"Harm!" Mac cried, coming around the table to pull him back upright. In
their brief respite, she had forgotten about Harm's infection. Bud had
joined her and together the carried Harm into a bedroom at the back of the
house. Mac laid his head back gently and he looked dazedly up at her.
"Sarah," he whispered, "I'm sor-"
"Shh," she said quietly, "I know."
"What's wrong with him?" Mr. Whitfield asked worriedly.
"It's infection," Bud answered as he untied Harm's shirt; Mac helped him to remove the shirt completely, then she looked at Mr. Whitfield.
"Please, I need something to clean the wound," she said, "Have you got any medical supplies?" Mr. Whitfield looked confused and shook his head. Mac tried another route. "Whiskey, have you got whiskey?"
"Of course," he answered indignantly. Every good southern man had whiskey.
Mac nodded. "Can you boil water and bring me clean cloth and the whiskey." Mr. Whitfield hurried into the kitchen to do as Mac asked, while Bud helped Mac get Harm situated. They lay him back and by the time Mr. Whitfield returned with the water, whiskey and cloth, Mac had her sleeves rolled up and the bedside table pulled close to her. Harriet had also come into the room.
"Harriet, what about AJ?" Bud asked. "He's asleep," she answered him, but then turned to Mr. Whitfield. "Sir, this may not be something you'll want to see."
The old man stiffened and drew himself up to his full, yet short, height. "Young lady," he said gruffly, "I have seen a great deal of blood and guts in my time. I think I can handle this." Harriet regarded him, and for a moment she was reminded of AJ, her son's namesake. This man had the same rough kindness and stern temperament. She nodded, and the man took up a position next to her at Harm's side.
Half an hour later, Mac had cleansed the wound and covered it with clean bandages. Mr. Whitfield had left five minutes into the procedure to check on the small boy sleeping in the other room. Harriet thanked him for checking on AJ, knowing full well that the old man couldn't handle the atmosphere in the sick room. She and Bud reluctantly left when Mac told them that there was really nothing more they could do but get some rest. Mac remained at his side until he finally awoke at dawn.
"Sarah," he whispered, "What happened?"
Mac leaned over to him and place her hand on his forehead. It sounded good to hear her name instead of "Diane" from his fevered voice. He still felt very warm to the touch. "Welcome back," she said softly, "You had me worried there for a while."
A tired grin spread across his face. "Sorry," he said. His voice was scratchy.
"Here," Mac said, holding a glass of water out for him to drink from. Harm drank greedily as Mac cradled his head. He fell back against his pillow a few moments later, having emptied the glass. Mac sighed as she put the glass back onto the night stand.
"What?" Harm asked, and Mac regarded him for a moment before she answered, "You're the worst patient I've ever had, lieutenant."
"But the most handsome," he joked and was rewarded when Mac smiled.
"You'll be up and moving in a few days if you do everything I tell you to," she said sternly, "Including eating your porridge." Harm made a face at that, but Mac ignored it. "Mr. Whitfield told me that your regiment isn't more than two days ride from here, so if all goes well, you'll be back with them by the end of the week."
He nodded grimly and rested back. Sarah got up, and headed for the door. "Wait," he wanted to call, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't want to give her any false hope. If, when he went back to his regiment, he could be injured again, or killed, and he didn't want to burden her with that.
Mac walked slowly, wanting him to call out to her, but knowing that he wouldn't. Only in fever did he ever call out for her. She knew it wasn't wise for her to feel like this toward him, but it was a stronger feeling than she'd ever felt and she couldn't control it, even if she'd wanted to.
She paused for a moment at the door, and looked back at him. He knew she was watching him, and turned his face to hers. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulder, and her clothes were wrinkled, but her eyes drew his. They were filled with compassion and longing, and deep need that he knew was mirrored in his own eyes. They remained locked together by their gazes for a long, unending moment.
"Shh," she said quietly, "I know."
"What's wrong with him?" Mr. Whitfield asked worriedly.
"It's infection," Bud answered as he untied Harm's shirt; Mac helped him to remove the shirt completely, then she looked at Mr. Whitfield.
"Please, I need something to clean the wound," she said, "Have you got any medical supplies?" Mr. Whitfield looked confused and shook his head. Mac tried another route. "Whiskey, have you got whiskey?"
"Of course," he answered indignantly. Every good southern man had whiskey.
Mac nodded. "Can you boil water and bring me clean cloth and the whiskey." Mr. Whitfield hurried into the kitchen to do as Mac asked, while Bud helped Mac get Harm situated. They lay him back and by the time Mr. Whitfield returned with the water, whiskey and cloth, Mac had her sleeves rolled up and the bedside table pulled close to her. Harriet had also come into the room.
"Harriet, what about AJ?" Bud asked. "He's asleep," she answered him, but then turned to Mr. Whitfield. "Sir, this may not be something you'll want to see."
The old man stiffened and drew himself up to his full, yet short, height. "Young lady," he said gruffly, "I have seen a great deal of blood and guts in my time. I think I can handle this." Harriet regarded him, and for a moment she was reminded of AJ, her son's namesake. This man had the same rough kindness and stern temperament. She nodded, and the man took up a position next to her at Harm's side.
Half an hour later, Mac had cleansed the wound and covered it with clean bandages. Mr. Whitfield had left five minutes into the procedure to check on the small boy sleeping in the other room. Harriet thanked him for checking on AJ, knowing full well that the old man couldn't handle the atmosphere in the sick room. She and Bud reluctantly left when Mac told them that there was really nothing more they could do but get some rest. Mac remained at his side until he finally awoke at dawn.
"Sarah," he whispered, "What happened?"
Mac leaned over to him and place her hand on his forehead. It sounded good to hear her name instead of "Diane" from his fevered voice. He still felt very warm to the touch. "Welcome back," she said softly, "You had me worried there for a while."
A tired grin spread across his face. "Sorry," he said. His voice was scratchy.
"Here," Mac said, holding a glass of water out for him to drink from. Harm drank greedily as Mac cradled his head. He fell back against his pillow a few moments later, having emptied the glass. Mac sighed as she put the glass back onto the night stand.
"What?" Harm asked, and Mac regarded him for a moment before she answered, "You're the worst patient I've ever had, lieutenant."
"But the most handsome," he joked and was rewarded when Mac smiled.
"You'll be up and moving in a few days if you do everything I tell you to," she said sternly, "Including eating your porridge." Harm made a face at that, but Mac ignored it. "Mr. Whitfield told me that your regiment isn't more than two days ride from here, so if all goes well, you'll be back with them by the end of the week."
He nodded grimly and rested back. Sarah got up, and headed for the door. "Wait," he wanted to call, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't want to give her any false hope. If, when he went back to his regiment, he could be injured again, or killed, and he didn't want to burden her with that.
Mac walked slowly, wanting him to call out to her, but knowing that he wouldn't. Only in fever did he ever call out for her. She knew it wasn't wise for her to feel like this toward him, but it was a stronger feeling than she'd ever felt and she couldn't control it, even if she'd wanted to.
She paused for a moment at the door, and looked back at him. He knew she was watching him, and turned his face to hers. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulder, and her clothes were wrinkled, but her eyes drew his. They were filled with compassion and longing, and deep need that he knew was mirrored in his own eyes. They remained locked together by their gazes for a long, unending moment.
