Susan Wiggs - Snowfall at Willow Lake

“Is something funny?” she asked.

“It’s just that I’ve never said that to a patient before. Have a seat on the table, okay? And scoot back so your leg’s stretched out.”

To his surprise, she obliged, propping herself on her hands as she looked around the exam room, focusing on canine growth charts and a calendar from a veterinary drug company. “You’re not a real doctor, are you?”

“That’s pretty much my favorite question,” he said. “See, if I were a real doctor, I’d only know the anatomy and pathology of one species, not six. I’d only have one specialty instead of nine.”

“I guess you must get that a lot.”

“Just enough to annoy me.” He took a step back, holding his gloved hands up. “Listen, I’m fine with not doing this.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to go for it.”

So much for playing hard to get. “I’ll need to check you out, see where else you’re injured.”

“It’s just my knee.”

“You might have an internal injury.”

“And you can tell this.”

“You’re exhibiting signs of shock. I need to examine your chest and belly for bruising and palpate your abdomen.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” She stiffened, folding her arms tightly. “I’ll pass. I didn’t hit myself on anything. I don’t hurt anywhere. It’s just the knee.”

He wasn’t about to push her. The situation was already bizarre enough. “I could call EMS, but on a night like tonight, I’d hate to call them for anything less than a life-threatening emergency,” he said.

“This isn’t life threatening,” the woman said. “Believe me, I know the difference.”

“Okay. Just the knee for the time being. But if you feel anything—double vision, dizziness, anything—you need to let me know.” He checked her blood pressure. It was in the normal range, a good sign. An internal bleed caused the pressure to drop. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s have a look at that knee.”

She lay back and covered her eyes with her forearm. “You’ll understand if I don’t watch.”

“I noticed you’re not fond of blood.” He selected a pair of bandage cutters and started at the hem of the dark wool trousers, cutting upward. The thin, expensive-looking leather of her boot was drenched in blood. He kept cutting upward, hoping he didn’t have to go so far that he’d look like a complete perv. The cut was arc shaped; she must have sliced it on something under the dashboard. “You’ve got a gash here, just above the knee.” The laceration probably hurt like hell. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it appeared to be a bleeder. “You need sutures,” he said.

“Can you do it?”

“I’m no plastic surgeon. Whatever I do is bound to leave a scar.”

“Then can you stop the bleeding and I’ll find a surgeon in the morning?”

“It can’t wait that long. The risk of infection is too high. The maximum any doc would allow is seven hours. Roads’ll still be closed in the morning.”

“Then stitch it up, and I’ll live with the scar.”

For a woman this good-looking, it was an unexpected remark. “All right. I can numb the area … it’ll probably need a dozen stitches. If I make them really small, it’ll minimize the scarring.” He considered offering her a tranquilizer to calm her down, but wasn’t sure of the dosage. She probably weighed about the same as a Rottweiler, so 80 mg should do it. Then again, maybe not. He’d stick with a local anesthetic.

“I’ll hold still for the novocaine,” she said.

“It’s lidocaine, one percent.” And he hoped it didn’t take much to numb the area. It was strange, having a patient that didn’t need restraining. He injected the local and she didn’t flinch.

“That’ll go numb in a couple of minutes,” he said.

“I’m counting on it.” She took her forearm away from her eyes, turned her head and stared at the counter. “If I’m really good, do I get one of those biscuits from the jar?”

“You can have as many as you want,” he said, making a slit in the sterile wrap of a suture tray. “They give you minty-fresh breath and whiter teeth.”

“We can all use that,” she murmured.

He changed gloves and got busy with the cleansing and suturing. Many animals had skin that was more delicate than humans. He chose 3-0 nylon with a skin-cutting needle, standard equine external suture material.

He put on a pair of magnifying glasses and angled a task light at the site, working with as much delicate precision as he could to avoid a zipperlike scar on her pale, delicate skin. He felt her starting to tremble again and wondered if he should be making small talk to ease her nerves a little and, please God, make her hold still. With his regular patients, a few sympathetic clucks usually did the trick.

“I didn’t get your name,” he said.

“It’s Sophie. Sophie Bellamy.”

“Any relation to the Bellamys that have the resort up at the north end of the lake?”

“Sort of. I was married to Greg Bellamy. We’re divorced now.”

But she still used the guy’s name, Noah observed.

“I’ve got two kids here in Avalon,” she continued.

That probably explained the name, then. What it didn’t explain was why the kids didn’t live with her. Noah reminded himself that it was none of his business. People were complicated, with a mind-boggling array of emotions and issues. Nothing was simple with this species. He found working with animals to be much more straightforward. Dealing with humans was like crossing a minefield. You never knew when something might blow up in your face.

Small talk, he thought. Distract her with small talk. “So are you here for a visit? Or just getting back from a trip?”

She paused, as though considering what to say, which was odd, since it was not a challenging question. She said, “I landed at JFK this afternoon. There were no commuter flights to Kingston-Ulster Airport because of the weather, so I rented a car and drove up. I suppose I could’ve taken the train, but I was just so anxious to get here.”

Landed at JFK from where? He didn’t ask, expecting her to fill him in. When she didn’t, he focused on his task. Human skin was remarkably similar to canine or equine, he noted. “And you’re staying with the Wilsons across the road?” he prompted.

“Not exactly. I’m using their house. It’s a summer place. Alberta—Bertie—Wilson and I have known each other since law school.”

“Oh.” His hands stilled. “You’re a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“A real lawyer?”

“Okay, I deserved that,” she said.

“You couldn’t have told me this before I stitched you up with equine sutures?”

“Would you have treated me any differently?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I might not have treated you at all. Or I might have asked you to sign a treatment waiver.”

“That’s never stopped a good lawyer.” She quickly added, “But you don’t have a thing to worry about. You rescued me and made the bleeding stop. The last thing in the world I’d do is sue you.”

“Good to know.” Noah removed the surgical draping from her leg and gave the wound a final washing with povidone iodine topical solution. “Although you should probably take a look. It’s not real pretty.”

She braced her hands behind her and sat up. The stitching formed a thin black curve in her pale flesh, now painted amber with the disinfectant. “You stopped the bleeding,” she said again.

“It appears so.” He laid a gauze patch over the wound. “I have to bandage this. You’ll need to be careful, not mess with the stitches or let them pull. If you were one of my usual patients, I’d fit you with a lamp-shade collar to keep you from chewing at the bandage.”