"What time is it?" She finished nursing Charles in the vicar's home just a bit down the road from the chapel. The vicar's young wife was sweet enough to help fix her hair after the two hours of travels.
"It's five minutes to when we told my husband and your betrothed that we'd be there," the woman answered and released another curl from the hair iron. Then she picked up another strand of hair.
"I promised him I wouldn't be late. He's nervous that I won't find him good enough and run." The vicar's wife still had half of her hair left to curl. "Just make the curls bigger so I'm not late. He won't care if it looks even."
"It's your wedding day! He'll be fine to wait a few more minutes. Here, you take over curling while I burp the babe - we don't want him spitting up on your dress."
Not that it was much to look at, but the sweet vicar's wife had found an old wedding dress in the donations to the poor box. The woman had insisted that a wedding dress would bring good luck.
She picked up a thick chunk of hair and curled as fast as possible while Charles was seen to.
Minutes later, she grabbed her black boots and tugged them on in a hurry.
"No! You can't wear those with a wedding dress!"
"The dress is too long for him to see my feet!" Five minutes late. Mark was probably having a heart attack.
A knock came at the front door of the simple home. The vicar's wife answered it.
"Is she still here?" Mark. His poor voice quivered just the slightest bit like he feared the answer.
"I'm here!" She yelled across the small cabin, not caring about decorum. "I'm getting my shoes on, Mark!" She finished lacing the boot enough so it wouldn't be a trip hazard.
"Go back to the church. Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding." The vicar's wife gently shut the door in Mark's face.
She shot to her feet in a hurry, but back of the dress tugged underfoot. A loud rip. Oh. Dear. Heaven. Freezing in dread, her eyes flew to the vicar's wife, whose eyes bugged. Cold air hit the back of her thighs. That couldn't be good.
The woman's hand flew over her mouth and she walked over. "Oh saints above, you tore the skirt right off the bodice."
"Pin it. Hurry."
"Pins aren't going to hold that, dear. Oh my." She shoved Charles at her and ran into the other room. Then the woman returned with a sewing box.
"No! There's not time! Give me my regular dress to put on."
"You're not getting married in that dusty old thing. Give me twenty minutes."
"Twenty?! He thinks I'm coming now! Go tell him it ripped - "
"It'll take me just as long to run over there and come back than to just do it. Besides, it's good for a man to be a little self-conscious if he's good enough."
Fifteen minutes later, she hiked up the dress that was about four inches too long and darted out the door. The vicar's wife shouted something and hurried after her with Charles. At least getting in the doors of the church so Mark knew she hadn't run off would settle his fears.
"You're not wearing black boots!" The woman caught up and grabbed her arm on the church steps. "Your feet are a little smaller than mine, but I have some tan leather shoes that will look so much nicer. They might even raise you enough to not trip on the dress."
"For heaven's sake, they're shoes." She made it up another step before being blocked.
"And this is your wedding day. You're going to look back and remember - "
"Not what I had on my feet!" Jerking off the boots, she traded them for Charles, hiked up the skirt to her calves to avoid tripping and ran up the remaining stairs. Of course the front door was solid wood made for a giant to fit through. The weight of it took a great deal of effort to open with one free arm.
Mark paced near the altar with a makeshift cane from a stick and ran a hand through his hair in distress. The poor man's limp seemed so terribly pronounced with a cane not properly sized to his height. His pacing must be aggravating his knee being his limp seemed to be worse.
"She'll come," the vicar promised. "Women always take long."
For crying out loud, the door threatened to crush bones as she tried to squeeze through. It pressed too hard to even shout for help.
He shook his head. "She deserves better than me. Part of me hoped she'd realize it at the last moment." His voice held so much grief.
The vicar's wife grabbed and started to pull, freeing her lungs. "I'm here!" She grunted with another hard push. The door widened just enough for her and Charles to fit. She ran down the aisle, her curls bouncing free from the pin and giving the men inappropriate view of her bare ankles and lower calves.
The vicar's face turned red and he turned his head away. Mark spun around and stared as she pounded down the aisle gasping for breath.
"I'm here," she panted and stopped before him. "The dress tore when...I stood up and was indecent..." She handed him Charles and leaned her hands down on her knees. "I...give me a minute..."
"Did you run all the way from the house?" Mark set a hand on her back.
"She ran like the Devil was on her heels," the vicar's wife said and came down the aisle at a sedate pace. "She was all worried about being late." Then she took Charles from Mark.
He used his hand not leaning on the cane to brush the curls from her face as she straightened. "Where are your shoes?"
"I said she can't wear old black boots for a wedding, but she refused to go back to the house for a pair of my shoes - that would look perfect. Instead, she took them off at the door."
Mark stared at her for a moment as she panted. And then he burst into laughter. "Ah, Tanya, I didn't think you'd take it to heart when I told you I'd wed you in irons and a nightgown. But I'll take it all the same."
"An ancient wedding dress and no shoes are a step up." She smiled and then looked at the vicar, who still held a hand over his eyes. Glancing down, she dropped the skirts that she'd still been holding up. "For heaven's sake, they're just legs." Taking Mark's arm, she ignored the twinkle in his eyes. "Marry us before you decide to run," she said to the vicar.
The vicar peeked to see if she was decent and then began the wedding. His words faded when she looked at Mark.
He held Charles in one arm and her hand in the other. His smile threatened to burst with all the happiness it contained. Only a handful of times had his face ever transformed with such joy, erasing all worry and hardship. If pure love could be captured into something tangible, Mark's face was the epitome of happily ever after.
When it came time for the ring, she held out her bare hand, having given Mark the wedding ring on the ride here.
He slid it off his smallest finger, the ring only fitting past his first knuckle. "With this ring, I thee wed," he repeated after the vicar and slid the ring onto her hand.
When the vicar cited her vows to repeat, she looked at the vicar in confusion when he skipped 'to obey' in the vows.
"I promised you that we are equals," Mark explained.
Turning her head to look at him, she smiled. His feminist, forward-thinking ways would quickly earn him another reputation as insane, but it didn't matter. Mark's value of her free will above his reputation warmed her heart. "To love, honor and cherish," she filled in and held his eyes.
It went by so fast and before she knew it, the vicar said, "You may kiss the bride."
Her heart beat faster. In the chapel in England, Mark had given a reluctant, chaste peck on the hand for the first kiss. Even though there hadn't been love for him, it'd been her first kiss from a man and a first wedding kiss. He wouldn't give such an unemotional kiss this time. Perhaps a kiss on the cheek being in a chapel.
He handed Charles to the vicar's wife and turned. Those blue eyes locked with hers, and he cupped her cheek as he leaned in. She set her hands on his chest, the beating of his heart so calm and gentle as hers fluttered. The softest brush of his lips over hers stole her breath. He straightened with a tender smile, and it was like his soul reached through his eyes and touched hers. The world shifted in that moment, and yet his steady hand kept her steady. "I love you," he whispered. Those warm fingers gave a delicate stroke on her cheek before he dropped his hand to hold hers.
It was impossible to look away from his beautiful eyes. Even though it'd been a brief, chaste kiss, it had been romantic and beautiful. And so very perfect.
"Ahem." The vicar broke the spell.
She blinked and flushed. Goodness, she'd been staring at Mark like some moonstruck school girl. But Mark still smiled, as if he found her gazing endearing. It'd been a kiss from Mark, though - she hadn't kissed him back. Raising onto her toes, she cupped his face and pulled him down. Pressing her lips to his, she broke the kiss just as fast but held him there. "I love you too," she whispered with tears blurring him. Then she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, needing to feel him close.
His arm wrapped around as he leaned on the cane, returning the hug with enough strength to portray that he was feeling sentimental too. He didn't snap or bark like usual, though.
Pulling back, she looked at him. Tears shimmered in his eyes. "My cuddle bear isn't going to growl?" she whispered with a small smile.
"Sometimes you make him forget how," he whispered and brushed a tear from his eye.
She smiled and kissed the tip of his nose before letting him go.
The vicar and his wife clapped. "Come, sign your license," the vicar grinned.
Mark led her over and signed. Then he handed her the quill.
She signed her first name and then paused. Signing Debonario had become so automatic, so natural, that instinct was to still do so. A tiny part wished to not lose his real name - it was like the only tie left to how life together had started not much more than six months ago. She looked up at him.
He must've sensed her hesitation because he set a hand on her back and quietly said, "It's only letters on paper, sweetheart."
So she set the quill to paper and left that part of their lives behind forever. Tanya Johnson. It looked so wrong, so plain, so lost. Sadness crept up. Mark's hurt at her false courting right after his false death finally made sense. She had just publically severed all ties to Mark Debonairo, turning her back on the name of a good man that the world had just misunderstood.
When the vicar and his wife had left and the wedding dress had been returned, Mark handed her and Charles into the carriage. But he didn't let go of her hand. "You've seemed sad since we signed the license."
She looked down at her lap for a moment and nodded. Swallowing down the tears, she met his eyes. "It feels like...I don't know. Like I abandoned you. I know it's stupid because you're you and right here, but publically I just slapped your memory."
"Tanya, it's what I wanted and what is safer for you and Charles. You and I know the truth, and that's all that matters. I'm still the same man standing right here, just legally as your husband again."
"I know. I didn't expect it to make me sad." Her lip quivered. "You know that if you really had died, I wouldn't have remarried."
"I know, sweetheart." He pressed a kiss to her hand without breaking eye contact. "If something happens to me, I want you to find a good man who will make you and Charles happy."
She shook her head.
He seemed to realize it was a futile argument - he released a deep sigh and limped around the buggy to climb in the driver's side.
When he pulled up to the cabin two hours later, a strange man covered in sweat and dirt stood on the front steps of the clinic.
"May I help you?" Mark, interestingly enough, helped her down on his side of the buggy - the farthest from the door. And the man.
"I heard you're the doc," the man growled. "I set my brother in there. He was cleanin' a gun and accidentally shot himself."
Something about the man didn't seem right. Apparently Mark sensed it too. "I shall see my wife inside and be right there." Only Mark didn't take a step.
The man pulled off his wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand through his hair. "I can see to the little lady. My brother is bleedin' like a stuck pig."
Mark's hand tightened on her arm, as if to make sure she stayed put. "Then I suggest you go apply pressure to the wound. I must get some water boiling to clean him."
The man gave a shifty glance to her.
She held his eyes in challenge. This wasn't a man interested in attacking a woman but one interested in something to improve financial well-being. It was a man on the run.
His gaze shifted quickly enough to Mark, narrowing in on the poor makeshift cane...almost like he assessed how much of a threat Mark would be.
Mark, however, still refused to move. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Mark knew these men were trouble and refused to let them see his limp, his limitation in protecting his family. "Your brother is likely bleeding out." His tone held a steel edge.
The corner of the man's mouth snaked up in a smile. "Take yer woman inside."
Tension in Mark climbed every second, but he remained calm and unyielding. He took a step forward, putting himself between her and Charles and the man. "I think we both know he's not your brother. Set your gun down. I'll take my wife inside and then fix up your comrade. Get him out as soon as I'm done, and no one needs to be the wiser that you've come through town." He said it in a tone that didn't offer negotiation.
"Deal. Except yer lady stands beside me to make sure ya uphold yer end of the bargain, doc."
Silence.
She peeked around Mark's shoulder. The man didn't appear to have a gun on his person, but perhaps Mark had seen one. These two idiots butting heads would just stir up nerves and get Mark shot. Stepping forward, she held Charles tight. "Fine."
Before Mark could protest, the man shot forward and dragged her toward the clinic.
"Get your hands off her!" Mark roared so loud that it would surely draw attention.
The man whipped out a gun and aimed it at her throat. She jumped so hard that Charles woke up crying.
Mark stopped dead in his tracks where he hobbled to the steps, his eyes as wide as saucers and skin just as white.
"Have ya ever seen a bullet through the neck, doc? Just right and it makes the head snap off."
How dare he threaten and on their wedding day! Anger boiled over at being manhandled by some thief. It'd happened twice in the past - once she'd paid for it and the next time Mark had. This ass messed with the wrong 'little lady.' She pushed away the gun and glared at him. "If you shoot me, you have no leverage with him, idiot. You want to stand out here yacking like old women so everyone can see you holding a gun to me?"
Mark looked shocked and the man blinked as she marched on ahead into the clinic. They both were dumbfounded long enough that she swept past the unconscious man on the infirmary bed, taking the gun from his holster without notice.
The man jerked Mark inside as she set Charles under a bed to keep safe. He prodded Mark toward the injured man. There was enough distance from Mark to make a safe shot. These felons wouldn't let them live with having seen their faces. Slowly straightening, she readied the gun behind her skirts. It was loaded. Mark almost reached the injured man, his eyes on her from across the room. His gaze locked like he had a plan, but that plan probably involved him wrestling the gun away and getting shot. Raising the pistol, she fired.
A howl of pain and the man fell to the floor clutching his thigh.
Mark snatched a bed sheet and had him tied in an instant as the man cursed and yelled for his comrade to wake up. "Jesus Christ, Tanya! Would you stop playing goddamn hero?!" Mark looked ready to kill her as he tried to gag the man.
Charles's cries didn't help with the ruckus.
Grabbing the babe, she shoved the gun at Mark and ran out the door. "I'm getting the sheriff!"
"Ethically, I have to treat them," Mark snapped once the sheriff had the men handcuffed to the metal beds, even though the one was still unconscious.
"Mrs. Johnson, you go to the kitchen and get supper ready. I'll stay with the doc and make sure these scoundrels behave," the sheriff said.
"Lord knows I could take on a damn cripple even in my condition!" The outlaw yelled and actually spat at Mark.
Steam could've shot out her ears. Marching over to the bed before anyone could stop her, she snatched the sheriff's gun from the holster, held it to the pig's head and cocked it. "Keep your mouth shut, or I'll blow it off," she hissed, repeating his words.
He smirked but kept quiet. When she turned and handed the gun to the sheriff, a disgusting slurp filled the air. "I bet you taste good under that skirt, little spitfire."
Before even realizing it, she whirled and the man's head snapped back and his eyes rolled in unconsciousness. Pain exploded through her hand. Looking down in surprise, her hand was curled into a fist.
Mark cursed and limped over. "Did you break your hand?" He uncurled her fingers and examined the knuckles.
"Cripes, remind me not to anger you, Mrs. Johnson." The sheriff chuckled.
"So much for a damsel in distress," Mark muttered but cracked a smile.
"I didn't even realize I got angry." She shook out her hand and flexed it. "It hurts, but I don't think it's broken."
"Let's see if we can find some ice outside." He picked up Charles and linked her arm through his. Then he led the way outside. Silence. Even when he left her and Charles and circled the outside of the clinic, his eyes focused on the edge of the roof for icicles, he didn't say anything. He returned from around the corner with a fat icicle.
When he slammed it down on the front steps to shatter it, she startled at the force he exerted - too much force. "Um, are you angry with me?"
He gathered the pieces and pulled a worn handkerchief out of his pocket. Then he wrapped the pieces and walked over. Silence remained as he took her hand and set ice to the red knuckles. But he didn't let go. His eyes finally met hers, his face stoned over. "Do I not make you feel safe?"
Meeting his gaze straight on, she took a slow breath. "Mark, I learned as a child to fend for myself. I saw a chance to help both of us and took it."
"You didn't answer my question."
Wrapping her fingers around his hand that held on the ice, she stepped closer. "I don't fear men when you're around. I'm not like Anna, though, where I'm going to sit and wait for a rescue. We agreed that we're partners."
"He noticed my leg. Look me in the eye and tell me that you were going to take the initiative before then."
"That has nothing to do with it - "
"Doesn't it? You were perfectly content to let me handle it until you saw him notice my leg. You had no right to put yourself and our son in danger. If he'd been a lunatic, he would've blown your head off," he seethed.
"But he wasn't going - "
"You don't know that!" he roared, his shout echoing down the road. He lowered his voice, those blue eyes piercing with rage. "I would not be your escort if I wasn't able to protect you and the babe. Don't tell me that you don't look at me like a cripple, because today you did," he spat. "Get in the house while the sheriff and I figure out what to do with them."
Tears welled. He was right - it wasn't until the man had seen Mark's limp that she'd intervened. "Mark, I'm sorry," she whispered.
He just held up a hand and shook his head like he didn't even want to speak to her. The humiliation seemed to burn too hot yet for him to listen to anything, so she took the ice and Charles and went into the house.
At dusk, the connecting door to the clinic creaked open and then closed. She stood at the stove making stew with the ingredients that neighbors had donated to get them by until the market opened tomorrow. Unsure whether to go to him, she stayed at the stove so he could make the decision.
Uneven footsteps and the tap of the makeshift cane echoed on the wood floor. It stopped just outside the kitchen, and she held her breath, willing him to come. "I'm home, Tanya," he said in a flat tone, but he didn't come in the kitchen.
When she walked out to greet him, he was already up the staircase two steps. He froze but didn't look her way, as if it was too humiliating having to struggle with the stairs in her presence.
Sometimes going out on a limb was the best way to reach someone. So, she walked up the steps and stopped at the one above him to be at eye level. Cupping his cheek, she tilted his head up to meet her eyes. So much shame glowed within him. "I'm going to stumble sometimes, but I don't see you as a cripple. I want to protect you like you want to protect me. When he saw your limp, yes, I was afraid. But not that you couldn't protect us. I was afraid that he would hit your leg and either severely damage it or shoot you once he had you down. It's a simple fact that your leg is a weakness, just like men being able to physically overpower me is mine. Yes, I realize now that going over to him was stupid, but you two were also just butting heads and making tempers rise. I'm not going to apologize for helping get us out of trouble. There's nothing wrong with me helping you or you helping me."
He gave a small nod and reached up and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Those blue eyes searched hers. "I need brutal honesty, Tanya. I see others find fault because of my leg, and..." he hesitated, "I know you are not her, but Anna wouldn't have seen me as a man anymore. I know you don't see me that way, but..." He looked away.
"But you worry in what I do see differently because there must be something?"
With a small nod, he looked up with an intense gaze.
A soft sigh of defeat escaped. "I worry. I worry if you're traveling and break down in the winter that you'll have trouble walking for help before you freeze. I worry that a thief might think you're an easy target by bashing your leg and robbing you. I worry because it's a wife's job to worry. If it wasn't your leg, I'd worry about something else."
"It'd do well to say so, woman," he huffed, standing a little straighter and the shame fading from his eyes. "As your husband, it's my job to make sure you do not need to worry, and I'm to be privy to your stressors."
"Yes, Mark." She smiled. His confidence seemed to be restored back to his cranky old self.
He scowled and met her gaze straight on. "Are you pleased well in the bedchamber?" he snapped.
"Yes." She blinked at that blatant, out-of-nowhere question.
"Of course you are," he barked, although pride flashed through his eyes for an instant. "I shall wash for dinner." He swept past, not seeming to be ashamed anymore of having to labor up the steps in her presence. "What is it you fixed?" he barked without turning.
She looked at his back as he limped up one step at a time. "Beef stew."
"It smells good and I'm hungry," he barked.
A smile broke free. "Mark?"
He turned at the top of the stairs.
"I love you."
The man grunted. "I love you too. Your hand will be checked again before bed, no arguing." Then he disappeared.
After washing some old dishes found in the cupboard, she set the table. Charles laid in an old basinet on loan from the saloon owner's wife. Those beautiful blue eyes at birth that matched Mark's had gradually faded to gray - gray that looked like another's eyes from months ago. How odd to love someone so much who looked like the monster that hid in the shadows at night. Charles looked up and turned his head toward the blanket that brushed his cheek, as if needing to nurse again. Then he looked at her.
A hand around the throat. Being thrown on the floor and turned over. Skirts shoved up. Pain ripping a scream from her throat.
"Tanya?" A hand set on her back, searing into the memory.
Darting a step away in fright, her eyes flew to the intruder.
Mark. His eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?" Instant fight mode hardened his tone and his eyes darted around the room, as if searching for danger.
Setting a hand over her heart, she shook her head. "I was lost in thought."
His shoulders relaxed, but his gaze beelined to Charles. Then he glanced at her again. "You were frightened."
Shoving aside the terrible thoughts, she shook her head and grabbed a bowl to fill at the stove.
"He's in jail. I keep tabs once a month for confirmation."
The ladle fell from her hand into the pot. Her hands suddenly shook for some reason. Keeping the thoughts locked away in a dark corner would be best. Mark and Charles didn't need to ever know that his eyes frightened if her mind wandered. Picking up the ladle again, she swallowed back the tears.
"Sweetheart, tell me what you saw," he whispered and set a hand over hers.
The ladle dropped and the bowl crashed to the floor, shattering in a dozen shards. She stood not by the stove but several steps back in the corner of the small kitchen, not even remembering having moved. Terror. It was like insanity - terrified of the two males, family, who would never hurt her. All because they were that - male. Mark stood on one side of the table and Charles laid cooing on the other, blocking all escape. Irrational, consuming fear took over all reason. Sinking to the floor, she curled up her knees and covered her head with her arms in as small of a ball as possible. Fear. So much consuming terror that it was hard to even breath. Air. There was no air. Sobs erupted. Sobs that just took over her body as terror took over the mind, without any rational. Bit that wasn't the worst of it. The worst part was knowing Mark was safety and comfort, but this insanity feared his touch. Salvation was now damnation. Muscles hurt from trembling so hard. Shut it all out. The fear could be locked away if it couldn't escape. This madness of the mind slipping away would cease. Squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears, she rocked as a ball in the corner in agonizing desperation to find comfort. The only sound was her own sobs. Oh god, make it end.
When the sobs exhausted, a fragile sense of safety settled. As long as she kept her head buried in this small cocoon under her arms, the fear might stay away. Silence. No sound from Mark or Charles. A strange sense of peace at having space to not feel caged. But also a sense of abandonment. Her skirt and bodice were wet from tears, but the blackness of this cocoon calmed the terror too much to risk moving.
When she lifted her head a century later, Mark sat in the corner to the left on the floor, leaving a clear path straight ahead to escape. His eyes were red, as if he'd wept too. Not a muscle moved. For several minutes, he remained quiet, as if afraid of spooking her. Finally, he spoke in a soft tone. "Tanya, from this position, I cannot easily or quickly get up. You are not trapped and need not fear that I'll stop you." His voice flowed low and smooth and patient. Minutes passed, but he seemed in no hurry. Charles fussed, so Mark lifted him out of the basinet. The babe tried to nurse from Mark's chest, so Mark gave his smallest finger to suckle. Those blue eyes rose to her. "His eyes caused a flashback didn't they?"
She didn't respond. How he had derived that from such chaos was either mindreading or he had similar thoughts too.
"He's part of you, Tanya - physically and he has your stubbornness and intelligence. And he's part of me because I'm the one who will be there to raise and teach him how to be a good man. Looks are subjective and perspective. He looks like Charles - he's his own identity, own personality, own being. As he grows and is able to do more, it will become easier to see him as his own person rather than an extension of a nightmare."
She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the skirts. Laying her cheek on her knees, she tucked her arms in close helped stop the shaking that threatened to resume. "I love him, but when he looked at me, it wasn't him." Her lip quivered. "I'm scared of you both right now, and I don't know why."
His throat convulsed and tears welled in his eyes. "Perhaps because I'm the sexual threat. You never let yourself feel that fear that was trying to get out when we made love." He shifted only to move his leg, but it still caused panic to rise. It must've been noticed because he stilled mid-shift. "I won't harm you, Tanya. I will scoot closer."
He did but remained more than an arm's length away. A need to go to him battled with the need to run. Charles, however, fussed for dinner.
Mark looked at her, as if unsure what to do with a hungry babe who'd sent his mother into a meltdown. "If you express into a bowl, I can feed him."
A tiny wail of hunger broke free as Charles grew frustrated with Mark's finger that wouldn't feed.
Something about that cry of hunger shattered the fear. Maternal instincts took over to stop her son's pain. Scooting over to him, she took Charles. A blanket of safety cocooned from Mark, chasing away the fear and insanity. It was like an invisible barrier. If she moved away, that comfort wouldn't be close enough to feel. She looked up into his eyes. Home. This is where it felt safe, like he created an invisible fortress that kept out all terror and harm.
He didn't move or break eye contact.
This is why it had been so terrifying - because Mark had been too far away to shelter from the nightmares. Her lip quivered. Climbing into his lap like a child, she laid her head on his chest as she settled Charles to eat. She sniffled with fresh tears.
His arms slowly wrapped around and the weight of his cheek rested atop her head. "You're safe, sweetheart," he whispered. "Tell me what happened."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Not talking about it is what got us here. Come, you need to tell someone, if not me."
Charles finished nursing already. "It was a flashback, and you know the story. There's nothing else to say." Pulling her dress closed, she pushed herself up and took Charles upstairs without a backwards glance.
Mark entered the bedroom minutes after she'd put Charles on his pallet in the corner until a crib could be made.
"Take me from behind like he did."
He stopped in his tracks and his face bordered on stone-cold and angry. "I will not fucking torture you," he spat the words like some vial taste.
"It makes it less frightening - "
"No!" Charles startled and fussed, so Mark picked him up but those blue eyes remained furious. "Re-enacting them will do nothing but teach you that I'm as much of a monster! I can't even believe this!"
"I'm not asking you to beat and stab me! Why can't you understand that those memories need to be replaced?!" She ran a hand over her hair bun as the anger and stress grew.
He gave a hard look and then stormed to the other room with Charles asleep again in his arms. Then he returned and left the door cracked open. "If you want me to take you hard, that's as far as I go," he growled and unbuttoned his shirt. "I do not hold you down or grab your throat. What frightened you is the pain and helplessness. I may dominate, but you have all the control to stop it. You must do every step of this willingly. Undress."
There was something about removing her own clothes that gave a sense of control. She stood as bare as him.
"Come to me, and tell me to ready you," he ordered.
There was something safe about his dominance and yet care for her. It kept away fear. She walked over and held his eyes that focused so intently on any sign of fear that he looked powerful and commanding. "I'm ready."
He set her hand over his heart, seeming to remember that to feel his heartbeat is what kept her grounded from the terror. Then his hand dipped between her thighs. The beautiful eyes dilated and his nostrils flared as his body responded to her readiness. "Turn around, and tell me to take you," he growled, his voice husky and deep.
So she turned and hesitated. A split second later, he stepped closer so his chest pressed to her back. His heart thundered against her shoulder blade as he leaned down for the contact.
"I will not take you on the floor like some monster. Tell me to join your body," he whispered in her ear.
"Take me." She brought his hand up to cup her mangled breast, needing to feel his acceptance, and his other on her hip to hold her as tight as he needed.
"This is how I'll make love to you when you're swollen with my babe," he breathed in her ear.
That shattered all this had started about, and it became about love and Mark. Her head fell back the moment he joined her body and moaned himself.
"I need you so much it hurts, Tanya," he whispered. "Be still for a moment."
"I didn't expect pleasure like this," she panted, her body trembling on the edge.
"Oh god, I can't, Tanya. Tell me to have you." His fingers bit into her hip, and his body quivered with need for release.
Grabbing the bedpost for support to take his weight without the cane, she nodded. "Take me."
He was rough in a delicious, loving way, and her cry of ecstasy mingled with his less than a minute later. He didn't withdraw but instead pressed her down over the bed without leaving her body. His hand released her breast and stroked her throat. "You are mine, Tanya." Then he straightened, while still caressing her throat, and rocked his hips gently. "I have claimed you in all ways." He leaned down again and laced his fingers with hers. "I love you," he whispered in her ear and gently left her body. He laid down across the bed beside her, searching her eyes. "Are you frightened?" With his forefinger, he brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "I needed him washed away," she whispered and curled up in his arms.
"It is our wedding night. Now I will consummate our vows how I intended." He rolled on top and kissed with complete tenderness.
A knock came at the door a couple nights later. Mark got out of bed. "It's midnight. Stay here - hopefully it's someone who can be treated in the clinic." He pulled on his clothes and grabbed the makeshift cane. The connecting door to the clinic opened and closed a minute later. It must be an easy case in-house.
Huddling under the warm blankets, she glanced at the clock in the moonlight. He'd been gone a half hour. Maybe he needed help but couldn't leave the patient. Slipping on a dress, she lifted Charles in his bassinet and took him downstairs. Female sniffling filled the clinic, along with Mark's soft tones. Setting Charles just inside the storage room, she knocked in the doorway to the clinic. "Mark, do you need help?"
"That's my wife." Then his uneven footsteps came, and he appeared around the divider, his face very serious. "It's a woman whom I think her husband beat her. She claims she fell down the stairs. She's bleeding from what she says are menses, but I think he assaulted her. She won't let me check. It might be better for you to stay in the house with Charles - "
"Or maybe having a woman there who had survived it would make her feel safer." She swept past.
The woman, not much older than herself, sat on the exam table with a black eye and held a bloody rag to her swollen nose. Mark had already applied a cast to her wrist. The torn dress had blood spatters on the underskirt.
She stood back, understanding far too well the need to not be touched right now. "I'm Tanya. What's your name?"
"Mary." She sniffled.
"I wish you'd take this laudanum for your broken arm and nose pain," Mark said gently on his way over. "It's a half dose so you won't feel drugged, but it'll take the edge off." He seemed to understand the fear of not feeling in control right now.
The woman shook her head. "I just needed my arm set." She started to get up.
"I walked in on a home theft. He raped and thought he left me for dead. I gave birth to the babe a couple months ago." Strength came from nowhere to say those words out loud to a stranger for the first time.
The woman looked at her in horror and stilled. It was a moment of vulnerability, a single moment to gain this woman's trust.
Glancing to make sure the shutters were closed, she unbuttoned her dress and dropped it to the waist. "These scars are from the assault. I carry no bruises or cuts otherwise because my husband does not beat me." She pulled up the dress and lifted the skirt to her thighs. "He does not leave marks from the bedchamber because he is only gentle, as a husband should be."
"My husband didn't do this." But the woman wouldn't look her in the eye. "I fell down the stairs."
Going along with the lie might be the best way to at least get the injuries treated for now. "Did you let my husband check you over? A fall down the stairs can easily break ribs." She exchanged a glance with Mark.
When the woman wouldn't answer, he replied, "Are you uncomfortable to let me look?"
The woman didn't reply.
"Would you let me look?" Woman to woman would be less threatening.
At Mary's nod, he stepped into the storage room as she checked for bruises and cuts. A handprint bruise covered her buttocks. Red flecks of blood speckled her inner thighs, along with scratch marks.
She glanced at the woman. "I never had the help of a surgeon, and I healed so poorly that my husband had to cut and stitch so I could fit the babe. May I check under your skirt that you're alright?"
The woman gave a hesitant nod and let her peek.
"Alright. Let me ask my husband what else to check." She walked into the storage room where Mark paced near Charles, who still slept.
He stilled when she reported the findings, and he ran a hand through his hair. "Tanya, she needs an internal exam to see what he did - there's obviously damage being she has blood spatters. How would you feel about staying with her through an exam if she agreed?"
Looking down at her hands, she fidgeted with the skirts for a moment and looked up at him. "I want to, but I don't know if I can stay if she starts crying."
"I promise she will. Every woman I've ever examined who was assaulted cries because it's a reminder of what just happened, and she painful." He stroked her cheek. "You do not have to do this."
Biting her lip, she searched his eyes. "How many have you treated who were attacked?"
A deep sigh released through his nose that seemed to hold the weight of the world. "Well more than two dozen. Most were from their husbands, some were brothel women. Let me talk to her and see if she'll let me do an exam." He disappeared, his soft tones and gentle words filtering through the doorway. "Tanya!"
She stepped in.
Mark sat between the woman's legs while she appeared unconscious. "She agreed to sedation. Are you alright to help with surgery? I need you to apply light pressure on her belly - I think he perforated the birth canal." The moment she applied pressure, he cursed. "Stop. I don't know if I can goddamn reach to stitch without going in through her belly," he snapped in disgust and dropped a tool in a basin of hot water. He grabbed another tool. "Fucking bastards," he mumbled under his breath to himself as he tried to maneuver in the small space, "how about we jam rods up their dicks and - " He glanced up with wide eyes, seeming to remember her presence.
A giggle escaped. "I take it that it'd be wise for you to never meet her husband."
He gave a dark look and bent his head down to continue working. A string of curses under his breath and something about her own attacker strapped on a gynaecological table made her burst out laughing. The man glanced from the corner of his eye. "You weren't supposed to hear that, woman."
"I'll pretend I didn't," she smiled.
He kicked his chair away and worked to get on his good knee to get a different angle. "Press on her belly again...yes, there. Don't move." After a minute, he shook his head. "I can't reach without going in abdominally."
"Is it close enough that you could do an episiotomy to widen so you can reach?" She stepped around to look.
"No, but..."
"A tannaculum," she said at the same time as him.
"Yes, bringing the womb forward may pull forward the birth canal enough. Can you see if there's one in the storage room?"
After washing it and giving the woman more chloroform just in case, she knelt on the floor beside Mark.
"I'll bring it forward if you can hold it in place while I stitch." The poor man tried several times to get an angle.
"Mark, her belly looks a bit swollen." She frowned and palpated.
He popped his head up and felt it. Then he frowned and looked down again. "Pull her womb down a bit." Blood gushed out the moment she did. He dropped the tools. "Shit. Tanya, scrub for surgery - he must've perforated bowel too. She's hemorrhaging."
Mark moved so fast that his hands were packing dressing inside an incision while she finished washing. "Tanya, get over here! There's too much blood to see where it's coming from!"
She dove her hands in. "Stop." Closing her eyes, she focused. Slick blood flowed, warming her fingers. The current flowed stronger the deeper she went. There. It pulsed with a heartbeat. Grabbing the slimy tube, she pulled up. Intestines. Blood squirted into the air and onto the floor.
"Good girl." Mark whipped sutures in. Then he scooped out the gauzes and dumped them in the floor. "How much blood loss?"
Leaning over to look at the mess on the floor, she glanced at him. "Two pints?"
"Yes. Transfuse?"
"Yes." She turned to grab the supplies.
"Not until after surgery," he corrected and dug through more guts. "A female is anemic at two pints lost; a male can tolerate it. If we had another donor, then transfuse during surgery. Only transfuse from the surgeon in an emergency because of risk of overtransfusion and confusion on the surgeon's part. I didn't think to tell you that I checked her for signs of pregnancy before surgery. If with child, don't fully sedate - only enough for memory loss and pain-free surgery."
Her eyes flew to him. "Is that what you did to me with Charles?"
"No, the times you needed sedation to stop labor, you had to be put all the way under," he replied without looking up. "Have you heard of Dr. John Snow? He passed away less than a decade ago, and is considered the Father of Anesthesiology. He actually came up with how to administer chloroform without killing the patient - he delivered Queen Elizabeth's last two children using it to control the pain. Fascinating work - you should read his works. I haven't been brave enough to try it on birthing women. As soon as we have funds for frivolous things, I shall buy you an engagement ring, Charles some toys and then the latest Lancet medical journal," he sighed whistfully and finally looked up.
A smile bloomed at his chattiness. "I imagine you agree that cholera stems from contaminated drinking water."
Those blue eyes lit up. "You have read his works." He was up to his wrists in guts but seemed as happy as a clam.
She laughed. "How could I not when you had all of his articles earmarked in your library? I read several after I finished the medical textbooks."
"God save me, I want to take you right now. Your brain is like a sponge." His eyes dilated with desire, and then he looked down at the surgery. "Look at this." He pointed to tiny red dots on the bladder.
A frown tugged. "What is it?"
"This, my dear, is thought to be endometriosis - retrograde bleeding of the uterus during menstruation. It can cause severe pain. I've seen it in about half of women. Some complain of pain, others don't." He sighed. "I should've thought to ask her about pelvic pain while she was awake."
"Why? You can't scrape it off?"
"It's a painful recovery. If it's not bothering her, I wouldn't do anything. Well, as long as we've had to dig around in the poor thing, let's check. Hold the bladder." When she did, he stilled. "Oh boy. She has frozen pelvis."
She looked down. "What does that mean?"
"Adhesions have locked her uterus in place. Even if she should get pregnant, her womb wouldn't be able to stretch and would abort the babe. We'll need to heavily medicate her for a few days, but she'll feel so much better." He smiled and glanced up. "Here is real gynecological medicine, Tanya." He spent hours freeing reproductive organs and removing large spots of endometriosis behind the womb. The man had so much knowledge in his brain as he chatted the whole time that it was a wonder his head didn't explode from everything in there. He talked right until sunrise as he performed delicate surgery to remove adhesions that he found were even involving intestines.
After everything was washed, he sat beside the woman's bed in the infirmary and yawned.
"Come, you're exhausted. I need to be up anyways feeding Charles, so you go take a nap. She'll be out for awhile yet." She nudged him up from the chair.
"Watch her for a temperature and that her respirations remain normal. Get me if she stirs. I'll be back in a couple hours. Get me if you need to trade." He pecked a kiss on her head, locked the clinic front door and then shuffled to the house.
After only an hour, the woman whimpered.
"It's alright." She sat forward in the chair. "The physician had to do surgery to repair the injury. Are you in pain?" The chloroform should still have pain effect. The woman didn't feel hot with fever.
More moaning.
Holding Charles tight, she darted to the house. She stopped on the way upstairs - Mark slept on the sofa, the poor man probably too tired to climb the stairs with his leg. "Mark." Hurrying over, she touched his cheek. "Honey, she's waking up." No response. He must be dead tired. "Mark?" She shook his shoulder.
The man grunted and his eyes struggled to open. "Two hours already?" he slurred with sleep.
"No, honey, just an hour. She's moaning like she's waking up, but she can't tell me if there's pain."
Rubbing his eyes, he pushed himself up with his cane and stumbled a step.
"Are you alright?" She held his sleeve.
"Just tired." He slapped his own cheek lightly. "Alright, I'm awake." The poor thing yawned.
She smiled and followed him to the clinic.
"Mrs. Wolfe?" He felt the woman's brow and lifted her eyelids. No reaction besides a soft moan from the woman. "Can you squeeze my hand?" Mark sat on the edge of the bed and took both of her hands. "Would you get the stethoscope, Tanya?" When she brought it over, he listened to the woman's chest. "I think she's hallucinating from the chloroform," he frowned.
"Have you seen this before?"
"Yes, but not this late after surgery. Even when I wake you up from chloroform, you moan a little, but you have no response to pain." He gently palpated the woman's belly and didn't get any reaction. "She's not swollen and her bladder isn't full. Respirations are still at sedation levels, and she has normal pupil response." Sitting back, he ran a hand through his hair. "She was under five hours, correct?"
"Yes, maybe five-and-one-half hours"
"Possibly a reaction to long-term chloroform exposure, although she's not showing other signs of toxicity." He shook his head, as if completely baffled.
"Is it possible that she has pain but can't move?"
"She should regain movement before feeling."
Mark continued to talk to the woman and check for pain response for several minutes before she quieted again.
"Huh. Maybe she was hallucinating."
But he didn't look relieved. "I don't like this." For the fifth time, he listened to the woman's chest. "Her respirations are gradually decreasing. Look for smelling salts." He shot up and headed for the storage room. "I saw some in one of the cabinets above the counter. She might be going into respiratory distress."
The minute he administered the salts, the woman's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. "Mary, squeeze my hand," he ordered. A twitch but he continued until her eyes opened. "What's your name?"
She frowned. What an odd question.
"Mmmm..." The woman couldn't get the word out, although she seemed more conscious.
"Squeeze with your right hand." Both of her hands remained immobile. "Mary," he commanded. When the woman's eyes flicked to him, he frowned and scooted closer. "Blink twice."
The woman did.
"Are you in pain? Blink once for yes, twice for no."
Two blinks.
"Can you feel any part of your body? Blink once for yes, twice for no."
Two blinks.
"Can you move anything?" He looked down from her head to toes. Nothing. "What about taking deeper breaths?" When the woman didn't, his brow furrowed. "I think you're sensitive to chloroform. Have you had it before?"
She blinked once for no.
"It'll wear off soon, and feeling and movement will gradually return. We're going to bundle you in blankets because it might help your body get rid of it faster with warmer blood circulation. Can you swallow?" He set his fingers to her throat. "It's still too weak to have you drink water to flush your system. The more deep breaths you can take as soon as you can, the faster it will get out."
Tears welled in the woman's eyes.
"No, no, don't cry. Within a half hour things will start coming back. I promise this is temporary." When the tears didn't slow, Mark looked to her with wide eyes.
Oh dear. The poor man didn't hold up well to female tears of distress. "Are you frightened?" She sat on the other side of the bed with Charles in her lap.
One blink.
"Do you feel ill or hurt?"
One blink.
"Everything will be fine. We'll get you healed up, and you'll feel so much better." Mark pulled out a clean handkerchief and dabbed the tears from the woman's cheeks. "Your insides were sticking together and had to be causing a lot of pain. Once you're healed, that pain won't be there. And we stitched up your injury. In about two weeks we'll remove those sutures, and in about six weeks you'll be as good as new."
It seemed like there should've been jealousy or hard feelings over his tenderness with another woman, but there was only admiration for the beauty of his kindness even with a stranger. He spoke so patiently and touched with absolute gentleness, like he understood how frightened the woman must be of men. This was a physician who truly listened to his patients, no matter how real or imaginary their concerns. It wasn't just his skill that would bring patients from miles to see him but his ability to see them beyond a textbook or experimental case. In a few years, he'd earn a renown reputation again. And it would be magnificent to watch him flourish.
