Sherri Shackelford - The Engagement Bargain

“Don’t go slandering my patients,” Caleb offered with a half grin. “I’ve never gotten a complaint yet.”

She flashed him a withering glance that let him know exactly what she thought of his assurances. “The next time you have a speaking patient, we’ll compare notes.”

He was heartened Miss Bishop had retained her gumption. She was going to need it.

After ensuring she’d taken the full dose, he rested the glass on the table and adjusted the pillow more comfortably behind Miss Bishop’s head. “You’ll be sound asleep in a minute. This will all be over soon.”

“I have an uneasy feeling this is only the beginning, Mr. McCoy.” She spoke hoarsely, her eyes already dulled by the laudanum.

“You’ll live to fight another day, Miss Bishop. I promise you that.”

Her head lolled to one side, and she reached for Jo. “Please, let my mother know I’m fine. I don’t want her to worry.”

While Jo offered reassurances, Caleb checked the wound once more and discovered the bleeding had slowed, granting him a much-needed reprieve. He desperately wanted to wait until the laudanum took effect before stitching her up. This situation was uncharted territory. He understood an animal’s reaction to pain. He knew how to soothe them, and he took confidence in his skills, knowing his treatments were for the ultimate benefit.

People were altogether different. He wasn’t good with people in the best of situations, let alone people he didn’t know well. He never missed the opportunity to remain silent in a group, letting others carry the conversation.

Miss Bishop fumbled for his hand and squeezed his fingers, sending his heartbeat into double time. He wasn’t certain if her touch signified fear or gratitude. Aware of the curious perusal of the other two women, Caleb kept the comforting pressure on her delicate hand and waited until he felt the tension drain from Miss Bishop’s body. Once her breathing turned shallow and even, he gently extracted his fingers from her limp hold.

Satisfied the laudanum had taken effect, he doused his hands with alcohol over a porcelain bowl, then motioned for Mrs. Franklin to do the same. Without being asked, the suffragist cleaned his tools in the same solution, her movements efficient and sure.

Caleb breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Franklin knew her way around medical instruments. He put her age at midsixties, though he was no expert on such matters. Her hair was the same stern gray as her eyes and her austere dress, the skin around her cheeks frail. She was tall for a woman, and wiry thin. Her fingers were swollen at the knuckles, yet her hands were steady.

Jo cleared her throat. “Caleb, I never thanked you for coming with me today. I’m thinking this is a good time to remedy that.”

They exchanged a look, and his throat tightened. A silent communication passed between them, a wealth of understanding born of a shared childhood that didn’t need words.

A sudden thought jolted him. “Did you find the little girl’s parents? Was anyone else injured?”

“One question at a time.” Jo admonished. “Anna’s youngest follower discovered her mother in the lobby, frantic with worry. As you’d expect, there was much scolding and a few tears of relief. I asked around, and, as far as anyone can tell, Anna was the only person hurt.”

Relieved to set one worry aside, Caleb focused on his patient. “Most likely we’d know by now if someone else was injured.”

Or shot.

The enormity of Miss Bishop’s condition weighed on him. She’d placed her trust in him, and he wouldn’t fail her. “If Anna comes around, you’ll need to keep her calm. I’ve enough laudanum for another dose, but it’s potent, and I’d like to finish before the first measure wears off.”

He’d never been a great admirer of the concoction, and the less she ingested, the better.

Jo pressed the back of her hand against Miss Bishop’s forehead. “Don’t forget, I helped Ma for years with her midwife duties. I know what to do.”

The irony hadn’t escaped him. Of the three of them, Caleb was the least experienced with human patients, yet he had the most experience with stitching up wounds. After modestly draping Miss Bishop’s upper body, he slid his scissors between the turquoise fabric and her skin and easily sliced the soaked material away from her wound.

He held out the scissors, and they were instantly replaced with a cloth.

His admiration for the suffragist grew. “How long did you serve in the war, Mrs. Franklin?”

“It was only a few months in ’65. I’d lost both of my sons and my husband by then. Our farm was burned. There really wasn’t anything left for me to do. Nothing to do but help others.”

Caleb briefly closed his eyes before carefully tucking the draping around the bullet wound. “I’m sorry for your losses.”

Mrs. Franklin lifted her chin. “It was a long time ago. I’ve been a widow longer than I was ever married. Would you like the instruments handed to you from the right or the left?”

“The right.”

Her brisk efficiency brought them all on task. Caleb exchanged another quick look with his sister, and she flashed a smile of encouragement. Caleb offered a brief prayer for guidance and set about his work.

From that moment forward, he focused his attention on the process, certain the surgeon’s arrival was imminent. While Caleb might be the best option at the moment, he was perfectly willing to cede the process to a better option. He wasn’t a man to let false pride cloud his judgment.

Taking a deep breath, he studied the rift marring the right side of Miss Bishop’s body. He’d seen his fair share of gunshot wounds over the years. It wasn’t unheard of for careless hunters or drunken ranchers to miss their mark and strike livestock. Often the animal was put down, but depending on the location of the wound, he’d been able to save a few. His stomach clenched. Had the bullet gone a few inches to the left...

He set his jaw and accepted the needle and thread, his hands rock steady. While he worked, his pocket watch ticked the minutes away, resounding in the heavy silence. Though Miss Bishop wasn’t anything like his normal patients, the concept remained the same. He watched for signs of shock, stemmed the bleeding, cleaned the area to inhibit infection, and ensured Jo kept his patient calm.

Once he was satisfied with his stitches on the entrance wound, he swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’ll need to turn her to the side.”

Jo grasped Miss Bishop’s shoulder, and Caleb carefully tilted her onto her hip. Anna groaned, and her arm flipped onto the bed, her hand palm up, her fingers curled, the sight unbearably vulnerable.

Not even an hour earlier she’d held an entire audience enthralled with her bounding energy, and now her life’s blood drained from her body, vibrant against the cheerful tulip pattern sewn into the quilted coverlet. Impotent rage at whoever had caused this destruction flared in his chest.

He shook off the distraction with a force of will and resumed his stitching. With any luck they’d already apprehended the shooter.

Miss Bishop drifted in and out of consciousness during the procedure, but remained mostly numbed throughout his ministrations. For that he was unaccountably grateful.

Jo dabbed at Anna’s brow and murmured calming words when she grew agitated, keeping her still while Caleb worked. Mrs. Franklin maintained charge of the instruments with practiced efficiency. Despite having only met the widow moments before, their impromptu team worked well together.

Caleb tied off the last stitch and clipped the thread, then touched the pulse at Miss Bishop’s wrist, buoyed by the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. He collapsed back in his chair and surveyed his work.