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“Scrub your hands, Logan. I’ll need your help,” she said, sweeping her hair up under a surgical cap.
Logan did as he was asked, using the strong disinfectant soap she kept next to the basin. When he returned to the table, she’d lit a small candle and was lifting the lid of Chase’s left eye to check the pupil. “Dilated with no response,” she muttered. “And his limbs are flaccid on the left side. I’d say it’s a fracture of the temporal bone and a subdural hemorrhage. We’ve got to get in there and remove that clot.”
“How can I help?” Logan asked.
“The tools I need came in that medical kit I ordered. But we’ll have to sterilize them first. There’s a pan on the stove. Make a fire and get some water started while I get ready.”
The water was starting to boil when she came back into the kitchen, dressed and wearing a white apron over her clothes. She carried several instruments—a scalpel and tongs, a razor, a device with a round blade called a trephine for cutting through the skull, and a pliers-like tool for lifting out bone. She laid them in the boiling water and handed him an apron like the one she wore, along with a surgical mask. “Wash up again and put these on. I’ll mostly need you to keep him still and hand me things. But be prepared for whatever I ask you to do.” Her manner was brusque, efficient, and impersonal. Logan wouldn’t have expected anything less of her.
“I probably shouldn’t ask,” he said. “But what are his odds?”
Her breath caught in a brief display of emotion. “I’ve done similar procedures seven or eight times. For this kind of surgery, the survival rate is about fifty percent.”
* * *
Chase lay on his side, his body draped with a clean sheet and his head cradled in position by folded towels. The area around his wound had been shaved and sterilized with carbolic acid. His breathing and pulse were stable, but he hadn’t opened his eyes or spoken since those last labored words when Logan laid him on the table.
Tracking the boy’s pulse, Logan watched as Kristin raised the scalpel to start the V-shaped cut through the skin that would be raised to expose the bone underneath. He felt the tension as she lowered the razor-sharp instrument with a downward stroke that left a clean red line. Working fast, she sponged away the blood and began the second cut of the V.
That was when the door crashed open, and Webb stalked into the room brandishing a pistol. “What the hell are you doing to my boy?” he demanded. “Nobody’s touching him without my permission!”
Kristin gave him a calm glance. “This couldn’t wait for you, Webb. Chase is unconscious from a blood clot on his brain. If I don’t remove it now, he will die. Notmight—will.Is that what you want?”
Webb strode to the table and stared down at his son. “You’re cutting into his brain?”
“The blood clot’s on the surface of the brain, under the membrane that covers his skull. Get back, Webb. You’re not sterile. You could give him an infection. And put that blasted gun away. I’m going ahead with this operation. If you shoot me, you’ll be killing your boy.”
Webb backed away, then turned his anger on Logan. “Blake’s kid told me the whole story—how the boys were helping Mason Dollarhide smuggle liquor. I know somebody betrayed them to the sheriff for the reward. Chase must have got winged when he went to warn his friends. The sheriff wouldn’t tell me who blew the whistle. But I know it was you, Hunter. That shipment went right through your ranch. You were probably getting a payback to let them pass. But that wasn’t enough. You had to have that thousand-dollar reward—even if it meant putting young boys in the line of fire!”
“You’ve got it wrong, Webb.” Logan forced himself to speak calmly and keep his attention on Chase. “Somebody tipped off the sheriff, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t know anything until I heard the shooting start.”
“You’re lying, you Judas. This mess is all your fault. And if my son doesn’t make it, I swear to God, I’m going to kill you.”
“Sit down, Webb.” Logan measured each word. “You don’t want to distract the doctor who’s saving your son.”
Grumbling, Webb moved back and sat down on the edge of a wooden chair that stood against the far wall. But he hadn’t put his gun away. Right now, everyone’s first concern was for Chase. But if something went wrong and he didn’t survive, Webb could go berserk. He could kill Kristin as well as Logan, and maybe himself.
Logan needed a plan in place in case of the worst outcome. Right now, only one thing came to mind—protecting Kristin at any cost.
He glanced at her. She was totally focused on her work, her eyes intense above the surgical mask she wore, her hands moving with precision and skill. She was so much more than beautiful, so much more than precious. He would gladly take a bullet to save her.
Webb was fidgeting with the pistol as if he’d forgotten that he had a deadly weapon in his hands. “How much longer?” he demanded.
“As long as it takes her to do it right,” Logan said. “You can always leave and come back.”
Webb’s only answer was a derisive snort.
“Where’s Joseph?” Logan asked. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. After he found me, he headed home on his horse. He told me how you saved him. That should put you in solid with the Dollarhide bunch. Not that you aren’t already. When I invited you to come to Montana, I was hoping for a friend and ally, not a man who would turn on his own blood.”
“I never turned on you, Webb. Not even when your men dammed my creek, knowing the Dollarhides would come after me. They were ready to burn me out. I could’ve retaliated. But I didn’t. All I want is to live in peace. Now be still and let me help Kristin save your boy.”
Both men fell silent. Logan checked Chase’s pulse. Was it getting weaker? Damn it, he didn’t know enough to tell. Kristin had cut away a circular piece of bone and was using forceps to lift out the blood clot. It came away easily, but several tiny vessels were still bleeding. As time crawled past, she pinched them off. Logan could hear her breathing as she irrigated the spot with saline, checked it for fragments, and fitted the cut bone back into place. Drops of perspiration beaded her forehead as she eased the skin flap over it and reached for the sterilized needle, threaded with silk, that she’d prepared ahead of time. The stitches were as small and neat as a girl’s prized embroidery.
After cutting the last of the thread, Kristin applied a dressing, checked Chase’s pulse and respiration, and released a long, exhausted sigh. “Done,” she said.
Webb sprang to his feet. “Is he all right? When will he wake up?”
