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“Could it have been an accident?”
He didn’t answer. Kristin felt his body slump against hers. Was he unconscious or just weak and tired?
Reaching around him, she steadied the hand that held the reins. Ahead, over his shoulder, she could see the ranch house. Except for the ravages of time and neglect, it was much as she remembered it from her growing-up years, when Tom Petit was alive and his daughters, long gone from here, had been her playmates.
“We’re here,” she said, and felt him nod. Easing herself off the back of the horse, she led it to the hitching rail in front of the house. Logan Hunter pulled himself upright in the saddle. She caught his weight as he half climbed, half slid to the ground. Blood was oozing from under the shirt that wrapped his wound. She’d loosened and tightened the makeshift tourniquet as needed, but it hadn’t helped much.
“Key’s in my left hip pocket.” His voice trailed off. She reached behind him and found the key as they mounted the porch. Supporting him with one arm, she opened the front door.
On the inside, the house had the look of a place that had stood empty for a long time. The last occupants appeared to have left in a hurry. Was there anything here that she could use?
The sofa in the parlor was probably mouse-infested, but it would give him a place to rest while she searched, starting with the horse.
The saddlebags were empty except for some spare ammunition and a small box of matches. Kristin stowed the matches in her pocket and took the rifle out of its scabbard. If some enemy had shot at Logan meaning to kill him, they could be back.
The canteen, almost empty now, hung by its strap from the saddle horn. But there was a pump at the base of the windmill. Logan had mentioned well water. Gripping the handle, she pumped and prayed with all her strength. Moments later she was rewarded with the sound of water gushing up from below. As it poured out of the tap, she filled the canteen and hurried back into the house.
Her patient had sagged into a corner of the sofa. His eyes were closed, but more water from the canteen, raised to his mouth and splashed on his face, revived him. Kristin left him long enough to do a quick search of the house. Clean linens or kitchen utensils would be a godsend. But the cupboards and closets were empty. She found little more than a dirty-looking mattress on the floor of one of the bedrooms. But the kitchen did have a plain wooden drop-leaf table. With a good scrubbing, it could be put to use.
The hospital where she’d been posted toward the end of the war had made use of the latest devices and procedures—transport by motorized ambulance, anesthetics like nitrous oxide, new methods of disinfecting, like sodium hypochlorite that killed bacteria without burning delicate tissues, and even blood transfusions. Kristin could have used any and all of these to save her patient. But here, in this isolated place, she had nothing.
The outcome here would depend on her own ingenuity and on Logan Hunter’s strength and will to live.
* * *
The table, newly washed and still damp, was cold against Logan’s bare skin. He lay on his side, feeling like a sheep on the butcher’s block, with his arm elevated and his booted feet dangling over the end. Whatever happened next was going to hurt like hell. His only consolation was that, one way or another, it was bound to be over soon.
Kristin had removed her white blouse. The simple muslin shift she wore underneath was tucked into her divided riding skirt. The damp fabric outlined her round, firm breasts, the nipples shrunken from the cold water she’d used to splash off the dust. Too bad he was in no condition to appreciate the sight as she bent over him. She was a beautiful woman. He could only hope she was also a skilled doctor.
He’d lent her his pocketknife. She’d sterilized the blade in the fire she’d made with gathered kindling in the kitchen stove. She would use it to probe for the bullet if it hadn’t passed through, and for any other needed emergency surgery.
With care, she unwound the makeshift bandage and examined the wound. “We’re in luck,” she said. “The bullet made a clean exit. It must’ve been a small caliber weapon. But you’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re still bleeding. How does your left hand feel?”
“A little numb. But I can move my fingers.”
“Good. Now, try lifting your hand from the wrist.”
He made the effort and failed. “Damn. It’s as limp as a dishrag. What the hell—”
“Don’t worry. We’ll need to splint it for a few days. But it should heal fine. Blood loss is the big worry now. We’ll have to keep using the tourniquet until that artery closes off and the bleeding stops. When that happens, the blood will find another passage—it’s the body’s way of healing itself. But meanwhile, if you want to survive, you’ll need fluids and rest.”
She tipped the canteen to his lips, supporting his head as he drank. “Take all you can. How do you feel?”
“Light-headed as hell.” He tried to focus his gaze on her as she folded her blouse into a strip with the sleeves at either end. Tying it into a pad above the wound, she used the stick to tighten the makeshift tourniquet. Her image floated over him like a vision. He closed his eyes.
“Have you ever had anything like this done before?” she asked, probably trying to distract him.
He opened his eyes again to watch her. His vision swam from blood loss. “My leg,” he replied. “I got hit in the Argonne Forest, the same day we lost Corporal Anderson. The doctors wanted to take it off, but I wouldn’t let them. It’s ugly, but at least it’s still . . . attached.” Putting words together was an effort.
“I was in that area, behind the front lines. But it wasn’t my medical team who treated you. I’d have remembered.”
“And I would certainly have remembered you.”
Her beautiful face was the last thing Logan saw before his vision darkened and he floated away.
CHAPTER SIX
KRISTIN WET THE HANDKERCHIEF SHE’D FOUND IN HER POCKETwith water from the canteen and used it to clean his arm below the wound. The tourniquet would have to be loosened and checked every two hours around the clock until the artery sealed off. Meanwhile, the major could still die from blood loss.
