“Help him, Doc.” The older of the two carrying the man kept moving toward a table. “My son got tossed off a bronco and hit a fence. He’s fightin’ for air. I think he busted somethin’ in his throat.”
That was something Connor had never heard of before. He rushed to keep up with the two men. One claimed he was the father, the other man his brother.
Connor moved to the young man’s side and felt for a pulse. A stupid thing to do, as the man was thrashing around. He found the pulse was strong, in fact hammering. Connor had no idea what to do next.
A commotion in the waiting room drew his attention. Maggie burst in, took one look at the struggling man, and moved quickly to help out.
“Thank God you’re here.” Connor explained the situation as fast as he could.
“Tracheotomy.”
“Trake-what?” Connor asked.
Maggie whirled around to the counter and snatched up a scalpel and tossed it into a steaming pot of water Dr. Radcliffe always kept on the stove.
“Connor, get me one of those eyedroppers and tear off the rubber end so I have a little tube. Drop the tube into the hot water.”
The man on the bed began to convulse. He bled from his throat, and no sound, not a wisp of air, not a cry or even a rasp could be heard coming out of his mouth.
The father grabbed at Maggie’s arm. “He’s dying. Let the doc work on him.”
Maggie wrenched free of his grasp.
“Leave her be,” Connor said, racing around the bed and blocking the man as he tried to stop Maggie. “If you touch her again, I’ll throw you out of here. She’s . . . she’s just attended a special class to learn how best to treat these kinds of injuries. She’s better at it than I am.”
Maggie appreciated the help. She coated the man’s throat with carbolic acid, then picked up a pair of tongs and fished out the scalpel.
“I need him held absolutely still.” Her eyes cut from Connor to the father and brother. “His throat has been crushed. I have to open an airway so he can breathe freely. Connor, you hold his head. You”—she jabbed a finger at the father—“lie across his body.”
Her eyes went to the brother next, giving orders, taking charge. There wasn’t time for an argument. “Now hold his arms down. I need it done now! He’s quit breathing.”
All three men obeyed her snapping voice. Maggie bent and cut a swift slash about an inch long in the hollow of the man’s throat. Blood bubbled out of the wound.
The men gasped. The father roared, “What are you doing?”
She knew Connor would move to stop the father if he wrestled for the scalpel. “Everyone stay right where you are,” Maggie commanded. “He cannot move.”
Connor stayed put, keeping the injured man’s head still, but she could tell he was still braced to jump at the father if need be. But the father did as he was told, holding the son still on the table with his body. Maggie understood his terror. She suspected Connor also was horrified by what she’d just done.
Maggie held a cloth on the cut with one hand while with the other she set aside the scalpel and used the tongs to fetch the thin tube. She lifted the cloth, inserted the tube into the cut, and motioned for the father to step back. She bent low, put her lips to the tube, and blew. The man’s chest rose and fell, and he instantly stopped struggling. The man had been fighting for air. Now he had it.
Everyone went still, watching and listening. The sound of air flowing in when Maggie breathed, and out when she moved away, was like a miracle—like she’d breathed the life back into the man. A moment passed, two, three . . . and the injured man’s eyes flickered open.
Maggie moved to let the air out and angled her head so that she was eye to eye with him. “Don’t move, and don’t speak. You’ve been hurt, but you will be all right.”
The man blinked his eyes but remained still as a stone. Maggie bent down again to give him his next breath.
Long moments passed, and finally Connor said, “You saved this man’s life, Mag . . . Miss Kincaid. I couldn’t have done that. Thank God you’re taking those classes.”
Maggie gave him a smile that would light up the whole city of Denver. “You’ll lie still, now, won’t you?” The man blinked his eyes again, acknowledging what she said. “All right, everyone. He understands.”
The father, brother, and Connor finally relaxed and straightened.
The waiting room door swung open with a bang, followed by footsteps. Connor stepped back. “Are you all right if I go see who it is?”
“We’ll stay and help. And, Doc Kincaid,” the older man added with a reverent tone, “we’ll do whatever you say.”
Connor met Maggie’s eyes, and she nodded. “I’ve got more work to do here but he’ll live. Go.”
Connor rushed away.
Maggie talked quietly to the injured man and his family, while in the other room she heard shouting.
“Stagecoach turned over, Doc. Ten folks on board, driver and shotgun rider hurt, everyone hurt. Hurry!”
Maggie grabbed the brother, who was closest. “Breathe into this tube. Slow and easy. Check once in a while—he may be able to do it himself. Take over. I’ll be right back.”
Now in the waiting room, Maggie said, “I heard. I can’t leave right now, but I’ll come in a bit. Take my doctor’s bag.”
“Is there anyone else from your class who can help?” Connor asked. “I’ll send a message.”
“Yes, send it. They’ll get help to us if they can. And ask them to send for more doctors.”
Chapter
8
Connor wrote the note, ran outside, and found the same boy Doc Radcliffe had sent before. After sending the boy on his way, he turned to the desperate man who’d brought the news. “Lead the way.”
The man tore off running, with Connor following close behind him. The overturned stagecoach wasn’t far away, about five city blocks. Rounding a corner, they both slowed a bit as the ugly scene came into view.
People lying everywhere, bleeding, some unconscious, some awake, thrashing, wailing, weeping in pain. He had no idea where to start.
For one terrifying second he feared they’d all die right there. And it would be his fault. His arrogance in thinking he understood medicine, which had never been made so clear to him as a few moments ago at the doctor’s office.
Ripping past the torrent of self-doubt, he dashed to the nearest victim, a man. He was thrashing around, eyes closed, howling in pain, bleeding from his head and face and arms. Connor dropped to his knees. A quick check told him no broken bones, at least none poking out of the skin. He spun around, seeking the man who’d come for him.
“I need a lot more men to carry the injured back to the doctor’s office.” There were several standing around the edges of the wreck.
“Grab some of them.” Connor pointed to the milling crowd. “I need a stretcher if you can find one. If not, take a door from somewhere and carry this man on that.” He nodded, hanging on Connor’s every word. “If you can’t get a door real fast, then get a couple of men and carry him gently in your arms. But be careful.”
Connor jumped up and charged toward the next man down. This one seemed less seriously injured. He was sitting up but looking dazed.
“Where are you hurt?” Connor asked.
“Beat up some, but not too bad. Go on to someone else.”
Ten people and he’d dealt with only two so far.
She had to go. She had to go. She had to go.
Connor needed her.
Fighting not to just flat-out leave her patient and run, she carefully worked on the throat blockage. It would heal, but for now the throat was too swollen for air to pass through. She wrapped the man’s neck in a clean bandage with the small tube still in place and said to his anxious brother and father, “Help me move him, get him settled in a bed.”
How many beds did they have available? How many would be needed for the stagecoach crash? Sending this man home might be for the best, but she had to talk to Dr. Radcliffe fi
rst. And Connor needed her. She’d just sent him off with no idea what he’d be facing.
She had to go. She had to go.
“This way.” She clamped her mouth shut and tried not to rush things. “Don’t jostle him or the tube could dislodge.”
She had to go!
Finally, the man was settled and resting again. His family promised to stay at his side and keep watch.
Maggie hurried into the waiting room on her way to the door and to Connor. When she opened it, four men—carrying a fifth man who was lying on a wooden door—almost knocked her down.
“He’s from the stagecoach wreck, miss. He’s unconscious.”
Fighting the urge to scream, she turned back. “Follow me. Now lift him off that door and set him on the table real easy.”
One of the men said, “We’ve got to go back, miss. There are more comin’.”
Despite her wanting to go help Connor, Maggie knew she needed to stay where she was. So she turned to the unconscious man and went to work, praying at the same time.
A woman came to Connor’s side.
“Maggie?” He hoped it was her. He needed someone smarter than he was.
Instead, it was an older woman. She wore an apron. “No, I’m Mrs. McRay. I worked in a field hospital during the war.” She had a lilting Irish accent that worked to calm Connor. “Tell me what to do. I’ve seen you checking people and shouting orders. Now shout them at me. And if you be needin’ a second set of hands, I’ve got a strong, steady pair.”
Mrs. McRay was older than his ma, but solid and calm. He was so happy for the help he wanted to hug her, but he didn’t have time.
Crouching by the next man, Connor had no notion of how to treat him. “This one needs to go to the hospital. He’s got a serious head wound and a badly broken arm. They took one man away on a stretcher. I need a second one.”
“I’ll find one and see to it this man gets on his way. Go on to the next patient.” Mrs. McRay broke into a run.
Connor quickly moved to the next victim. He nearly turned and ran away, because this was the worst he’d seen yet. Sweat broke out on Connor’s forehead. Nausea wrenched his stomach but he fought it down.
Another arm brutally fractured. Right away he thought of arteries. Back in Texas, Dare had once told him that blood spilled out with a pulse if an artery was cut. The blood was driven by the heart pumping, and when a man had an injury like that, there was nothing to do except apply a tourniquet to stop the bleeding and then later they’d likely need to amputate.
The person was bleeding badly, but Connor didn’t think the wound was actually pumping out blood. Then he examined the snapped forearm bone, which was protruding through the skin. It was as ugly a thing as he’d ever seen.
He had no idea where to start, but then he remembered a letter he had received a while ago from Uncle Heath. In it Heath had talked about the terrible broken bone his father-in-law, Chance Boden, had suffered. Dare was fascinated by this, so Heath and Dare had exchanged several letters discussing the bad break, and Dare had a long correspondence about it. Connor had read everything Dare had.
That helped, but it was nowhere near enough. Connor turned to the nurse. “Let’s get him to the doctor’s office. I’ll need things I only have there.”
Like a doctor. A real doctor. Not Connor Kincaid, the fraud.
“We’ll be tearin’ down every door on the street for stretchers, Doc.” Mrs. McRay’s calm voice helped to steady him. “We’ve sent away the man you just checked and have another stretcher ready for this man. And look, here come those men back with the first stretcher already.” Mrs. McRay treated him with so much respect, probably fooled by the phony confidence she heard in Connor’s voice.
The men held a real stretcher, though it appeared mighty worn and tattered, like something left over from the war twenty years ago.
“I don’t dare touch this break here on the street. We have to get him to the doctor’s office right away, and we have to be very gentle about it. There are arteries that could be severed.”
Nurse McRay gestured to six others standing nearby, who gathered around the hurt man.
Connor looked at them and nodded. “All right,” he said, “put the stretcher on the ground beside him. We’ll all lift at once, and I’ll guide his arm.”
Once they had him settled on the stretcher, Connor said, “Go now, men, and watch that arm of his. Move careful.”
“He’s bleedin’ bad, Doc. He ain’t got much time.”
“Well, go as fast as you can while you keep him steady.” Connor watched them as they hurried off toward the doctor’s office. Then he forced himself to get back to work on the other injured folks who were still in need of help.
“Put him here.” Maggie had one unconscious man on a table. She’d done what she could for him. Now here was another.
The men carrying him obeyed so fast, Maggie wondered at it. “Are there more coming?” she snapped at the closest man.
“Yes, miss, a lot more . . . although some may be dead.”
“Take that man into the back,” she ordered, jabbing a finger at the first patient. “You’ll find an empty bed there.”
“We’re to go back fast to the wreck, miss.”
“Then move him fast. I need him out of this space.”
The men carted her first patient away.
How many more? Where was Connor?
She’d barely begun examining the next patient, checking his bleeding head wound and arm swollen to double its normal size, when Dr. Radcliffe came running in.
“I heard about the stagecoach.” At that moment, another group came in, bearing a man on a litter.
“I’ll see to him.” Dr. Radcliffe left Maggie to her current patient. She pressed a damp rag to the head wound, wishing for more hands.
The first of the girls from the school entered the doctor’s office. Maggie saw the terrible break on the arm of the man Dr. Radcliffe was treating and knew that would give him all he could do for a while. She took charge of everything else.
Another wounded patient came staggering in on foot, a man on each side helping to support him. Behind them, someone shouted, “Dr. Radcliffe, what do you need?” Another doctor had arrived, finally.
Before Dr. Radcliffe could answer, Maggie replied, “Two not so badly hurt are in the back, in the hospital. If you could move them to your own offices, we need the beds.”
Dr. Radcliffe nodded, and the man charged on through the examination room to the hospital.
With a twinkle in his otherwise grim eyes, Dr. Radcliffe said, “You’ve got the makings of a doctor, I’d say, Miss Kincaid.”
That gave her the energy to get back to work.
Connor had watched the rough western men—men exactly like Connor, in fact—tote away that horribly injured man with the awful broken arm. Those men had moved with great care and tenderness, and the very reverence of it reminded Connor to pray.
In praying, his thoughts cleared and his stomach settled some as he figured out what he needed to do, and no other possible answer would do. He needed to stop thinking he was a doctor and get everyone here to a doctor, and as fast as possible.
The next man was dead. He was told this was the stagecoach driver, who’d been thrown off the stage when the axle had snapped with no warning. A second man, not far from the driver, lay dead, as well. He was clutching a rifle.
“He was riding shotgun. Looks as though both of the men on top were killed instantly.” Nurse McRay clutched his arm, almost as if she knew he was nearly unable to take his eyes off the dead men.
There were two more men, each unconscious. Connor did a quick examination before sending them away on stretchers.
Someone standing on top of the overturned stage yelled, “There’s a woman and a child still inside! Hurry!”
The stagecoach lay on its side in the street. Connor rushed over and peered in through the opening left where one of the doors was torn away. He saw blood everywhere. A young woman was sprawled agains
t the opposite door, a little boy in her arms, also knocked out. Connor wasn’t sure who was bleeding, or maybe it was both, but he knew whoever it was . . . there was too much of it.
He slipped through the door opening and carefully lowered himself inside. Looking up, he shouted, “I need two men standing by this door! I’ll move these folks to the door. You lift ’em out.”
Hearing the clomping of boots approaching the door, Connor turned back to his patients. The boy was five or six years old and had a gash on his forehead that was bleeding liberally. The wound needed a great many stitches. He felt the boy’s neck and found a strong pulse. He worried that the boy might have broken his back or might be torn up inside, but Connor couldn’t treat the child here in the smashed-up stage.
So he took the boy in his arms and eased the youngster through the door. “Got him?” he asked.
The men on top of the stage knelt and reached down together. They lifted him away and were gone.
Connor moved back to the woman, who was bleeding from her mouth and nose. She had a severe cut on her scalp, and he noticed swelling on her left leg and right shoulder. Her left shoulder was disfigured. Connor suspected it was dislocated. With no notion of how to treat so many injuries, he shouted, “I need two more men! The woman here is badly hurt; she’ll need a stretcher.”
He gently lifted the woman, brown hair all askew. Her nose looked broken, and the hollows beneath her eyes were swollen and already turning black.
“The stretcher’s here, Doc,” Nurse McRay hollered back. “One of the men carried the boy in his arms so we’d have the stretcher for his ma.”
Connor lifted her, twisting to get her through the door without knocking her against anything. “Be careful, she has several broken bones.” She moaned in pain as he handed her up. He prayed he hadn’t made things worse.
By the time he climbed out of the stagecoach and jumped to the ground, the wounded woman was gone. He looked at his kindly nurse. “Is there anyone else?”
A groan drew his eyes. The man riding shotgun. “I thought he was dead!” Connor rushed to his side.
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