Author's Note: I took a new job and have been working on this chapter for almost six months. I'm searching for a different job that isn't 50+ hours a week, and hope to have time for my hobbies again. :)
"Mark, I can't."
He reached up and gave a gentle tug, forcing a dismount into his arms. "You can. I'll be right there."
Flinging her hands onto his shoulders in reaction, it was too hard to break contact when he let go. Keeping hands on his shoulders helped calm the butterflies. "They're going to realize what I am."
Those blue eyes remained calm and patient. "It's a women's college, and it's everyone's first day. I'm sure they're as nervous as you, so they won't even notice your looks. Sit near the front, if it makes you feel better." He pulled his cane and her books out of the saddle bag.
"You shouldn't have turned down the professor position at the real medical university." She sidled closer to him when some women passed.
He looked over his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. "And this is a fake university?"
"You know what I mean." So many men entered the buildings for a women's medical university. Most women entered in pairs or small groups, only a few walking in alone.
"It was my choice to teach here instead. There's no reason why women should not have an education equal to men." He handed over her books.
"I'm not smart enough for this."
"Good God, woman, if you were any more intelligent, you'd be running the men's university." He linked her arm through his and started toward the doors.
Why had he talked her into this? It had seemed like a good idea last month, with Charles a little older and little Della a toddler. "The children are too little."
"We're only gone two days a week, and not even all day at that. The professor got you an invitation; I don't recommend turning it down." He stopped and met her eyes. "Do you want to become a surgeon? Not what you think I want or what's good for the practice. Do you want this?"
"It's not going to change what I do with you anyways, and it costs so much money - "
"Damn the money and the clinic. You can work with me with or without a degree. Do you want this for you?"
Searching his eyes, a lump rose and made it hard to swallow. It'd been two years since returning from Colorado. He'd established his own practice on the outskirts of the lumberyard, stealing most all of Mr. Price's patients who wanted a real doctor instead of a cheap barber when in need of medical care. Mark had even boomed business enough to hire on the professor for a few hours a week. If he hired a female surgeon, it'd destroy everything Mark had worked so hard for.
Working with him only created a stronger hunger each day to not just help, but work beside him as a true business partner. He indulged whims—instead of offering jewels or laces, he gifted a new medical journal or medical book each week to grow the home library. Before the end of the week, it'd be devoured and excitement would grow to see what medical information he'd bring home next.
Attending medical university was an unspoken desire that somehow he'd seen. But it was a selfish dream. "I can't do this, Mark. I never even made it halfway through the schoolroom." The last words squeezed out in a whisper as he blurred behind tears. "Everyone seems to understand I'm a heathen but you and the professor." Passion burned for this dream so hot that some days it hurt. To follow it though, would be to ruin him. And the passion for his happiness was worth the sacrifice.
His hands gently cradled her face, and his thumbs swept away the tears as his voice came out thick and low, "You are an intelligent woman. Race and financial status are only barriers if you let them be. I'm not saying that if you do this you have to actually use your degree. Do you want this for you?"
A slow nod.
"You do not let anyone define you. You're the strongest person I've ever met. Don't let anyone define you." He blinked back his own tears. "I know you can do this, my lady love. Believe in yourself, and everyone else will follow eventually too.
"Now, I'm not here to be a crutch—go on ahead and see if you can meet some classmates before the first class starts. You wed a marquess when in dire straights and still didn't hesitate to backtalk, you stormed England courts with cannons blasting, gave birth at sea while immigrating to America, and taught me how to slum across the country. I'd say medical university is a bit unadventurous in your book." He gave a wink.
Drawing a shaky breath, her shoulders squared. He was right—this would be the least hardest thing done in years. "I love you."
"I love you too, sweetheart."
Clutching the books tight to her chest, despite the slight discomfort it caused with the breast prosthesis she'd secretly created this morning, she turned before courage faded.
There had to be fifty women in the classroom. Most all of them chatted in the seats, an excited buzz in the room. A small group of empty seats sat at the end of the second row. Weaving a path through the crowd led to stares and awkward smiles on the way.
The room filled, yet the surrounding seats remained empty. Nerves grew tighter as whispers began to grow.
Finally, the door at the bottom of the amphitheater opened and a soft tap filled the air as the room slipped into silence. Mark made his way across the floor on his cane to the podium, only two books in hand.
"That's the professor," one woman whispered to another, "I heard he's from England. He's so much handsomer than rumored."
"Do you think he has an accent? I don't want to not know what he's teaching," another woman panicked.
"Good morning," Mark boomed, clearly having experience in commanding a room—perhaps a room like Parliament—into silence.
The murmurs silenced.
He set down the books and flipped one open without a glance up. "I'm Dr. Johnson and will be your instructor for obstetrics this year." Mark rested a hand on the podium and leaned on the cane with the other. Those blue eyes remained cold and calculating, a look not unlike the man whom had come to her father's house years ago.
"Women don't belong in medicine: you'll hear that every day from here on out. You'll have to work twice as hard as a man simply to prove yourselves. You'll have even less room for error and must work thrice as long to earn respect as a physician. Patients will risk death rather than be at the hands of a female surgeon. Jobs will be few and far between, and many of you will have to start your own clinics because of it. I've instructed at men's university; I will work you twice as hard. My job is to prepare you to be the best damn surgeons and make it in a man's world. If you don't have tough skin, get out of my class right now." He paused.
Everyone looked at each other, fear reflecting in everyone's eyes.
Two women got up with tears in their eyes and walked out.
Mark simply waited.
Four more left. And then five more.
"Mrs. Johnson." Those cool eyes looked right at her. "Select a partner."
With an uncertain look around the room and then back at him, she moved to sit beside a woman in the next row.
Then he proceeded in calling out names for everyone to sit beside a partner. "This person is your lifeline. Should you be absent, this person will catch you up on what was missed. This person will be your lab partner the next month. Medicine is about working independently and with others. Does anyone wish to trade partners?"
Her partner raised her hand. No one else did.
Humiliation burned hot.
Mark's gaze didn't waiver. "Why do you wish to switch, Miss...?"
"Miss Woods. Dr. Johnson, I'd prefer to work with someone who attended school."
His brow snapped together, likely just as surprised at how this woman knew that secret. "Excuse me?'
"Sir, Injuns aren't allowed to attend school. If our grade is reliant on our lab partner..."
Oh god, they all knew now. Staring at Mark in a panic, clasping her hands under the table was the only way to cease the trembles.
His eyebrows slowly rose and his tone dripped with distain. "That's too bad. Mrs. Johnson has published medical articles and worked as a surgical nurse with some renowned physicians, including myself. Go ahead and switch."
"Oh. Um, no, I'm fine."
He shook his head. "Who would like to partner with Mrs. Johnson?"
More than a dozen hands shot up.
Mark met her eyes. "Mrs. Johnson, you seem to have your pick of partners." He bowed his head and adjusted his papers, not fully hiding his smile.
At the end of the day, a headache threatened. Walking out of the building for the physiology class, a sigh of relief escaped to see Mark waiting with the horses under nearby tree.
He sat with a pile of papers, apparently already grading work, and looked up when she approached. "I was hoping you'd come soon. The horse won't hold still." The man chuckled and traded the papers for his cane.
Of all the things he'd been able to master the past two years with an amputated leg, getting up from the ground wasn't one that came easily for him.
With a smile, she set down her books and took his hand.
"How were classes?" He gave a gentle pull and pushed up with his good leg and the cane.
"There was a lot of information for the first day. I think you're the professor everyone will hate by default, though." Sweeping up his papers from the ground, she handed them over.
"Thank you." He tucked the stack in his saddle bag and then held out a hand for her books. "Everyone usually hates me the first weeks. I don't want anyone in my class who isn't serious."
With a frown, she handed over the books for him to tuck away too. "But, how do you know those women who quit weren't just intimidated, or just think they can't do it? If you weren't the professor, I might've walked out too."
The corner of his mouth quirked. "No, you wouldn't." He slid his cane into the saddle bag and heaved himself into the saddle.
"Who says I wouldn't have?"
"You're too stubborn. You would've seen it as a challenge and taken it just to prove me wrong. Those are the kind of students who make good physicians—especially when they're women who must overcome adversity simply for being female." He held down a hand and pulled her across his lap.
"Mark, this is highly improper for us to ride the same horse, much less sit me in your lap. Students already whisper that I'm sleeping with the professor."
"Let them. You'll prove yourself intelligent enough to not need to strip naked for your grades."
A gasp of shock and embarrassment squeaked out as he turned the horse around.
"Besides, we don't have need for two horses usually, and he balks at my uneven weight."
At least the man waited to reach the country road before he nuzzled her hair.
"He's half draft horse and too big to properly pull the buggy with the children inside. I don't know why you insisted on buying him from a peddler—you clearly didn't get the good end of the bargain." Ignoring his soft nips on the earlobe proved a bit difficult.
"On the contrary, my lady love," he said in a husky tone, "I find half breeds perfect."
Her head whipped around with another soft gasp of surprise. He'd never referenced her own breeding like that before.
"The cow that Brigands has next door," he muttered, "He was told she was dried up being a half-English, half-American cow, but she produces the best milk for the children."
"Oh."
He lifted his head from her neck and scowled. "What did you think I was talking about?" A deep sigh of irritation released through his nose. "Just because I didn't rake Miss Woods over the coals for calling you a racist name doesn't mean I condone it."
Turning away to look at the road ahead, she nodded. "I know. I asked you to not treat me any differently than any other student, and I'm glad you didn't say anything about it. It was humiliating, and I wasn't ready to be called out in front of everyone." An ache from deep inside rose up, making the words fade away.
"No matter what anyone says, I love you, my Tanya."
"Mark." The giggle escaped early one morning a few days later.
He pulled open the curtains and climbed back in bed, leaving his crutches behind. "Hush, woman. You've deprived me of watching my beautiful wife in the throws of passion; I will not yield now."
"We're going to have another mouth to feed if you don't stop." A laugh of surprise hit as his hands wrapped around her hips and dragged her beneath him.
"Hence the protection. My god, Tanya, I have to have you right now." He joined and immediately collapsed on her chest with a sigh. "Don't move, or we'll be finished," he choked against her shoulder.
"Want me bad, Dr. Johnson? I don't think I should be sleeping with my professor."
His shoulders shook with a chuckle, and he swatted her hip. "Behave, woman."
"Mama! Mama!" Charles's voice called, and his little feet padded down the stairs.
She patted Mark's shoulder. "Get off. You didn't lock the door!"
With a curse, he grabbed his crutches and darted to the door.
Little fists pounded on it a split second later. "Mama! I want to play!"
"Alright, hold on a minute while I wake up Mama," Mark called and hobbled back to bed with a naughty grin.
"Maaaaaamaaaa!" Della shouted for attention from upstairs, now awake too.
She reached for her robe.
Mark stopped at the edge of the bed and blinked. "What are you doing?"
"The children are up. Go get Della while I have Charles help me play the cook and make breakfast." She swept past to the vanity that he'd insisted on building with the house, and ran a brush through her hair.
"But, I woke you up first." He frowned in the mirror reflection, still standing there naked on the crutches.
"Mama! Come!" Charles knocked again with impatience.
Throwing up her hands, a dry look thrown his way didn't lesson the disappointment on Mark's face. "Fine. You have two minutes while the children yell for my attention."
If not knowing better, his impassive expression would've been mistaken for defeat. But it was the same look as every time he had to quietly take the backseat to the children and medical university and work. Until now, it hadn't been apparent how starved Mark was for affection. "Mama's coming," he called, skillfully hiding the disappointment in his voice as he sank onto the edge of the bed and reached for his clothes.
"Go tell your sister I'm coming, Charles," she called and let the robe fall as she walked to the bed.
Mark looked up in surprise.
"Two minutes, Dr. Johnson. And you'd better make it worth my time," she purred and pushed him back on the bed.
A smile split his lips as he let the crutches clatter to the floor. "Let me fix the protection."
"I'm due in a few days anyways." But leaning down to kiss him only resulted in resistance as he adjusted the birth control. A frown pulled as she sat back.
His eyes landed on the faded cesarean section scar and he stilled.
Then it dawned. "You pushed for university because you don't want more children." The shock hurt, and she sank onto the side of the bed, off of his lap.
Wide eyes flew to hers. "No, I, it - "
She shot up, but he caught her hips and pulled her onto his lap. "Tanya, listen before you get angry."
The subdued concern in his voice extinguished some of the hurt.
He turned her to straddle his lap and softly traced the scar, with his head bowed. "You have to understand I was scared as hell when you started to hemorrhage." His voice quivered, and he still wouldn't look up.
"But, Mark, you said you found part of the tumor left that tore the uterus during labor." Stroking his cheek didn't make him lift his head. "We know what was wrong and you fixed it."
He finally looked up, and tears and fear shimmered in his eyes. "And what if I caused the tumor? I won't risk it happening again and losing you next time. We were lucky. I almost had to do a hysterectomy."
So much fear still lived in him, even after all this time. "But I'm alright."
A tear slipped down his cheek. "Next time you might not be."
"Mark, the tumor wasn't your fault. It might've been a freak thing and nothing to do with you." Brushing his tear away only resulted in another one with his next words.
"Charles was fine, but Della - "
"Della is perfect and has you to take care of her. You and the professor did surgery at birth to remove the part of the tumor attached to her leg and are fixing her leg with braces so it straightens as she grows; she's sound otherwise. You do not get all the credit for everything that went wrong with the pregnancy."
But he bowed his head with the weight of the world on his shoulders, his fingers still on the scar. "Neither do you get to dismiss the fact that I might've done this to both of you," he whispered.
"Look at me." Cupping his face in her hands, she met his eyes. "You published a paper in three medical journals and wrote to dozens of physicians around the world. There's the one case you already knew of and then one more you uncovered. The second went on to have normal pregnancies with the same man - "
"But the severe morning sickness - "
"If I hadn't been starving with Charles, that may've happened with him too. I didn't have enough food for it to get bad enough like with Della. That could just be how I handle any pregnancy, but you figured out a feeding tube. With both pregnancies, the morning sickness ended in the second trimester. All the specialists we've consulted agree that Della's pregnancy complications were a freak accident. If the next pregnancy has complications, I won't ask for more - "
"No."
A thud on the ceiling.
"Mama!" Charles screamed.
Shooting off of Mark's lap, she grabbed her robe and tore out the door.
"I'm coming up the dumbwaitor!" Mark called.
Tearing into Della's room, she dropped to the floor where Charles laid on his back with Della on top of him.
Charles made odd whimpering sounds.
"Who's hurt?"
Della didn't move, but her body shook in an odd manner. A seizure? Head trauma?
Slowly turning her over while supporting her neck in case of injury, the world suspended as it waited to come crashing down with news of fatal trauma.
Della grinned and gasped in a breath as a belly laugh so hard she didn't make noise started again.
The bell of the dumb waiter. Mark's crutches tapped across the floor in a rapid click. "Who's hurt? What's wrong?"
Charles was in belly laughs too.
"I think they're laughing," she said in shock as Mark dropped hard onto his hands and knee beside her. "Charles, what happened?" Mark began to feel the back of Charles's head for bumps.
Della pushed herself up to a sit. "Boom! Again! Again!"
Charles pushed Mark's hand away. "Papa, I'm fine." He sat up and wiped the tears from his eyes. "She got up. I said she'd get in trouble. I caught her."
"Della," Mark scolded, now feeling her head for bumps, "you do not get up without me or Mama, do you understand?!"
Della's giggles morphed into tears.
"Mark," she whispered and scooped up Della. "It's alright. You just scared Papa and Mama. You need your brace on so you can walk." Then she held out an arm to Charles, who looked ashamed. "Honey, it's not your fault. That's good you caught her, but you could've gotten hurt."
Charles crawled into her lap.
Mark scowled, but it was clear that he blamed himself for detaining her in the bedroom and leading to the children almost getting hurt.
She held out a hand to Mark. "I think everyone needs a hug. It's no one's fault."
Mark scooted closer and wrapped his arms around everyone. "I was scared someone got hurt." He pressed a kiss to Charles's head and then Della's
"No leg!" Della flung her hand out in anger at the direction of her brace.
Charles perked up, ever the protective brother, and retrieved it. "It makes you play with me." He smiled and plopped down with the brace.
"No!" Her pudgy little hand flailed, and her bottom lip stuck out.
Guilt clouded Mark's eyes for a moment.
"Della? It's like Papa. He needs his crutches or a fake leg to walk, just like you need your brace."
The toddler looked up in confusion, and Mark met her eye with uncertainty.
"Like Papa!" Charles smacked a palm to his forehead, just like Mark would do whenever he realized the obvious. He held out his little hands at Mark. "Papa puts his leg on." Then he held out his hands to Della. "You put your leg on. Just like Papa!" Then he frowned and looked up. "Mama? Why don't we put on legs?"
With a smile, she kissed his head. "Because God gave us legs that work so we can help Della and Papa when they need it."
Della crawled over to Mark and stuck out her leg that still had some curvature to it from the knee to ankle, although it was significantly better than at birth. The little darling pushed back his robe to bare Hero. "No leg." She shook her head vigorously, making her brown curls bounce.
"No leg," he said quietly. A soft smile touched his lips as he continued, "But we can fix your leg so when you get big, you won't need a brace."
"Why don't you have a leg, Papa?" Charles scooted closer, studying the amputation. "Will your brace fix your leg too?" He touched the terribie scar, and Della copied her brother, although clearly she didn't understand.
Something about the scene of Mark being so vulnerable and the children thinking nothing of his leg caused an ache in the chest. Nearly four years ago, Mark wouldn't even touch the amputation himself, much less let anyone else. There were so many days when he still suffered self-consciousness and worked to hide the disability from the public. Today, he didn't hide it or stop his children from touching—it was simply a part of him.
"No, my boy, mine couldn't be fixed. Does anyone at school say anything to you about it? Tease you?"
Charles frowned. "No. Do you get teased?" Concern suddenly filled the boy's voice.
Mark cracked a smile. "That's good they don't. You tell Mama or I, alright?" He sidestepped the question. Mr. Price did everything possible to run down Mark's business as the competition to his own poor barber serving as the lumberyard surgeon—including making it well-known to the workers that Mark didn't have a leg. It did little to hurt business, as Mark's reputation grew throughout the area, but it gave Mark's coonfidence a sound beating often.
Charles kissed the long scar on the end of Mark's leg. Della copied.
Mark's lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away as he gathered the children in a hug. I love you..." Mark croaked, his voice giving out.
"...to the moon..." Charles added.
"...and stars..." Della squealed.
"...and forever," she whispered, finishing the phrase that Mark had created to tuck the children into bed at night.
Her cuddle bear rarely grunted and growled at the children when feeling sentimental. He often was a pile of mush in their hands. With her, he still grunted and growled, but it somehow made it more special that it was reserved for her—it was like the early days of marriage when he was falling in love but reluctant to admit it.
Della stuck out her leg and pointed to the brace. "On."
Mark smiled and strapped on the little brace and then helped her stand.
"Papa leg." She bent in half at the waist, as little ones were want to do, and patted Hero.
"I should put mine on too?" He chuckled.
Della nodded. "Chase!" She ran in circles, not seeming to mind that her gait was hindered. Charles got up and chased her. Squeals peeled through the room.
With her eyes on the children, she whispered, "I want to be chased too, Marquess." It was easy to see from the corner of her eye that it got his attention.
His head whipped to her. "You never call me that unless you want to be naughty, woman," he grunted.
"Yes, Mark."
"Don't sass me, wench."
"No, Mark." A smile tugged.
He gave a swat on her backside. "Watch your tongue—you know what your sass does to me."
"I don't want to watch my tongue." A haughty look left him speechless for a moment.
He blinked and then his brow snapped together. "Should you continue working on this mastery of rendering me speechless, I shall have to punish you. God knows I should've done it years ago."
A giggle escaped. "As the Marquess has threatened for years. He's nothing more than a cuddle bear who has an empty growl."
"And so I've noticed in class that you're the only one who doesn't quake," he said dryly. "Clearly, I need to rectify that or they're going to assume you're at the top of the class for sleeping with the professor." He pushed himself up on the crutches and chased after the children.
That jest didn't sit well, for some reason.
Mark's class proved to be the hardest by far because of how hard he drove his students, weeding out the best of the best. The headcount dwindled to thirty, and it was only half way through the first semester.
"Today, we aren't going to work out of the text or in lab. Today is theory," he announced. "If you do not answer correctly, you are dismissed from class to go study again for tomorrow's theory session."
He called on a student and gave a hypothetical situation. It was difficult, but the first student gave the right diagnosis and treatment.
"Mrs. Johnson." He looked right at her, his eyes cold and hard, just like every day in class. "A woman, early thirties, has had two uneventful births and is in labor with her third child. It's an uneventful pregnancy and she has no comorbidities, and she's fully dilated and effaced. The babe presents breech. Go."
Sandy's birth. "Heart rate and vitals are normal for mother and babe? No bleeding or other complications during delivery are present?"
"No."
"Is the mother's pelvis adequate for the estimated size of this birth?"
"Yes."
It had to be Sandy's birth that he was describing. After a few more questions, and confirmation that another surgeon or skilled help was nearby should there be complications, she said, "Closely monitor the mother and babe, ensure the leg still is up to prevent the cervix from clamping on the neck, and let delivery progress. Be prepared for emergency surgery - "
"Have you delivered breech on your own before, Mrs. Johnson?" He interrupted.
She blinked. "I've assisted, but - "
"On your own?" he snapped.
"No."
He looked to the class. "Ego is the quickest way to kill a patient. You're dismissed for the day, Mrs. Johnson."
Everyone stared in shock and looked even more afraid of him.
He turned to another student.
Staring in dumbfounded shock, it took a moment to sink in. Is this what he meant by rectifying that she wasn't afraid of him like the other students? Delivering humiliation so no one thought her grades were due to sleeping with the professor?
Anger rose, rapidly consuming the hurt. "You advise potentially unnecessary and life-threatening surgery instead, Dr. Johnson?" She cut into his question for the next student.
A couple small gasps filled the silence.
He slowly turned, his eyebrows raised. "The babe's leg isn't at the neck anymore during delivery and the cervix clamps down. You just killed the babe. You do surgery. It is nearly impossible to get the cervix to release, so you have to do a hysterectomy with a corpse attached. I guarantee the mother will bleed out. Congratulations, you just killed them both," he hissed, "You do not attempt a procedure that guarantees death unless you have some goddamn good experience under your belt! Get out of my class." He flung his arm toward the door and turned back to the other student.
It had to be a nightmare. Mark wouldn't set her up for public humiliation. She glanced around, and several students looked as shocked as she felt. Gathering her books, she headed for the door. And Mark never once glanced her way.
Insecurities from so long ago slammed head-on the rest of the day. Maybe he was ashamed of her or she truly was as stupid as everyone had claimed. What was she doing thinking that medical university was a remote possibility when not having even made it through the school room? She was a fake and Mark had simply called her out for it. Even in the tribe where no one had formal education, she was so unskilled as to have no trade.
Some students even cast small stones on the way across campus, one of them hard enough that it made breathing too deep painful, as if having bruised a rib.
It was the coward's way out, but hiding in the library for lunch was preferable to sitting outside where Mark could find her. Even if he apologized, the last thing needed was for everyone to see the misfit Injun cry.
That was a mistake. Apparently word of this morning had spread, and whispers and glances followed in her wake more than usual.
The only place safe from humiliation was a back stairwell in the hideous smelling cadaver building. Only, it left time for a little voice to creep in—a voice that hadn't spoken since Papa died.
Injuns shouldn't even be wed to someone of his station—white men don't wed heathens, they own them, rut them. Half breed have no place pretending to have enough intelligence for university. Fake. Only good for whoring, like Papa said.
The evil voice continued whispering sweet nothings all day.
It was impossible to look anyone in the eye by the end of the day. Everyone sat farther away in class, whispered more, threw more looks of disgust. Rumors of Mark resenting having wed a redskin began to surface.
The dreaded moment came at the end of the day of facing Mark. Humiliation, hurt, and anger had all fought to get out on top earlier today, but shame had swooped in and won hours ago. A numbness had settled in behind it, ruled by the shame. Even with a swollen belly and no ring before Mark had come, there'd been a little bit of fire left burning inside to keep fighting. Now there was nothing but a desire to keep silent with a bowed head and be as invisible as possible to the world in order to escape more scorn and humiliation.
If not for the children, there'd be too much shame to even go home.
Keeping a bowed head and books clutched tight to the chest for courage, a wide breadth around the giant tree where Mark would have the horse saddled and waiting made it possible to leave campus without his notice.
As if he'd even wait for you.
Perhaps some of this horrible humiliation would fade before seeing the children. Charles was quick to notice people's moods and so very fiercely protective of his mother on the few times his sweet little eyes had witnessed racist or sexist comments from Mr. Price.
The passerbys dwindled as students went home, and the road soon quieted within view of the unviersity.
A crack filled the air at the same moment white hot, raw pain cut across from shoulder to hip and a scream ripped out. The books fell to the ground in an instinctive arch to escape the pain.
Laughter filled the air as two women from classes and their male companion held up riding crops. "It bleeds red," one woman laughed.
"Injuns don't go to university. Do you think it even speaks," the man sneered and nudged his horse forward to trample her books.
Pain exploded through her cheek.
He lowered his crop.
The shock made every movement feel disjointed as she touched her cheek. Warm, slick blood covered her palm.
A sickening smile curled his lips. "Aren't you going to cry and beg for mercy, heathen?"
Meeting his cruel eyes, her hands fisted at her sides. "I don't cry or beg, whitey."
Anger flashed through his gaze, and he raised the whip.
Heavy hooves thundered and the ground trembled. A massive black horse apearled, blocking view of the man. A loud crack.
Mark held a whip, only with the tail wrapped around the stalk, and used it as a stick to beat the man back. "I'll goddamn have you arrested! Don't think I won't use this on a woman!" he roared at the two female companions. He whipped out a gun and aimed it at the three of them as they backed up in fear. "I have every right by law to shoot your fucking head off," he hissed, his hand trembling with rage.
A shot fired. She jumped just as hard as them.
The man screamed and grabbed part of his missing ear. "You shot me!"
"I missed," Mark snarled, ever the expert marksman, and raised the gun again.
The three of them took off.
"Tanya." Mark practically threw himself off the tall beast of a horse and froze in shock. "Those goddamn bastards! They whipped you?! I only saw him raise his crop!" He pulled out a handkerchief and reached for her cheekbone that throbbed with each heartbeat.
Sidestepping him, every muscle trembled from the back pain, but pride was strong enough to pick up the torn and muddy books trampled in the dirt.
"Tanya, leave the damn books. I'll buy you new ones. Come, we need to get you to the clinic." He scooped up the rest of the broken books and eased the burden from her hands. "You must be in shock. I don't know how you're not in tears. Your poor eye is beginning to swell shut. Come, let's get you fixed up so I can appropriately grovel—" He set a hand on her back.
Jerking away, willpower wasn't enough to stop the cry of agony from escaping.
He seemed perplexed at how his hand had blood when her cheek hadn't been touched. And then he paled. "Tanya, let me see your back," he breathed.
Every breath could be felt pulling the wound open and then releasing. Whether soft pants came from trying to not breathe or a need to not burst into tears, it was impossible to tell.
"Don't cry, love—"
It was as if a door slammed shut. Pity. It wasn't needed from him or anyone. Pride was the one thing no one could take away, and the only thing that wouldn't abandon her. A hard gaze met his eyes. "I don't cry, Marquess."
He stilled, as if taken off guard by the harsh tone but not entirely surprised. "I see that." He stuffed her books in the saddlebag and then turned, almost as if buying time to figure out his next words. "Tanya, I was an unforgivable ass this morning. I spent all day looking for you—"
"The slurs and whispers and segregation and trail of stones on the north grounds would've led you, if you'd truly tried."
"What?" His brow snapped together. "What do you mean? What happened?"
A bitter laugh escaped. "What happened is my husband fed me right to the wolves."
The man looked ill. "Tanya, what I did in class was inexcusable, but it had nothing to do with your heritage." His voice shook, as if afraid of her answer.
"Everyone fears you and that's the only reason why the slights and insults have been controlled..."
Tears brimmed in his eyes as it dawned.
"...But I wasn't just thrown out of class today but publicly humiliated by now own husband, so why would I not be free game for everyone else?"
"Tanya, I never meant—"
Even the tear that rolled down his cheek didn't offer any measure of solace. "I asked you to treat me no differently than any other student." Tears burned. "But never once did I think it'd unveil disgust and resentment over having a heathen for a wife."
Rage filled his eyes. "I have never once resented or been disgusted by your heritage, and don't you damn well put those words in my mouth!" He roared and thrust a finger at the ground. "I hold you to higher standards because I know how much you're capable of! There are things I can't say in there in front of them! I worry that everyone is going to think you're making it through class because you're my wife, but I was out of line today! Your answer was acceptable for your skill level, not the others in the class! But I can't give that answer to the rest of the class because I know many of them couldn't do it! Egos would make them think they could do what you described; intellect and skill make it possible for you." His chest heaved and anger danced in those blue eyes. "Never did it occur to me that me being an arse would put you in danger!"
His shoulders fell and he searched her eyes, taking one step forward and offering a hand. "I'm sorry and will see that those students are punished. I'll spend years groveling, but please let me see to your wounds. You're bleeding and have deep cuts that need treatment to prevent infection."
The back of the dress felt wet and cold, as if blood had soaked the material. A warm trickle inched down her jaw. Wrapping her arms around her middle, staring at the ground made it less humiliating as her face crumpled and tears fell. "I don't want your charity."
His boots came into view and stood almost toe to toe. A warm hand cupped the unharmed cheek and guided her eyes up. "It's not charity or pity or guilt. You survived an attack on your own that resulted in Charles; I have no doubts that you don't truly need me for this either. I want to help because I love you. Those students will be dealt with tomorrow, and I will address all of this with every one of my classes tomorrow. Right now, I ask that you entertain forgiveness enough to let me tend to my wife. More appropriate groveling will need to wait until after you're patched up."
He worked hard to get down on one knee, and then forced his fake leg down too. Taking her hands, he looked up with tears in his eyes. "I'm so terribly sorry, Tanya. I offer no excuses. In hindsight, I realize I humiliated you when that's the last thing I ever want to do to you. I didn't understand that such an action was turning my back on you and leaving you exposed to..." His voice caught and his tear spilled over. "I realize now that I abandoned and betrayed you when I'm supposed to be the one whom protects you at any cost. I'm not asking you to forgive me today or next week." He swallowed hard. "I hope I haven't completely destroyed your trust in me."
Easing her hands out of his, she sniffled. "I won't sleep in your bed tonight."
For a split instant, his breath hitched at that pain but he rapidly composed himself and gave a nod.
"You know what they've been like to me, but all of that aside, I'll never understand why you set me up for humiliation in class," she whispered. "I don't care if they think I pass because we're wed. You, husband, seem to be the one who cares what people think. And I worry if it will breed into resentment of what I am."
"Jesus, Tanya, what I did has nothing to do with you not having gone to school or your heritage or any other goddamn hairbrained notion you have! I could goddamn fucking care less if your skin is purple and you came from the Moon. I'm saying that what I did was out of line and has no reflection on you!" He struggled to get up and accepted her help.
"Don't sin," she whispered and swallowed hard.
"I goddamn will because maybe it'll get His damn attention to goddamn knock some sense into your head!" The man positively shook with rage. "I'm quite capable of being an arse all on my own to everyone, regardless of sex or race! You have as much right to be at that university as anyone else, and I'm sorry but I goddamn care about your reputation of them thinking you're coasting along just because I'm your professor! You're goddamn brilliant and—"
So many emotions finally broke free "Stop it!" It tore out in a yell as tears rolled down, the pain seeking to escape by any means possible. "Stop trying to make the impossible happen and make me believe it! Every one of my professors is as hard on me as you are to your students—but just me! No one will sit near an Injun in class! Students whisper wondering why I'm not working in the fields like the other Injun slaves or breeding bastards from a master!" Sobs broke free. "I was beaten, raped, whipped, and almost scalped and quartered because I'm not worth even the status of a whore, and everyone understands it but you!"
He grubbed her upper arms and hissed, "You're a goddamn human being, just like everyone else! I'm not blind to what the world sees and thinks and how Society works, but that doesn't mean I cannot love you and do my best to pave a way for you in this world! I screwed up today thinking I was doing the right thing to prove to everyone that you're getting through university all on your own and I am so sorry, but it has no reflection on your race or gender. Look at me," he ordered.
The tears fell as she looked up, the shame returning full force.
Worthless whore.
The evil voice began to surface.
"Be angry with me. Make me work to earn your trust again. You are worth so much and should demand every bit of respect from everyone, including me. Tell me that you deserve more respect than what I gave you today. Tell me!"
You deserved everything you got today.
Her face crumpled.
"Say it!"
"I deserve m,more respect than what you gave me," she wept.
He brushed a loose lock of hair from her face and bowed his head to meet her eyes. "You tell yourself that every day, and you demand absolutely nothing less from me, understood?"
Mark had insisted upon just enough chloroform so the cleaning and stitching weren't painful. When he'd helped her sit up to then stitch her cheek, it had come as a surprise that his eyes were red from weeping.
He'd been groveling the past two days and slept on the floor again. He'd assigned himself to the floor even though she'd not asked for him to not be in bed. It was as if he understood there were invisible wounds that needed time to heal. The night sweats had him in a tizzy that a fever was coming on, but pride made it too hard to admit it was nightmares of the days right after the rape. And the evil voice came more and more often—because it was memories of Papa's words.
Carefully propped up in the window seat that Mark had built in the small library for her pleasure, she lowered the latest medical journal and looked over at where he studied textbooks at a desk.
Few words were spoken since the whipping, but he was never too far and always jumped to help whenever she needed anything. It was as if he wasn't sure of his welcome but couldn't resist the instinct to keep her safe.
"Mark?"
His head whipped up in surprise, the first direct address to him in days.
"If a patient complains of hearing a voice, well more like a voice in the head that's actually pieces of conversations from years ago, can it be brought on by stress or is that psychosis?" Fisting the magazine tighter helped to force a neutral expression.
The man's brow furrowed. "I suppose it depends. If the patient is undergoing a lot of stress from a situation that is similar to the past, it perhaps could cause a form of flashbacks. Does the patient have a history of experiencing this voice?"
She shook her head.
"Is it a case in the medical journal?" He got up and walked over to look.
"Oh no, just a case in class." Her cheeks burned at that lie.
He studied her for a moment and gestured to the empty window seat spot near her feet. It was the closest he'd been in three days, aside from tending to wounds.
She curled up her legs to make room, the flush growing hotter under his intense gaze.
"Does the patient have any physical symptoms associated?"
An uneasy feeling crept up that he began to suspect she was the patient. "There's no change in eating habits or weight loss or anything like that."
"Sleeping habits?"
He knew. "Oh, um, I'll have to ask when I go back to class next week. I was just curious." She buried her nose in the journal.
"They're not voices coaxing self-harm, are they? If so, it's very important that she finds and talks to a physician she trusts." His gentle tone took on a note of concern and compassion, yet a cautiousness like someone approaching a rabbit that might bolt.
"I never said it was a female. But no." She stole a glance.
His brow knit in concern, and he set a hand over her slipper. "Will you tell the patient that if I'm not the preferred physician to talk to about it, Professor Mills can be trusted? And no, I don't believe it's psychosis but severe stress and trauma that are triggering memories."
She gave a nod and resumed reading.
But he stayed for a moment, as if hoping to will forth a confession that it was her so he could help. With a heartfelt sigh, he returned to the desk. His eyes could be felt burning her profile though. "Tanya? Do I frighten you?"
Mark realized the night sweats weren't illness coming on but nightmares and feared they were of him.
Meeting his eyes, she nodded.
He seemed to have an even heavier heart the rest of the day.
She laid naked on the bed the next day, with only a sheet up to her waist as he applied a daily poultice to the wounds on her back. Ironically, her cheek required that she keep her head turned away from him.
"Will you speak to Teresa of what you dream of at night?" he asked, breaking the strained silence. Stress had begun to deepen the lines of his face as the nightmares showed no sign of letting up in their nightly torture.
"My back simply hurts during the night." How easily the fib came.
Silence. He gently laid another rag over her spine. "I know you hate me right now for what I did and inadvertently causing the whipping—"
"I don't hate you," she whispered, but tears welled all the same for the pain of this distance from him.
"You can barely stand to be in the same room, and I don't blame you." His voice grew thick. "If you prefer that I sleep in the clinic, I will. It's not good for you to not sleep when you need to heal."
"Do you want to be at the clinic?" Tears fell from the corners.
He hesitated. His weight slowly shifted the bed as he sat on the edge and reached over her to rest his hand over hers. "I wish to be in the same bed as you, but I know that's more than I deserve right now. I see this haunted look in your eyes every moment but when you're with the children. And there's nothing I can do but standby and..."
And watch you burn in Hell.
"...and watch you suffer, and the closer I try to come to help, the worse it makes your pain. All I can do is watch you slip away from me," he choked. "I'm so sorry, Tanya. I betrayed your trust, and I don't know what to do because there's no way to fix this." The bed shook with his silent sobs.
Her face crumpled as all the pain unleashed and made it hard to breathe, but what hurt most was the need for him. Turning her hand over in his, she held so tight that it hurt. "It's so dark without you."
He climbed over and laid down facing her, holding her close as careful as possible. "I love you, Tanya. I'm right here."
Clutching him as tight as possible, all the hurt poured out.
As the tears subsided, he dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, his own eyes just as red. "Tell me what you need. I don't know what will help or make it worse or if I've ruined us."
She sniffled and curled up under his chin. "You haven't ruined us. I know you didn't realize how bad things would get, but it still hurts how you humiliated me, especially when I wasn't even wrong. You didn't have to kick me out or tell everyone that my ego was guiding me."
"I realize that. And I intend to make a public apology to the students I kicked out. I won't care if anyone thinks you're passing because you're my wife. You and I and your other professors will know that you're earning your way on your own merit—"
"But did you do it because part of you resents what I am?"
"What?" He pulled back to look at her. "You're an intelligent, beautiful, kind woman. I know what they see, but it's not what I see, Tanya. It never has been. I thought you were English until you and Brigands told me otherwise; I'd probably still think it. I can't help but feel that some of this is coming from someone else, not just strangers, Tanya. You're always so insistent that I'll resent your heritage."
With a sigh, she looked at his chest. "I think you know there was never a patient with a voice in the head."
The man was gracious enough to remain silent.
"I didn't realize it until yesterday that it's my father's voice. There was not one single kind word he said to me between the assault and when he died. He never beat me, but he reminded me often enough—when other people didn't—that my place in Society was as a maid, if that, because of my birth. I don't understand if he resented me for looking like Mama, or if he was cruel to her. He insisted that I'd whored myself to the thief when I showed up with child. He—" the words were so hard to get out "he tricked you into marrying me, not explaining there was a babe or that I'm half Injun—"
An irritated sigh escaped. "I think you like to use that word to get a rise out of me, woman." He pulled back and scooted down the bed enough to be eye to eye. "I wish he'd told me about Charles because I would've come for you sooner instead of sulking like some brat. But as far as being Native American, it wouldn't have made a difference. Frankly, I didn't fully understand what it meant until we went to the tribe. And if it had been safe for you and the children, we would still be with the tribe. That way of life was good for us and good for our marriage. All these Society rules that we thought were left behind in England piss the hell out of me, frankly. I could very well say you shouldn't want to be wed to a lowly surgeon or a heinous white man, but I don't even think it because I know you don't care. You need to trust me in this. I adore you. Only am I ever hard on you is when I truly think it's for your own good. Please, please stop doubting if I care where you're from. Frankly, it hurts sometimes that you think it matters at all to me."
She blinked.
"You never considered that, did you? But it does hurt, Tanya. I would die for you, and I hope that someday you'll believe it. You know that I struggle with not being self-conscious about my leg. It would be so easy to project Anna's views and my insecurities onto you, but I don't because you deserve to have your views trusted without being tainted by history. And when the times when it gets dark, I remember that losing this meant gaining you. I have no doubts that if I hadn't shown up, they'd have beaten you and Charles to death instead. I would go after you again in a heartbeat and still not resent trading my leg for you. I need you to trust me like that about your heritage. Screw your father. Screw Society." He rested his forehead against hers.
"Does it bother you that the children are of mixed blood?"
He sighed. "I suppose they'll have a hard time being accepted for not having my Scottish temper or not being large enough that the tailor charges extra for all the material."
Swatting his chest, a smile bloomed. A whimper followed as the stitches in her face protested.
The man sobered and very gently cupped her swollen cheek. "The correct question is if I'm jealous that our children will be more intelligent and beautiful than both of us."
Laying a hand over his, she searched his eyes. "I love you."
"I love you too, my lady love."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. Put a stitch right there, very gently." Mark's hands remained steady inside the man who'd been impaled at the lumberyard two weeks later. "My fingers are literally in his artery keeping him from hemorrhaging. You need to stitch it."
Only when he mopped her temple minutes later did it dawn that she'd done most of the surgery. A glance up revealed a smile as he looked inside the man's chest.
"Very good, Tanya. Alright, close him up." He got sutures ready and handed them over.
"Mark?" The word came out so soft he might not have heard.
He grunted, his attention on threading the needle that would suture the next level of tissue.
"I wish I could do this as a real surgeon."
True to his word, Mark had made an apology in class to everyone who had been dismissed from class during the theory session.
Those blue eyes rose, with so much sadness. "Sweetheart, I don't want you to continue with university if it's making you miserable. But, I don't want you to let anyone take this away if you really want it. If you do withdraw, with time and training we'll get you licensed, my lady love. Until then, you'd just have to stomach me as your sole professor." He winked. His patience in private had extended to the classroom, where he had begun to build up his students instead of tear them down to weed out the bad ones.
That helped steal away some of the sadness. The racism had escalated at university, but Mark wasn't yet aware of how much.
After finishing surgery, he pressed a kiss to her hair. "Excellent. Your sutures are becoming better than mine."
Someone knocked on the front clinic door. Mark slipped out of the surgery room, so she finished bandaging the patient.
The low rumble of two male voices came through the wall.
Once the surgical patient was situated, she slipped out. Mark might need a hand with the new patient.
A heavily muscled man about Mark's age sat on the exam table without a shirt. He had no visible injuries or gore, which was unusual in lumberyard medicine. And it gave time to be aware of having a semi-dressed male patient. Her feet slammed to a halt as embarrassment rose. "Oh. It looks like you don't need help."
The man looked up and his cheeks flushed slightly.
Mark moved the man's shoulder, which elicited a gasp of pain. "Actually, I think we do. You might've torn a shoulder ligament. Tanya, would you come here for a moment and hold up his arm? He has trouble doing it himself."
This was the most able-bodied, unclothed, conscious male patient yet. Talking would be a good distraction. She took his arm and held up the substantial weight from his thick muscles. It brought back memories of Mark's heavy muscles from blacksmithing that hadn't fully gone away with having to use heavy metal crutches. "I'm Mrs. Johnson. What happened?"
Mark stepped behind the man and began palpating along the shoulder blade area.
"Theodore, ma'm. I just arrived at the lumberyard this morning and started work as the blacksmith. I haven't worked for a couple weeks while traveling from the south, so I thought I was just out of shape when my shoulder started to hurt. A few more swings, and it hurt something fierce and I couldn't lift my hammer. The men said to come here for a real Doooc." The last word came out as a yelp as he jerked when Mark pressed on his shoulder joint.
The jerk of his arm downward threw her forward right into the man's lap.
Scrambling back, utterly mortified, she mumbled apologies and patted her bun in place for something to do with her hands.
"Beg your pardon. My fault," he said, his cheeks as red as hers felt. "You're as light as a feather."
Mark stilled and simply looked from her to Theodore to her again for a moment. "Your rotator cuff is torn and needs surgery," he grunted.
The blacksmith shook his head. "I can't be out of work. Wrap it up and put some salve or something on it, Doc. I need paychecks to start coming again."
Mark crossed his arms over his chest. "It won't heal without surgery. It's plain and simple."
Stress clouded Theodore's eyes. "Well, I suppose I can get by for a week or two—"
"Recovery takes six weeks," Mark stated. "Perhaps your wife can do a little work at the restaurant in town that opened and serves lunch and dinner to the workers, just until you're back on your feet."
He slowly shook his head. "It's just me. I can't be out that long. Thank you, Doc. What do I owe you?" The man pulled on his shirt, breaking into a sweat from the pain of forcing his arm through the sleeve.
Mark frowned.
She stepped forward beside Mark. "Perhaps you can help temporarily at the saloon or somewhere, just while you heal. You really do need the surgery. If you wait, your body might try to heal it and make it worse with swelling and—"
"No, thank you, ma'm. I understand what's needed, I just can't do it right now." He slid to his feet, standing slightly taller than Mark and much taller than herself.
Mark threw up his hands in defeat. "You know that Price will want a physician's clearance to return to work because he doesn't like liability on his hands."
Theodore nodded and buttoned his shirt, trying not to wince in pain. "Yes, sir."
He planned on seeing the quack that Mr. Price had working as the surgeon for the lumberyard, who would undoubtedly give work clearance for an under-the-table fee.
Stepping forward, she brushed aside Theodore's bad arm and took over buttoning his shirt. "Promise that you will not let him try surgery. He may say you'll be better within days if he does it, but he is not a good man of science. We often have to try to repair his work, and we very often times cannot undo the full damage he inflicts." She looked far up at him. There was something very gentle and safe about him.
"Yes, ma'm. No surgery from him." He cracked a smile. "Thank you." With his wrong arm, he dug into his opposite pocket and handed Mark money. Then he headed out the door.
Mark cleared his throat as she watched Theodore out the window.
Without turning, she sighed. "Mark, there's something he wasn't saying that is putting him in a tough spot. I wish you would've offered him some kind of position, or at least meals so he wouldn't go hungry after surgery."
"Perhaps I'm not eager to have a man around to whom my wife is attracted," he retorted.
Spinning around, she frowned. "You said yourself that it takes time to not be embarrassed by nakedness. There was no blood to distract me, and I fell in the man's lap."
He simply cocked an eyebrow.
A deep sigh escaped and she rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm going to leave my wonderful husband and babies so I can have an affair with a stranger." She headed for the surgery room and peeked inside to see the patient still asleep.
"Oh, I'm sorry, here's my leave for you to go have hot sex while I stay here and watch the children!"
Her jaw dropped, and she closed the door so the patient wouldn't wake up. "You're being irrational!"
His eyebrows shot up, and he thrust a finger at his chest. "Am I? You haven't looked at me like that in a very long time."
The shock faded into concern. "Like what? I didn't look at him like anything, Mark."
"You looked at me like that the night in England when you were going to cut your hair and ran into my chest, and a few times right after we went to the tribe. It's raw attraction," he said quietly. "I know that our life isn't glamorous and the bedroom isn't as exciting with two children in the mix now and my leg and I'm not exactly the youngest man in the lumberyard—"
"Oh my goodness, Mark, I do desire you." She looped her arms around his neck, and his hands rested on her hips. "It's just that we're busy with work and the children, and...when I see you without a shirt, I'm either dead tired or we have a busy day ahead."
"Do you know how long it's been since we've made love?"
A slight smile pulled. "You're keeping track of how many weeks?"
"Six months."
She blinked and dropped her arms. "No."
He nodded. "Every single time we get close, the children wake up or a patient comes or something else happens. We didn't even get to finish that morning that Della fell out of bed. I understand that you're running a house and a business and a mother to two children and we're in medical school. I can take the backseat, Tanya, just not to another man." Heartbreak wove through his voice.
"You think I wouldn't be faithful?"
"No, I know that you would. Just...it feels like when I am on your list, 'doctor,' 'business partner,' 'amputee,' and everything else push 'husband' to last. I worry that 'husband' won't be on the list anymore eventually." He cleared his throat, as if uncomfortable with being so sentimental. "Go take a lunch break with the children. I'll watch the patient," he grunted and stepped back.
Catching his arm, she looked up into his eyes. "I realize that you are forced to take a backseat many days as a husband. But above everything else you are to me, you're my best friend. Yes, there was a fleeting moment of attraction because his muscles reminded me of how big yours were when you did blacksmith work; it had nothing to do with him. Let's see if Teresa and Brigands can watch the children tomorrow night, and we have a night together."
The patient moaned and interrupted before Mark could answer.
"Tanya, this should not be arousing," Mark panted the next evening as she kissed her way up his thigh and slid the prosthesis off.
"Why not? The children are at Brigands's house, so no one will hear what I do to my husband."
A slight chuckle filled the air, followed by a gasp as her hand wandered.
"Because, it's a disgusting appendage...oh god, Tanya...you don't know how many nights I've dreamed of making love to you."
"Have you, Marquess?" She purred and interrupted kisses to unwrap his bandage. "I intend to kiss every inch of skin that this bandage unveils."
"Let me pleasure you too," he panted and pulled off her dress.
"Mark now," she begged minutes later and squirmed underneath him.
"I'm coming, my lady love." He adjusted the birth control and his back rolled in a graceful arch to join her.
Someone knocked at the front door.
He paused in surprise.
Another knock.
With a curse, he rolled off and snatched his robe. "I'm going to kill someone. It's like the whole goddamn world is against us ever seeing the marriage bed again!"
"Maybe it's just something simple." She stretched under the sheets, the restless energy building. "Hurry back, Mark. I need you so much."
"My god, Tanya, just the sight of you is almost too much," he moaned in agony and grabbed his crutches.
He returned seconds later, his expression fierce. "The blacksmith is back. The goddamn quack gave him a poutice that made his shoulder balloon up. I put tools on the stove to boil." He tossed aside his crutches and yanked off his robe as he climbed into bed.
She blinked as his fingers laced with hers and he positioned her leg to cradle Hero. "What are you doing?"
"We're having sex even if it's just thirty seconds. There's no way I can concentrate during surgery, needing you this much."
A giggle answered.
He guided her hand away a few nights later and gave a chaste kiss on the cheek. "We have to be up early tomorrow." Then he turned out the light and rolled away in bed.
Staring at his back, uncharacteristically covered in a nightshirt, a sad sigh released. "Mark?" she whispered in the moonlight, "you stopped in the middle of kissing me the night the blacksmith needed surgery, and you've avoided every time I've tried to touch you since." Propping up on her elbow, she set a hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "I know sometimes you get self-conscious about your leg, and you know I don't mind if we have to just cuddle sometimes."
"A good wife knows not to speak of her husband's ailments," he snapped.
But a smile took hold at his growling. "I know, a good wife doesn't try to help him through difficult times."
"You're welcome to sleep in Della's bed if you sass me, woman," he barked.
"And leave my cuddle bear in a cold bed in the dark? Somehow I think he'd come find me during the night and bring me back to bed."
The man punched his pillow and resituated his head. "You always did have odd female notions in your head," he huffed.
Stroking his arm that had only grown harder over the years from using crutches and a cane, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "Yes, Mark."
"I'm in ill humor, woman."
"Of course, Mark. If you wish to punish me, I'll be a good girl and accept it."
The teasing only made him pull the sheet up over his shoulder.
A frown pulled. "Mark, I wasn't poking fun. I wish you'd tell me what's wrong. Did I do something at university? Or in bed that night?"
"No! Dammit, Tanya, stop goddamn badgering me and let me be!"
Blinking back the hurt at his harsh tone, she withdrew her hand and rolled away in bed.
After his breathing evened out minutes later, she slipped out of bed with a pillow.
"Where are you going?"
She stilled. His voice didn't have a sleepiness to it, as if he'd been awake the whole time. Hugging the pillow tight for comfort, staring at the doorknob made the ache hurt a little less. "To check in the children."
"You need a pillow for that?" Only his tone didn't expect an answer.
"You know that I grew up being acutely aware I was always unwanted by everyone. I think it's better if I sleep with the children so we don't get in an argument."
"And you know my temper doesn't discriminate you from anyone else," he said quietly.
"I know, but sometimes it's hard to feel that way when you've been pushing me away for days. You always want me to talk to you when I'm upset, yet... Is she ever going to leave us?" she whispered and laid her cheek on the pillow clutched to her heart in comfort.
"Who?"
"Anna." The name breathed out like the curse it had slowly become. "I've stood by you through everything, but you still choose to believe her over me."
"Tanya, she has nothing to do with this." But he wouldn't elaborate.
With a slow nod at the door, she whispered, "Goodnight, Mark." And then she quietly slipped out of the room.
"Tanya, don't make me get my crutches and hobble after you. My pride stings enough."
Returning to the doorway, she swallowed hard when he sat up. "I don't want you to come after me."
He held out his arm. "Stop babbling nonsense. I can tell when you're about to cry. Come. I'm not sure what's wrong and didn't want to tell you so you wouldn't worry."
Dropping the pillow on the bed, she crawled across to sit facing him but close enough for his arm to wrap around her waist. "Didn't want to tell me what? Is it your leg?"
The man stared at the blankets for a moment. "I can't figure it out and have been working up the nerve to ask someone else."
"Mark, what is it? What's wrong?" Her heart beat faster in dread.
"When...um, when I desire you...it hurts..."
She frowned. "Hurts like too much blood flow?"
He shook his head. "Not there, the stump." He glanced up.
Her brow furrowed. "There's not a tumor or anything?"
"I can't feel anything abnormal. I went through textbooks and can't find anything matching the symptoms."
A few minutes later, she pulled up the bedsheet. "I don't feel anything. Does it hurt after you've been on your feet all day?"
He frowned. "A couple times, but not consistently. We should go to bed. We aren't going to figure out anything tonight." He laid down and held out an arm for her to curl up.
The next morning, she rolled over to an empty spot in bed. Sunlight peeked through the windows, and the pitter patter of feet upstairs broke the silence. A tap followed—Mark must've taken the cane or crutches and gone to take care of the children so she could sleep in. Stretching in bliss, a sigh of contentment escaped.
Mark's cry of pain, followed by a heavy thud, broke the silence.
"Mamaaaaaaaaa!" Charles shrieked in terror.
Throwing back the sheets, she tore out of bed and ran up two stairs at a time.
"Mamaaaaaa!"
Mark laid in an unconscious heap in the middle of the children's room. Della sobbed in the corner of her bed, and Charles cried as he climbed out from under Mark's arm. "What happened?" Dropping to the floor, she pulled Charles free.
"Pa,papa lifted me a,and then screamed. H,he died."
"He didn't die. Are you hurt?" Feeling Mark's pulse at his neck didn't give any sign of an arrhythmia.
"N,no."
"Run next door to Mr. Brigands. Tell him Papa fell and Mama said it's an emergency. Go!"
Rolling Mark onto his back, mindful of a neck injury, he became a textbook case. With steady hands but a racing heart, an exam progressed to check for the worst causes first. "Della, don't cry. Papa's just asleep."
Brigands ran in moments later, still in a nightshirt. "Teresa, take the children. Mistress, what's wrong with him?"
Her hands fumbled trying to strip Mark's pants. A heart attack not bad enough to kill him? Stroke? Aneurysm? Something with the amputation? "I don't know. I can't find anything wrong!" The quiver in her voice and panic made her hands shake.
Brigands simply grabbed Mark's pants and yanked them down for her, apparently thinking the same thing because he went right for the prosthesis. His hands froze the same moment as hers.
Blood poured out from of the end of the amputation.
"Oh god," she breathed.
"Mistress, if we use the dumbwaiter, us and Teresa can get him into surgery - "
"There's no surgeon who can get here fast enough! He'll hemorrhage within minutes!" The shrill shriek of panic didn't even rouse Mark, who paled by the minute.
Brigands grabbed her shoulders and locked eyes. "He's having you do more and more surgeries yourself - "
"Supervised! I've never done one this bad by myself! I - "
He gave a shake. "You're all he has! Teresa!" he bellowed without breaking eye contact, "Boil water for surgery! Now!"
The last stitch was in and the room spun.
"Easy now. The worst is over. No need to faint." Brigands eased her into a chair.
"If I didn't do it right - "
"I assisted a time or two with blood clots that burst like this, and your job looked as good as any. Go freshen up before he wakes, my lady."
A glance down revealed perspiration stains, as well as bloodstains. Then it dawned that they were both still in nightclothes.
Brigands stood from his chair beside Mark's bed when she returned. "You stay with him. We'll watch the little ones."
Mark's eyes fluttered open minutes later. "Tanyaaa?" His speech had a slight slur yet.
"You fainted. There was deep vein thrombosis that ruptured. Brigands and I each gave you blood, but you may be weak for a few days."
With a slow nod, he closed his eyes, and his brow furrowed. "Tree bark?"
"I have it right here." Opening the container in her lap, she took a couple sticks and slipped them into his mouth to chew.
"How much more did you have to cut off?" No emotion accompanied the words.
Searching his eyes squinted in pain and dulled with shame, she stroked his whiskery cheek. "Not much. There was a small bit of muscle death next to the sciatic nerve, which is probably why you were having pain when we'd try to be intimate—my leg would've been supporting right where the clot was.
He remained silent all day, but his eyes watchful as patients came and went.
When another man was hospitalized for a mild infection in a hand saw wound, Mark seemed uncomfortable with the company. It had to be a bit of a sting to pride to be a patient in the clinic that he ran, but moving him so soon after major artery repair was too dangerous. So she put up a divider to give him some privacy.
The other man slept at the end of the day, so she peeked in on Mark again and held up a deck of cards. "Do you want to play?"
His eyes lit up for the first time all day. And faded the moment she put on the stethoscope.
"Last check and then we can go wild playing cards."
Although he was complacent as she listened and checked if the bandage was too tight, he stared at the sheet the entire time.
"Do you need the chamber pot? You haven't gone all day."
His lower lip quivered and he gave a sharp shake of his head.
She sank onto the edge of the bed slowly so as not to jostle his wound and set a hand on his arm. "This is temporary. In a couple days, you can be back in our bed and seeing to yourself. You're injured; this doesn't mean you're an invalid."
He swallowed hard and looked up at the ceiling, releasing a shaky breath. "I know," he whispered. "But it's starting all over with the prosthesis. Six weeks, at least, of crutches and hobbling around on one leg. No carrying the children or making love with you and I'll probably lose my professor position being out that long...this is the third time of starting over. How many more?" Those blue eyes locked with hers and a tear spilled over his lashes. "Each time is something worse. If you hadn't been home..."
Grabbing his face, she bore into his gaze. "But I was. We know now that if you have a pain like that again to look for DVT. It doesn't matter if this is the last time or one of a few more, because each time we're going to be here to help you. And it's not starting all over—we know exactly what exercises to do and wound care and how to remold the prosthesis gel. It's a stumble, and that's all, alright? I know it's painful and frustrating and no fun for you, but it's only six weeks in the grand scheme. Our goal for tomorrow is to get the swelling down. The goal for the next day is to get you to your own bed. We work one day at a time for the next step, you can't look at the entire mountain. We've done it before, and we'll do it again. Right?"
His face crumpled as he pulled her in for a tight hug, as if needing every bit of strength from her.
"I'll go to the university and plea your case for a leave of absence. Husband, they won't want me to get the cannons out."
That won a soft laugh from him. "I'm sure they'd hear your cannons all the way to England, wife."
