CHAPTER TWO - NARRATTED BY NELL

I am at suture stage; nose inches from the wound, almost pop-eyed with the effort of keeping the stitches tiny. I do NOT want to leave him with a scar that pulls and twists just beneath his groin. BUT, as the procedure draws to a close, my mind stops racing fearfully over what comes next. Exultation bubbles inside me like - like - like a great big bubbling thing!

"Did you see the way I traversed the ligaments? AND, did you see me loop under the…? I knew I could do it! I KNEW it! Ha! Women aren't suited to the pressures of surgery, aren't they? Ha! HA! I'd like to see that pompous ass of a…

Wait until I tell…As soon as he recovers I'm going to write this up and…"

I make the mistake of listening to myself. I do not clap a hand over my mouth because both are fully occupied. But I do clamp my lips shut. I risk a tiny glance at the man assisting me. "Sorry. That wasn't supposed to be out loud. Sorry." Pause. My cheeks are warm. I wish I did not blush so easily. It is such a – a silly habit – so childish. If only I could grow out of it. Embarrassed, I ask, "Was it all out loud?"

"Yup." A pair of dimples appear. "Ma'am, you just carry on! The more you pat yourself on the back, the happier I am! That means it went real well, huh?"

"I have the best assistant anyone could wish for. You should congratulate yourself too, Mister Smith."

"Don't worry, ma'am. I plan to get right on that…"

Short silence.

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

Some of my remarks of the past couple of hours come back to me. I once thought the irascible abuse flowing from the lips of the senior surgeons towards students was, if not an act, a shade over-dramatising the tension they were under. Perhaps not.

"Mister Smith?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Did I call you a brainless ox earlier?"

"You kinda skirted round the brainless part, but – uh huh."

"I owe you an apolo…"

"You don't owe me nothing, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

"Miss Meredith?"

"Doctor Meredith. Yes, Mister Smith."

"Do you have a first name?"

"I do indeed."

I do not look up, but I allow one eyebrow to rise. Pause. He does not ask. I hear myself say, "It's Helen."

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

Then, a knocking on the front door; half tentative. The sound of the door opening – again, tentative. A soft call, pitched NOT to wake anyone fast asleep upstairs, "Ma'am? Ma'am? Is everything okay here?" Then, much louder – our visitor has seen the piles of clothing strewn in the passageway and the light blazing from under this door – "What the Sam Hill? Mizz Meredith? NELL!" Rapid footsteps. I recognise the voice. Of course! Hours have passed. Eventually a dutiful deputy was bound to do a circuit of the town and see two strange horses – still saddled, blood on one coat – tethered outside the surgery. Mister Smith turns to face the door. His hand moves to a spot beside his right thigh – why? Did he mean to reach for his gun? It seems an overreaction – but perhaps being robbed earlier makes him twitchy. His weapon is outside with the rest of his gear anyhow.

"DON'T let him come in!" I order. I do not want additional dirt – or even another human being – in the room before I cover the wound. Before I finish the sentence, the door flies open and the bulky figure of Noah Lawson fills the gap. He has HIS gun drawn. I doubt dear old Noah would even dream of shooting at an unarmed man. Mister Smith does NOT know this, so it shows considerable coolness – and just a touch of the 'greater love hath no man…' spirit – that he walks towards the gun to bar the way, on my instructions.

"DON'T come in, Deputy Lawson," I call. My eyes are riveted back on my task.

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. So close. So nearly done.

"What the SAM HILL?" Noah does say that a lot. "What the Sam Hill is goin' on?"

At the same time Mister Smith is keeping his voice persuasive and reasonable, "I gotta ask you to step back, Deputy. It may look bad, but you can see the lady is perfectly fine…"

Look bad? What…? Oh! It had not occurred to me before, but I realise what the Deputy's first glance will have shown. Discarded male clothes out in the passageway. Me in my dressing gown having spent the entire night shut in a room with a barefoot stranger wearing nothing but his long-johns.

"Step back please, Deputy," still avoiding any tone that might sound confrontational. "It's nothing personal, it's just the mud on your boots and the dust on your coat the Doctor's objecting to."

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

Noah does step back. He holsters his gun too. While not running any risk of being mistaken for an intellectual, he is no fool. His second and third glances tell him that whatever IS going on here, it is neither threatening nor improper.

"Who ARE you, fella?"

"His name is Joshua Smith. This is Thaddeus Jones. Last night they were robbed…" A qualm strikes me. "Bushshacked DOES mean robbed?"

"Bush-whacked," he corrects me. "Uh huh."

"They were robbed and Mister Jones was shot. Mister Smith brought him into town looking for a Doctor."

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

"Did you notice, Deputy – I said ALL that without moving my lips?" says Joshua Smith.

Hey! Is he making fun of me?

"Whoever you are fella, you sure got Nellie dang straight. She never was one to let a fella speak!"

Hey! Just because he and my uncle were boys together does not mean he can behave as if he dangled me as a baby …

Well, actually I suppose it DOES mean that. Drat!

With great dignity, to show I am above such teasing – though he KNOWS I hate being called Nellie! – I say, "In half an hour I'll be finished. If you can come back and get cleaned up, we could use help moving the patient to a bed. Meanwhile, will you take Mister Smith and Mister Jones' horses over to the livery? I'm sure they'd be very grateful. And, Mister Smith will want to stay with his friend – indeed, Mister Jones will need constant nursing and I have other patients, so he'll have to stay. Then, when the sheriff comes on duty ask him to come over and take…"

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut.

"Oh," light laugh. Why does Joshua Smith suddenly sound nervous? "There's no need for that, ma'am."

"Don't be foolish. The sooner those horses get a good meal and inside a warm, dry stall…"

"No. I mean – there's no need to bother the sheriff. I didn't get any kind of look at those bushwhackers and they'll probably be in the next county by…"

"I'll rouse up the sheriff right away," says Noah, ignoring this. "'Course, we won't be able to do much 'til full light…"

"So, let him sleep. No need to rouse up Sheriff – er…?" The brown eyes look a question.

"Sheriff Bill Fraser," supplies Noah.

"Sheriff Bill Fraser?" Smith repeats, thoughtfully.

"You know him?"

"No. No I don't think I ever heard of a Sheriff Bill Fraser. There won't be much I can tell him – but, naturally, I wanna co-operate to the fullest with the law. Just may as well let the sun come up first, huh?"

Suture. Tie. Cut. Suture. Tie. Cut. Last one! Suture. Tie. Cut. Finished!

"Mister Smith, please come hold this dressing in place while I bandage." I give Noah a 'thank you and good-bye' smile.

"Uh huh," grunts Noah. "I'll go see to the horses." A pause. "You'll be staying here then, Smith?"

"Sure. Until Jones can be moved."

"Nell – you oughta – I oughta go tell…"

"I am NOT going home and if you think Aunt Miriam will come here – Pfffttt!"

Mister Smith understands the problem but tactfully pretends to be deaf and keeps his eyes on the bandages. I take a couple of breaths. This nonsense can be so frustrating!

Noah decides to leave that argument for someone else to pursue.

He has half closed the door, when something occurs to him. "Er - Smith." He's embarrassed to mention it, but Noah is far from well off. "The livery stable – they don't offer credit to strangers. It's pay up front."

"I was robbed last night and," Mister Smith gives a rueful look down at himself, "…Do I look as if I have a wallet on me?"

"Tell them to send the bill to me," I say.

Noah grunts another 'uh huh' and leaves. By this time, dawn is lightening the sky. It is morning.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says. "My horse thanks you too."

"I'll just add it to your bill from me."

Pause.

"Doctor Meredith."

"Cut this tape please. Yes, Mister Smith."

"You do know I've no money. Neither has Jones. We can't pay. Leastways, we'll pay when we can – but I can't say it'll be real soon." Pause. "I can't promise it'll be ever."

"That's it! Hand me the scissors! I'm taking out the stitches and putting the bullet back!" I glance up. "You do know that was a joke? I'll trust you."

He sounds rather touched when he says again, "Thank you, ma'am."

---oooOOOooo---

LATER THAT MORNING

"So, what happened?" asks Bill Fraser.

I don't think much of his question. Tchah! Far too open.

"Where did the incident take place?" I substitute. "We need to know the scene of the crime." You see, I have read that the five best friends of a detective are, 'Where, Why, Who, When and How?' Or – were they the five best friends of a journalist? I must look that up.

Mister Smith half shrugs and, watching the sheriff warily, scratches his unshaven chin to indicate thought.

Maybe if I come at it from another angle. "Did you see where the bush-whackers came from?"

The Sheriff clearly thinks Joshua Smith leaves a lot to be desired as a coherent witness. He has a point. But…

"Remember, Mister Smith was rendered unconscious. I found a severe oedema – probably caused by the impact of a flat object at high speed here," I indicate the spot on my own skull, matching the place on Mister Smith's head I dressed – despite protests he was fine – after we, with Noah's help, settled Mister Jones in bed, "…On the parietal region."

"My horse threw me. Guess I hit my head on a rock," paraphrases Mister Smith.

"Such an injury could result in partial amnesia of the…" Idea! "Maybe we could do a re-enactment!" I have read about them! They are one of the most modern… "We could…"

"Doctor Meredith," interrupts the sherriff. "Does Smith's injury affect his tongue?"

I blink.

"No."

"Then please – let him use it."

What? Hey!

"Where were you when you got jumped, Smith?"

"Musta been a good ten miles west of here – though, every mile seemed a hundred to me with Jones slung across that horse, so maybe it was closer?" More uncertainly, "There was a rise to the East…curving into a ridge."

The sheriff unfurls a map.

"Could it have been…?"

"Do you think it was here?" I point. "Below Armstrong Ridge?" I bet I am right!

Fraser frowns. "Doctor Meredith, if you could move your head out of the way and your hand off the map, that might make it easier for Smith to see."

Huh! If he does not want my help – it is his loss. I gather up what I actually came for and make for the door. Slowly. I am not inquisitive you understand, I simply remember my Aunt's oft-repeated injunctions that a lady always moves with elegant grace.

"It coulda been here – below Armstrong Ridge," says Smith, deadpan. He catches my eye for a fleeting moment – twinkling amusement. He is not silently laughing AT me though, he is laughing with me.

"So you musta been coming from Teme Valley?"

The shadow of a hesitation before Joshua Smith's "Uh huh."

"And you didn't get a look at any of 'em?"

"I just heard gunfire, saw figures move in the trees – maybe three or four, next thing," he mimes a blow to the head, "Thwack and," a tapered finger indicates the spinning of fast-approaching unconsciousness. "…All I was seeing was stars."

I am about to close the door behind me, when the sheriff calls, "Doctor Meredith."

I scamper back.

"How long until Jones comes round?"

"Not long. BUT, if you mean – when can you question him," I consider. "Not today, not tomorrow – then I'll see."

The sheriff looks at me for a moment. A nod indicates that while he reserves the right to snub me as an interviewer of witnesses, when it comes to medical decisions, he will bow to my judgement.

A flick of his eyes indicates I may leave.

I leave. Slowly. (Grace, always grace.)

"Why d'you reckon they took your money but left your horses? Seems…"

"I'd only be guessing, Sheriff…"

---oooOOOooo---

Back in my bedroom – well, my ex-bedroom, so conveniently on the ground floor, I'll move into the Coopers' room upstairs – I go lay a hand on Mister Jones' brow. Hmmm. I need to order extra ice, just in case. The breathing is steady enough. Good. I begin a list of instructions for Mister Smith to follow.

I suffer a sudden bout of borborygmus, (or, in case your Greek is rusty, my tummy rumbles.)

I am STARVING. Where is Mrs…? Oh! Drat! The clock tells me it is way too early to expect the Coopers' daily help to arrive. Still, it is not as though I am incapable. Maybe I could make myself some… I run over my list of culinary capabilities. It does not take long. Maybe toast? I can do toast. I learnt at university. All those evenings we few women spent gorging ourselves on toast and cocoa and putting the world to rights until the small hours. Maybe a boiled egg? Not both! That would simply divide my attention and be asking for a charcoal incident. Maybe Mister Smith would like toast too? Or a boiled egg? We could have bread and butter with the egg – that is easy. I'll wait until the sheriff leaves, then offer.

A tap at the door. "Ma'am."

I step into the passageway. "He's still unconscious, Sheriff. And, even if he weren't…"

"No, no." He waves away my concern. "Until you tell me he's fit to be questioned…Nah. There's something else on my mind. It's Ann."

Ann? His niece. My best female friend in the town. No, make that my best friend, period.

"What with her husband bein' away – and her bein' – y'know…" He gestures.

"Pregnant."

"In the family way…" he euphemises.

I see where this is going.

"How can I do my job – and it IS my job – if I am constantly hedged around with chaperone rules? This is not a church social. This is a…" I am only joining my stomach in a little grumbling. Bill Fraser knows that.

"Who mentioned chaperones? It's just, though Ann never says anything; I think she feels nervous on her own…"

Ann?! Nervous?! She is about as nervous as I am! (Er – you do realise that is 'not nervous at all'? Good.)

"I wondered if you'd do me a favour and ask her to stay. You like Ann," he presses on.

Like her? I love Ann. Love her like a sister.

"Wouldn't she be a help – nursing Jones? You've often said she's…"

Yes, yes. I'm not denying she would be helpful.

"It only means her moving about across town…wouldn't interrupt her work…wouldn't interrupt yours…"

I think rapidly. Pick your battles. Sharing a room with Ann, having long giggling chats, as we brush our hair and get ready for bed – that is fine with me. Better than fine. AND, however much I protest, I know perfectly well I DO need a chaperone if Mister Smith is staying in the house.

Oh, I do not mean for a second I expect him to offer me any discourtesy.

But…

The short-term pleasure of metaphorically stamping my foot and refusing to play by the 'double standard' is just not worth it. I need to save my flouting of society's rules for things that matter. To risk invoking 'moral turpitude' sanctions to spend a night with a stranger – without even having the intention of indulging in compensatory sexual impropriety is silly. No, more than silly, it is plain stupid.

"I would love to have Ann visit," I say. "Would you ask if she'll come?"

"She says she'll bring her things over lunchtime…" He has the grace to blush, as I raise a teasing eyebrow.

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you. Hey…" I sniff hard. "Is that – frying bacon?"

"I showed Smith where the kitchen was. Told him I was sure you wouldn't mind if…"

I am already trotting in a porcine direction. He can cook!

---oooOOOooo---