Mac sat beside him. She put the bowl of porridge down in her lap and
looked tenderly at him. "You were wounded in a battle a few days ago," she
said delicately, "A friend brought you here to my home, where I've been
treating you."
He looked at her as if for the first time. His eyes widened and then he squeezed them tightly shut. Behind his eyelids, his eyes moved frantically. Memories of the previous night flooded his mind; he could smell the mist of the bayou, feel the cold water on his feet, see the trunks of the ancient trees. Then, he felt the searing pain of the bullet that had pierced his shoulder, the strong arms of the man who had carried him out of the swamps. His eyes snapped open, and he caught Mac's again.
"That night," he gasped, "It was you. the surgeon, that was you."
Mac nodded, still looking at him.
"Where am I?" he asked, his tone becoming more even and dangerous.
Mac noticed the change in his demeanor, but she wasn't surprised. "You're at Sweetfern Farm, in Kirkwood, Mississippi," she said.
"And who are you?" His tone had now become menacing.
"My name is Sarah Mackenzie," she said, her own manner becoming defensive even though she knew he was reacting the way anyone who felt threatened would. She lifted the bowl, but he thrust hid good arm out and swatted the bowl out of her hand. It crashed to the floor. "What do you think you're doing?" Mac asked angrily.
Harm was struggling to throw off the blankets and raise himself out of the bed. Mac quickly pinned his shoulders back against the pillow, again remembering not to put too much pressure on his wound.
"Let me up," he demanded.
"No, you're not ready to be moving yet," Mac told him, "Hold still or you'll damage that shoulder even more."
He continued to struggle, and he was now using his legs to try to lever himself away from her. Mac was becoming annoyed. She was already exhausted from the last few days, and she didn't need this. She threw one of her legs over his, straddling his legs, and causing the hoops of her skirt to collapse and flatten.
Harm was still fighting her, but he was growing weaker. The sweat was now pouring down his face. He began to tire; his shoulder burned with pain, and his head was beginning to spin.
"Now, look," Mac said irritably, "I'm not moving until you stop struggling. I'm not going to let you ruin all the hard work I've put into that shoulder, lieutenant."
Her words had the opposite effect. He renewed his struggle and Mac could see new blood staining the bandage at his shoulder. She was livid, and she pushed him back against the pillows aggressively. Harm was so stunned, that he stopped struggling immediately, but he soon recovered and renewed his struggle
"I won't lay here and let you work your southern excuse for medicine on me," he spat through his teeth.
As she felt him struggle beneath her, and Mac finally lost her temper. All of the emotion she'd been holding inside her for the last three days burst forth. "You know, I've heard that Yankees are stubborn, thankless, disrespectful upstarts," she exclaimed angrily, "If you have such a low opinion of my methods, you're free to leave. I'm sure the nearest Confederate hospital has a bed available."
She wouldn't actually give him up to the Confederates, but she was so angry at that moment that the threat slipped out. Harm stopped struggling, in part because his shoulder was now painfully stinging, in part because he had no desire to end up in Confederate hands, but mostly because he was rather taken by this odd, yet beautiful woman who now sat atop him.
He studied her for a moment, observing her angry eyes as they blazed at him. He could feel the strength in her arms and legs, which was unusual for a woman, in the way she pinned him to the bed. He suddenly became aware that it was her thighs immobilizing his, and he knew he had to get her off of him.
"If I agree to lie still, will you get off of me?" he asked her.
Mac glared at him as if she was an angry mother scolding her misbehaving child. "You must allow me to repair your shoulder," she told him, still pinning him down, "Again. And you'll stay here until I decide that you're ready to leave. Then, you'll be free to go wherever you choose. Deal?"
Harm considered her offer. He looked up at her, and she looked straight back at him. He'd never seen such nerve in a woman before. He looked down, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Is that a yes?" Mac pushed. She wasn't going to let him out of answering her directly.
He still would not look at her. What Mac didn't know what that he wasn't looking at her not because he didn't want to answer her directly. He was trying to save face. Every moment that she continued to sit astride him, the more ardent he felt. It was strange for him to find that this overbearing woman had that effect on him. "Yes, I agree," he said looking toward the curtained window.
Mac released the pressure from his shoulders and crawled off of him. Instantly, the pressure at his injured shoulder was replaced with the searing pain. Harm squeezed his eyes tightly and drew his teeth together to stop from crying out.
"I know it hurts," Mac said tenderly, "Let me look."
She pulled back the bandage and wasn't surprised to see that the stitches she'd inspected just minutes before were now torn out of his mending flesh. "You know, every time that I have to re-stitch this, the more chance there is of infection," she told him shaking her head.
"How many times have you stitched it?" he asked.
"Twice," she answered, as she walked over to her medical kit, "So far. This'll be the third time."
Harm swallowed. "Do you have to do it again?"
Mac, with her back to him, smiled to herself. The idea such a strong looking man could be afraid of stitches was rather comical. Then, again. Immediately, Mac's face became somber at some distant, painful memory.
When she turned back to him, Harm didn't notice her face, but he did see that she was carrying a bottle of whiskey. "You're going to get me drunk first?" he asked, an impish grin spreading on his face.
Mac couldn't resist smiling back. "Take a swig of this," she ordered. "I'm going downstairs to get help."
"Help?"
She raised her eyes to him. Her eyes, which had been blazing with anger before, were now filled with tender compassion. "I can't mend your wound and hold you down at that same time."
Harm nodded solemnly. "I think I'll take that drink," he said and he took the bottle from her.
Mac returned a few minutes later with Bud, Sturgis and Harriet. The experience that followed was one Harriet had never had before, and one that she would never forget. Mac didn't want to give him more chloroform; she was afraid that he'd had too much over the last few days. So, Bud and Sturgis held his shoulders down firmly, while Mac sewed the wound shut again. Harriet had helped her into her apron, and now stood next to Bud. She reached out and took Harm's hand in hers.
"Lieutenant, look at me," she said in her motherly voice, and when he raised his eyes to hers she could see the childlike fear in them. She took his hand in hers and ran her fingers over his knuckles and fingers. "What's your name?" she asked.
"Harm," he answered almost whispering.
"Harm, you just look at me, and squeeze my hand if you need to," she told him gently.
Mac stepped up to his side. She was wearing her white apron and she was holding the sterilized needle. Harm looked from the needle to her face, and nodded. She nodded back and then she looked at Bud and Sturgis, who both placed their hands on his shoulders. He nervously squeezed Harriet's hand, and she comfortingly squeezed back.
What followed was the most vivid New Year's memory Harriet ever had. While Mac sewed the wound, Harm's whole body tensed and shuddered with the new stabbing pains. His knuckles turned white as he clutched Harriet's hand. Mac tried to sew as quickly as she could, and she did finish in less then ten minutes, but to Harriet it had seemed like an eternity.
When she had cut the final thread of the stitches, Mac replaced the needle in her medical kit. When she turned back to the bad, she saw that Harriet was leaning over Harm, mopping sweat from his brow. He was shaking with pain and cold, his eyes were darting wildly around the room, but he still clung to Harriet's hands.
"It's alright, it's over," Harriet was soothing him.
Mac noticed that although his breathing was fast and raspy, he had caught Harriet's eyes and was beginning to calm down. She cradled his head in her arm as if he were baby AJ just awoken from a bad dream. "It's over, it's over," she repeated softly in his ear.
Mac saw that his breath was starting to even out and the tension was beginning to slip from his body. Mac didn't want to disturb him, so she motioned for Bud and Sturgis to leave the room quietly. Bud hesitated, but at a nod from Harriet, he followed Sturgis from the room.
Mac looked at Harriet, who nodded, assuring her that it was okay for her to leave. Mac held out a glass of water, and Harriet took it, understanding that she needed to get Harm to drink it before he drifted off into sleep. With that, Mac left the room. She crossed the landing to her own room. She looked around it desperately, not knowing quite what to do. Tears welled up in her eyes and her lips began to tremble. She closed the door quietly, then flung herself across her bed, and she lay there crying silent, gut wrenching sobs.
He looked at her as if for the first time. His eyes widened and then he squeezed them tightly shut. Behind his eyelids, his eyes moved frantically. Memories of the previous night flooded his mind; he could smell the mist of the bayou, feel the cold water on his feet, see the trunks of the ancient trees. Then, he felt the searing pain of the bullet that had pierced his shoulder, the strong arms of the man who had carried him out of the swamps. His eyes snapped open, and he caught Mac's again.
"That night," he gasped, "It was you. the surgeon, that was you."
Mac nodded, still looking at him.
"Where am I?" he asked, his tone becoming more even and dangerous.
Mac noticed the change in his demeanor, but she wasn't surprised. "You're at Sweetfern Farm, in Kirkwood, Mississippi," she said.
"And who are you?" His tone had now become menacing.
"My name is Sarah Mackenzie," she said, her own manner becoming defensive even though she knew he was reacting the way anyone who felt threatened would. She lifted the bowl, but he thrust hid good arm out and swatted the bowl out of her hand. It crashed to the floor. "What do you think you're doing?" Mac asked angrily.
Harm was struggling to throw off the blankets and raise himself out of the bed. Mac quickly pinned his shoulders back against the pillow, again remembering not to put too much pressure on his wound.
"Let me up," he demanded.
"No, you're not ready to be moving yet," Mac told him, "Hold still or you'll damage that shoulder even more."
He continued to struggle, and he was now using his legs to try to lever himself away from her. Mac was becoming annoyed. She was already exhausted from the last few days, and she didn't need this. She threw one of her legs over his, straddling his legs, and causing the hoops of her skirt to collapse and flatten.
Harm was still fighting her, but he was growing weaker. The sweat was now pouring down his face. He began to tire; his shoulder burned with pain, and his head was beginning to spin.
"Now, look," Mac said irritably, "I'm not moving until you stop struggling. I'm not going to let you ruin all the hard work I've put into that shoulder, lieutenant."
Her words had the opposite effect. He renewed his struggle and Mac could see new blood staining the bandage at his shoulder. She was livid, and she pushed him back against the pillows aggressively. Harm was so stunned, that he stopped struggling immediately, but he soon recovered and renewed his struggle
"I won't lay here and let you work your southern excuse for medicine on me," he spat through his teeth.
As she felt him struggle beneath her, and Mac finally lost her temper. All of the emotion she'd been holding inside her for the last three days burst forth. "You know, I've heard that Yankees are stubborn, thankless, disrespectful upstarts," she exclaimed angrily, "If you have such a low opinion of my methods, you're free to leave. I'm sure the nearest Confederate hospital has a bed available."
She wouldn't actually give him up to the Confederates, but she was so angry at that moment that the threat slipped out. Harm stopped struggling, in part because his shoulder was now painfully stinging, in part because he had no desire to end up in Confederate hands, but mostly because he was rather taken by this odd, yet beautiful woman who now sat atop him.
He studied her for a moment, observing her angry eyes as they blazed at him. He could feel the strength in her arms and legs, which was unusual for a woman, in the way she pinned him to the bed. He suddenly became aware that it was her thighs immobilizing his, and he knew he had to get her off of him.
"If I agree to lie still, will you get off of me?" he asked her.
Mac glared at him as if she was an angry mother scolding her misbehaving child. "You must allow me to repair your shoulder," she told him, still pinning him down, "Again. And you'll stay here until I decide that you're ready to leave. Then, you'll be free to go wherever you choose. Deal?"
Harm considered her offer. He looked up at her, and she looked straight back at him. He'd never seen such nerve in a woman before. He looked down, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Is that a yes?" Mac pushed. She wasn't going to let him out of answering her directly.
He still would not look at her. What Mac didn't know what that he wasn't looking at her not because he didn't want to answer her directly. He was trying to save face. Every moment that she continued to sit astride him, the more ardent he felt. It was strange for him to find that this overbearing woman had that effect on him. "Yes, I agree," he said looking toward the curtained window.
Mac released the pressure from his shoulders and crawled off of him. Instantly, the pressure at his injured shoulder was replaced with the searing pain. Harm squeezed his eyes tightly and drew his teeth together to stop from crying out.
"I know it hurts," Mac said tenderly, "Let me look."
She pulled back the bandage and wasn't surprised to see that the stitches she'd inspected just minutes before were now torn out of his mending flesh. "You know, every time that I have to re-stitch this, the more chance there is of infection," she told him shaking her head.
"How many times have you stitched it?" he asked.
"Twice," she answered, as she walked over to her medical kit, "So far. This'll be the third time."
Harm swallowed. "Do you have to do it again?"
Mac, with her back to him, smiled to herself. The idea such a strong looking man could be afraid of stitches was rather comical. Then, again. Immediately, Mac's face became somber at some distant, painful memory.
When she turned back to him, Harm didn't notice her face, but he did see that she was carrying a bottle of whiskey. "You're going to get me drunk first?" he asked, an impish grin spreading on his face.
Mac couldn't resist smiling back. "Take a swig of this," she ordered. "I'm going downstairs to get help."
"Help?"
She raised her eyes to him. Her eyes, which had been blazing with anger before, were now filled with tender compassion. "I can't mend your wound and hold you down at that same time."
Harm nodded solemnly. "I think I'll take that drink," he said and he took the bottle from her.
Mac returned a few minutes later with Bud, Sturgis and Harriet. The experience that followed was one Harriet had never had before, and one that she would never forget. Mac didn't want to give him more chloroform; she was afraid that he'd had too much over the last few days. So, Bud and Sturgis held his shoulders down firmly, while Mac sewed the wound shut again. Harriet had helped her into her apron, and now stood next to Bud. She reached out and took Harm's hand in hers.
"Lieutenant, look at me," she said in her motherly voice, and when he raised his eyes to hers she could see the childlike fear in them. She took his hand in hers and ran her fingers over his knuckles and fingers. "What's your name?" she asked.
"Harm," he answered almost whispering.
"Harm, you just look at me, and squeeze my hand if you need to," she told him gently.
Mac stepped up to his side. She was wearing her white apron and she was holding the sterilized needle. Harm looked from the needle to her face, and nodded. She nodded back and then she looked at Bud and Sturgis, who both placed their hands on his shoulders. He nervously squeezed Harriet's hand, and she comfortingly squeezed back.
What followed was the most vivid New Year's memory Harriet ever had. While Mac sewed the wound, Harm's whole body tensed and shuddered with the new stabbing pains. His knuckles turned white as he clutched Harriet's hand. Mac tried to sew as quickly as she could, and she did finish in less then ten minutes, but to Harriet it had seemed like an eternity.
When she had cut the final thread of the stitches, Mac replaced the needle in her medical kit. When she turned back to the bad, she saw that Harriet was leaning over Harm, mopping sweat from his brow. He was shaking with pain and cold, his eyes were darting wildly around the room, but he still clung to Harriet's hands.
"It's alright, it's over," Harriet was soothing him.
Mac noticed that although his breathing was fast and raspy, he had caught Harriet's eyes and was beginning to calm down. She cradled his head in her arm as if he were baby AJ just awoken from a bad dream. "It's over, it's over," she repeated softly in his ear.
Mac saw that his breath was starting to even out and the tension was beginning to slip from his body. Mac didn't want to disturb him, so she motioned for Bud and Sturgis to leave the room quietly. Bud hesitated, but at a nod from Harriet, he followed Sturgis from the room.
Mac looked at Harriet, who nodded, assuring her that it was okay for her to leave. Mac held out a glass of water, and Harriet took it, understanding that she needed to get Harm to drink it before he drifted off into sleep. With that, Mac left the room. She crossed the landing to her own room. She looked around it desperately, not knowing quite what to do. Tears welled up in her eyes and her lips began to tremble. She closed the door quietly, then flung herself across her bed, and she lay there crying silent, gut wrenching sobs.
