A banked fire in the hearth emitted enough of a glow to cast the one room in a low reddish-gold light. A table stood in the center of the room. A tall cupboard stood against the far wall that was made of stacked bricks of sod. “Why did you—”
Then he heard a moan. The sound came from the floor. He walked around the table. A small boy lay on a straw pallet, his eyes open and feverish. Immediately, Nelson strode over to him.
He set aside his medical bag and dropped to his knees. “What happened?” Dried blood congealed on the boy’s matted hair and smeared the thin muslin cover behind his head.
“He’s awake! Oh, Lord be praised! Tommy! I’m here, son. Mama’s here. You just lie still now. I fetched the doctor.”
Nelson glanced up and for the first time recognized the woman he’d met in the mercantile two days earlier. She wore the same hat she’d worn then, a man’s old felt cowboy hat that had lost its shape from years of use. It had fallen back between her shoulder blades, held there by its chin ties. Her brown hair, loosely braided, fell over her shoulder to her belt buckle. She had tears in her large brown eyes.
“So...it’s you.”
She met his gaze with a stubborn one of her own. Then she swallowed before resolutely lifting her chin. “You’ll fix him.”
Nelson raised his brow. He wasn’t used to being ordered about. He was the one who usually did the ordering. “What happened?”
“He fell from the shed this afternoon. Hit his head good and hard. He wouldn’t wake up.”
“It’s a good thing he’s awake now.” Nelson took a moment to look down the boy’s body. The left leg had been tended to. It was now wrapped in a thick piece of wool material. “Looks like he did more than hit his head.”
She hovered over him, unmindful of the fact she still had that pistol in her hand. She waved it about. “Hurt his leg too. Happened when he went through the old roof. Foot got caught up and he lost his balance. Might be broken.” She pointed with the gun to his left foot.
“Put that gun down before you shoot somebody, woman! As upset as you are, that thing will go off before you know it.”
She pulled back.
“I don’t do well at gunpoint.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
She frowned at him. “How do I know you won’t shoot me once I let go?”
He huffed. “Because if I wanted to shoot you, I would have done so already with the pistol in my medical bag.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Slowly, she put the gun down on the table.
He turned back to the boy and crouched down again. He directed his words to her. “It sounds like a nasty fall. Where were you when this happened?”
She stiffened. “I was tending to chores.” Then her face crumpled. “You’ll fix him, won’t you?”
She truly was beside herself and not thinking straight. He guessed a lecture on keeping an eye on her son was unnecessary at this point, although he’d surely like to give her one. What kind of mother consented to letting her youngster climb something so high? “What were you doing up on top of the lean-to, young man?”
“He’s always climbing something, Doc,” Miss Marks answered for her son. “Never had a fear of heights like most people. It ain’t natural, but there you have it.”
He stared her down. “Does he know how to speak?”
She looked confused. “Why, yes.”
“Good. Then he can answer for himself.”
She clamped her mouth shut and glared at him.
“Bring that candle over,” he ordered. “Or, better yet, if you have a lamp...”
He continued examining the boy while the woman bustled about the room. He was barely aware that she’d lit a lamp and carried it close, holding it steadily to help him see her son better. Tommy followed his instructions—holding his head still and following the lamp with his eyes, his pupils constricting and then opening again with the distance of the light. That was a good sign.
“How old are you?”
The boy stared silently at him with a wary expression.
“He’s seven.”
He set his jaw. The woman was impossible to work with. “Then he’s old enough to answer my questions. I will have you step away, ma’am, if you don’t hold your tongue. I need to hear him talk, to make sure he is not slurring his words. It helps to determine the extent of his injury.”
He turned back to Tommy. “Now, young man, how old are you?”
The boy looked from him to his mother.
“Answer me.”
Tommy swallowed. His lips parted. “Seven.” The word was barely a whisper, croaked out between dry lips.
“Tell me where you hurt.”
Systematically, he examined the boy, questioning, peering and probing until he was satisfied that he understood the boy’s injuries. When he unwrapped the makeshift dressing from the injured leg, Tommy gave a swift gasp.
He’d been so quiet, and now to hear him, Nelson realized the boy had been hiding much of his pain. Nelson gentled his touch. “It is the air hitting the wound that hurts.” He leaned closer, surprised at the cleanliness he encountered. The raw wound had been scrubbed. “Did you clean this up?”
“Are you asking me? Or Tommy?” the woman asked.
He gritted his teeth. “You, of course.”
“I did the best I could. There was lots of dirt from the shed’s roof.”
He grunted. Surprised she’d done such a thorough job of taking care of the wound. As much as she was worried about her son being in pain, she hadn’t skimped on scrubbing it. He peeled back a small section of the skin flap. The wound was nearly to the bone.
Tommy cried out. Large tears filled his eyes. His breathing grew erratic.
The lamplight wavered. His mother, still holding the lamp close, knelt beside him. Tears filled her eyes too as she grasped her son’s hand with her free one.
Nelson replaced the flap of skin, approximating the edges as best he could. It would need stitching, but there was one more thing he had to do before he was completely satisfied with his exam. “I’m sorry to have to hurt you. I’ll go as quick as I can to lessen the pain. Ready?”
The boy set his jaw once more and then nodded bravely.
Nelson ran his fingers down the two long bones from the shin to the wound. Then, grasping above the wound with one hand, he took hold of Tommy’s foot with the other and moved it through all the proper positions.
“Very good.” He pulled his medical bag closer and rummaged through it for his needle and supply of catgut. “It needs to be stitched. Brace yourself, Tommy.”
“No.”
He let out another sigh. “Miss Marks.”
“So you do remember my name. Don’t matter. You’re not poking holes in my son.”
“It’s the only way to keep the skin together so that it will heal.”
She shook her head. “He’s hurting enough. Wrap it back up and let it heal on its own.”
He wasn’t used to having his directions contradicted. “I don’t think you understand how deep his wound is. If the tissue doesn’t bind correctly, your son could