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.
He’d kept his stitches precise and small. While he couldn’t order his usual patients to remain in bed after an injury, he’d ensure Miss Bishop rested until she healed.
With the worst of the crises behind him, the muscles along his shoulders grew taut. Mrs. Franklin sneaked a surreptitious glance at the door.
When she caught his interest, a bloom of color appeared on her cheeks. “You’ve done a fine job. But I thought... I assumed...”
“You assumed the surgeon would be here by now.” Caleb pushed forward in his chair and reached for the final bandage. “As did I.”
He’d made his choice. Instead of walking away, he’d stayed. That choice had unwittingly linked him to Miss Bishop, and he’d sever that tie as soon as the surgeon arrived. The two of them were worlds apart, and the sooner they each returned home, the better.
He sponged away the last of the blood and sanitized the wound. The instant the alcohol touched her skin, Miss Bishop groaned and arched her back.
Caleb held a restraining hand against her shoulder. “Don’t undo all of my careful work.”
She murmured something unintelligible and reached for him again. Painfully aware of his sister’s curious stare, he cradled Miss Bishop’s hand and rubbed her palm with the pad of his thumb. His touch seemed to soothe her, and he kept up the gentle movement until she calmed. The differences between them were striking. His hands were work-roughened and weather-darkened, Anna’s were pale and frighteningly delicate. A callous on the middle finger of her right hand, along with the faded ink stains where she rested her hand against the paper, indicated she wrote often.
The ease with which she trusted him tightened something in his chest. He never doubted his ability with animals. For as long as he could remember, he’d had an affinity with most anything that walked on all fours...or slithered, for that matter. Yet that skill had never translated with people. An affliction that wasn’t visited on anyone else in his family. The McCoys were a boisterous lot, gregarious and friendly. Caleb was the odd man in the bunch.
Once her chest rose and fell with even breaths, he reluctantly released his hold and sat back in his chair, then rubbed his damp fingers against his pant legs.
Her instinctive need for human touch reminded him of the thread that held them all together. All of God’s creatures sought comfort when suffering.
Voices sounded from the corridor, and Jo stood. “If that’s the surgeon, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
Mrs. Franklin tucked the blankets around Miss Bishop’s shoulders. “We should tidy the room and change the bedding. Perhaps Mr. McCoy should deal with any visitors we have.”
Caleb took the hint. “If I’m unable to locate the surgeon, I’ll check on Miss Bishop in half an hour.”
He snatched his coat and stepped into the corridor, then glanced around the now-empty space. He caught sight of the blood staining his vest and shirt and blew out a breath. The voices they’d heard had not been the surgeon’s, and he couldn’t visit the lobby with such a grisly appearance. The telling evidence discoloring his shirt also placed him at the rally, and he wasn’t ready to answer questions.
Or make himself a target.
He crossed to his room and quickly changed. Now that the immediacy of the situation had passed, exhaustion overtook him, and he collapsed onto the bed, clutching his head.
Of all the things that he’d dreaded when Jo had invited him to accompany her to Kansas City, he hadn’t anticipated this dramatic turn of events.
He took a few deep breaths and raked his hands through his hair, letting the emotion flow out of him. This happened sometimes. Once the emergency had been dealt with, he often experienced a wave of overwhelming exhaustion. The greater the emergency, the greater his fatigue. He scrubbed his hands down his face and stood, then stepped into the corridor and made his way to the lobby. There’d be time for resting later.
A man in a loose-fitting overcoat brushed past him on the staircase.
“Say, fellow,” the man said. “Were you at the rally this afternoon?”
“Yes. And you?”
Perhaps this gentleman knew if there had been any further injuries as a result of the shooting.
“Nope. I was supposed to be covering Miss Bishop’s speech for The Star paper. Figured I’d slip in for the last few minutes. Who wants to listen to them ladies whine? Now I gotta figure out what happened or the boss will have my hide. There was some kind of commotion, right?”
Caleb measured his words carefully. “There was a disturbance. The crowd scattered.”
“What kind of disturbance?”
Great. Now he’d gone and cornered himself into telling the whole of it. “A gunshot.”
The man’s eyes widened, and he gleefully rubbed his hands together, then splayed them. “I can see the headline now, Shot Fired Across the Bow of Suffragist Battle.”
The man’s elation turned Caleb’s stomach. Brushing past the reporter before he said anything more revealing, Caleb loped down the stairs and paused on the balcony overlooking the lobby. A discordance of noise hit him like a wall.
Having survived the encounter at the rally, scores of people from the audience had obviously congregated at the hotel to share their dramatic stories. Voices were raised in excitement,