter's child safe and alive when the other local doctor had proclaimed the case hopeless. She was steady, trustworthy, and tolerant of the odd residents of the Haven. Johanna could ask for no more.
"I found him in the road," she said. "He might have died if I'd left him."
"An' you can't leave any poor soul in need, can you?" Bridget shook her head. "Well, looks like you might need a hand tonight, after supper."
"I would much appreciate it," Johanna said, daring to close her eyes again.
"You're plumb tuckered, Doc," Bridget said. "You ought to rest."
"Not now. He must be watched."
Bridget clucked. "Same old story. Well, at least the wash is done, and I didn't have no trouble from anyone. I'll fix you up a supper tray and feed the rest."
"Thank you, Bridget."
A broad, callused hand settled on her shoulder and squeezed. "There's a letter for you came in yesterday's mail, from that Mrs. Ingram. I put it on your desk." Mrs. Daugherty left the room.
Another letter from May's mother, a full four months after the last. This time it might contain good news, something other than vague hints of her plans to return for her daughter, and the usual questions about May's well-being. But Johanna couldn't count on that.
In any case, the letter could wait. Johanna got to her feet and lifted her new patient's trousers and coat from the back of the chair. They might be washed, mended, and saved, with a little effort. Irene might be persuaded to do it for such a handsome stranger.
She waited out the next hour until it was clear that her patient was sleeping deeply, unlikely to wake for some time. She tucked the sheets and blankets high about his shoulders, smoothing them down over the contours of his upper body.
How beautiful he was, even in sleep.
She stepped sharply away from the bed, barked her shin on the chair, and reached for the doorknob. Papa. She must see Papa. He would be waiting, and she'd left him alone so long. Papa would have advice—
No, he wouldn't. Sometimes, when she was very tired, she forgot about the attack and what it had done to him. She expected to walk into his room and feel his arms around her, hear his laugh and his chatter about his latest progress with a patient.
Not today. Not ever again.
But this man might recover. This was within her control. She would see that he was up on his feet and well again, whatever it took.
With a final backward glance, she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 3
He remembered his name.
Quentin. Quentin Forster. Born in Northumberland, England, thirty-two years ago.
And suffering from a throbbing headache, a mouth full of cotton, and eyes that all too slowly focused on the room in which he lay. He blinked against the spill of light from the lace-curtained window. Thank God the sun wasn't shining from that direction.
The window looked out on something green. Peaceful. He braced his arms beneath him and pushed up. Every muscle ached and protested the abuse. The sheets and blankets that had been tucked in at his chin slid down to his waist. He discovered that he was naked.
Instinctively he looked for his clothes. A shirt and trousers, of homely cut and fabric, lay neatly over the back of a chair not far from the bed. They didn't look like his clothes, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd awakened to find his clothing and belongings unfamiliar.
At the other side of the room was a dresser, a washstand with a pitcher, basin and towels, and a three-legged stool painted a bright shade of pink. Something about the color made him want to laugh. It matched his current situation in absurdity.
His bed was wide enough for two, with heavy cast-iron head- and footboards. The mattress was comfortable, the sheets clean. If he'd gotten into this room and this bed under his own power, he had no memory of it.
So where was he? This was not a hotel room. It was too neat and modest: neither a run-down boardinghouse nor an expensive inn that catered to the rich. He'd spent his share of nights in both.
Cautiously he flipped the sheets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He endured a brief spell of dizziness, and then tested his weight on his legs. They supported him well enough. Cool air nipped at his skin. He'd been sweating sometime recent
ly; a fever? Or just the aftereffects of another drunken binge?
That was the one thing he was sure of. He'd been drunk. The blank spots in his memory always came after such episodes.
He tottered with all the grace of a babe in leading strings, making his way to the window. It was open the merest crack. He smelled the growing things beyond it even before he looked out. The sweetness of fruit trees. Flowers. Vegetables… tomatoes, carrots, peas. Freshly turned earth. The complex melange of woodland.
Trees and tangled bushes framed the window. A pine-and oak-covered hill rose steeply a few yards beyond. The air was fragrant, with a hint of dampness. He could smell people nearby, but not in the numbers that meant close-packed houses and smoke and waste from thousands of residents, rich and poor and in-between. The only sounds were the singing of birds, a muffled voice, the distant lowing of a cow, the rustle of leaves.
He wasn't still in the City, then. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, thinking hard. There'd been the saloon in San Francisco… gambling, winning… making plans to move on, catch the ferry to Oakland across the bay. It didn't really matter where he went, as long as he kept moving.
That was where the latest blank spot in his memory began. And ended here, in this room.
But there was something else. He returned to the bed and grabbed a handful of sheet, lifting it to his nose.
Yes. A woman. He shivered at the memory of her touch, his body's recollection more vague but every bit as real as that of the mind.
A woman. He groaned. Was this some woman's bed he'd shared last night? He couldn't even remember her face, let alone the rest of her. He glanced down at himself. His body wasn't telling him that it had enjoyed a woman recently.
A small mirror hung above the washstand. He looked himself over: He obviously hadn't shaved in a couple of days. Aside from a certain gauntness and the dark half-circles under his eyes, his face was unmarked. No surprise there, and no sign of violence in the vicinity, nothing to indicate that his amnesia hid behavior or incidents he should fear.
But he was afraid. This was happening more and more often, his periods of amnesia increasing in length each time. He always swore he wouldn't take another drink…
SECRET OF THE WOLF Page 3