Kate Bridges - The Surgeon

Even Charles Dickens’s third son, Francis, up until recently, had been a Mountie; John had worked with him once in passing. John, however, being from a modest family with no connections, had earned his position through hard work and a university education.

His home wasn’t completely furnished yet, but it was comfortable, clean and spacious.

Looking at her ashen face, he realized she must be exhausted. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“On the train sometime around noon.”

John muttered under his breath. “Would you like a bite to eat now?”

“I’m not very hungry, but I should eat something, I suppose. Thank you.”

She wavered on her feet. He lunged forward to catch her, but he’d overreacted. Her brows shot up and a flash of humor lit her face as she steadied herself.

Why did women wear those damn things, anyway? Corsets. As soon as they started breathing hard, the straps tightened around their ribs until they couldn’t catch a breath. No wonder so many of them fainted. It was obviously part of her problem. He had a mind to tell her so, but didn’t feel like getting punched again.

She followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he prepared the food. Ham from the icebox, two plums, a loaf of heavy rye from the bread bin and all the butter and preserves she could want.

He got so caught up in the meal preparation that ten minutes later, when he turned proudly to the table to lavish the food on her, she was in a deep sleep. She’d placed her head on the table and was out cold.

He watched her for a moment. Was she unconscious?

Setting down the plates of food, he checked her breathing and her radial pulse. Only sleeping, thank goodness.

What was he supposed to do? Leave her here? Wake her up to eat? Carry her to bed? He pulled out a chair and sat down, staring at her. The hair at her temples gently framed her fringed lashes and the rosy curve of her cheek. The neckline of her red suit dipped low to her curves, and her long red skirt swirled about her heels. She was far from being a spineless mail-order bride that he’d once described to Wesley.

When John had first signed with the force fifteen years ago, he was sent to the forts in Alberta before any settlers had arrived. He’d counted thirty-seven-and-a-half months before he’d set eyes on a woman. Then another eighteen months after that one. Even now, with Calgary’s population hovering around four thousand, women were scarce and mail-order brides were not uncommon. Over the past ten years John reckoned about six or eight had arrived and passed through the area.

What were Sarah’s reasons for responding to the ad? What dreams had she had in meeting him today?

God, the truth must have hurt.

She’d had a very difficult day and his men were to blame. As soon as she was settled, he’d return to the fort and speak to the guilty parties.

With the sting of exhaustion behind his eyes, he knew it’d be another long night. When would John’s pleas for additional medical personnel be answered? Dr. Waters, the town doctor, was useless; his whiskey had gotten in the way of his profession. The man was a hindrance because he couldn’t even help the townsfolk—they were bypassing him and seeking John directly. In the past six months John had been caring for civilians as well as wounded police in the only hospital for hundreds of miles—the fort’s.

But before John went anywhere tonight, he had to take care of Sarah. Slipping one arm beneath her soft thighs and the other beneath her shoulder blades, he lifted her yielding body and carried her up the stairs. When she moaned and settled against his chest, he sighed. Although he’d had his share of women, it’d been a long time since he’d held one in his arms.

When they reached his wide bed, he lowered her down.

The corset wouldn’t do her any good. It impeded her respiration and surely hadn’t helped her motion sickness on the train. How could she feel better if she couldn’t breathe well?

And so, tugging in a breath of air to give himself confidence, wondering if he’d pay for it tomorrow, he did what any good doctor would.

He lowered his hands beneath the covers and, his fingertips brushing against her warm skin, he used his pocket knife to remove her corset.

“How the hell could you do that to her?” Standing in the stables—the most private place to talk—while his good friend the veterinary surgeon, Logan Sutcliffe, groomed his stallion, John blasted the group of five men. He outranked them all.

The six o’clock sunrise peeked over their shoulders, flooding in from the open doors. They were dressed in their everyday working uniforms—white shirts, suspenders and dark breeches.

“We thought she might go over well, that you wouldn’t mind,” said one of the men.

“You heard my objections to Wesley when he placed his ad. What on earth would make you think I’d feel different now?”

The group was silent. Some kicked at the straw, some fidgeted with the sleek California saddle and the wool blanket slung over the stall.

“Well?” John bellowed. “I want an answer from each of you!”

They glanced uncomfortably at each other. Corporal Reid spoke first, playing with the brim of his wide brown hat. “We thought you’d see the humor.”

“You thought I’d be amused?”

The veterinarian shrugged as he brushed the stallion’s mane. In his mid-twenties, the youngest man here, Logan was being trained by John to help in surgery because John was so short staffed. Logan had been shot in the face by the Grayveson gang more than two-and-a-half years ago and left for dead. His cheek was bandaged from his own recent surgery to fix his droopy eyelid and to minimize the scarring left behind by the bullet wound.

Sid Grayveson, the man who’d shot Logan, was serving twenty-five years for attempted murder of an officer, but two of his vicious brothers were still at large.

Logan’s young wife, Melodie, was carrying their first child. John liked them both. But it didn’t change the fact that Logan was a goddamn horse doctor. John’s wounded men deserved better. They deserved to be cared for by a trained surgeon.

“I tried to stop the prank but I should have said something more…the prank got out of hand,” said Logan. “Wesley was so happy with the thought of his mail-order bride.”

John scowled. “Don’t keep using Wesley as an excuse. I know all about Wesley and his bride. I was the one who sent his fiancée the telegram telling her the news that she no longer needed to come.” He turned to the two other men, the sergeant and corporal. “What are your excuses?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir,” said Sergeant O’Malley, nervously patting his dark mustache, “but we can’t forget about Wesley because the whole thing was Wesley’s idea.”

“What?”

“Wes said you always see things in such black-and-white terms, Sir. That maybe if you’d just meet a woman we picked out for you, you might…see things from another angle.”

John leaned against the boards. The bulge of his shoulder flattened against wood. Wesley’s doing?

How many hours had they spent working side by side in surgery, on the fields and in the hospital? Wesley, with the white-blond hair and friendly blue eyes, who was always ready for a good laugh. Such a damn good sport about everything. Even when he’d lose in cards, or when the men had secretly oiled his saddle with molasses that had later stained his breeches beyond repair, or when he’d gotten his paycheck and spent half of it on rounds of Scotch for the men.

They’d been so close that Wesley had given him the friendly nickname of Black-’n-White.

Because you never tear your hair out makin’ a decision, Wesley had said. When the cook was caught stealin’ money, you said get rid of him. When the rest of us were only suspecting old man Dubrowski was beatin’ up on his wife, you had him thrown in jail for seven days. When I crushed my baby finger last year, you said cut it off right away, but I said no, and with the infection wound up losin’ two instead.