“What was the man’s prognosis?”
“He had a—”
“Doctor Waxler, if you please, I asked her.”
Waxler fumed, making Ada swallow a knot that formed in her throat. Letterman put her in an awkward position, but then, she no doubt put him in one too, with her being a doctor herself.
“A bullet had penetrated his lower leg, near the ankle. By all appearances, it had scored his leg, but the damage it left would easier lead to death, if left on its own.”
Letterman’s lips waggled as he listened. Waxler’s face turned red.
“He is the enemy!”
Letterman didn’t register Waxler’s outage but asked her, “And you were able to stop the bleeding?”
“Yes, sir.” She squared her shoulders. “I also believe he has a fracture in his heel, sir. The bone wasn’t stable and he reacted to the movement when I cleaned the wound.”
“It needed to be amputated! And we have no time to deal with the rebels when our own need help,” Waxler continued to argue.
Ada glared at him. The man was an excellent physician, from his education and his practice she had witnessed here, but his attitude needed adjusting. She so wanted to blurt out at him but grinded her teeth not to.
“So the wound did not lean toward amputation?”
She blinked, realizing Letterman was asking her. “No sir. Though he may have a long recovery, if it is indeed broken.”
“It’ll hinder him, if it is in the ankle.” The major inhaled. “One less rebel to fight us, I’d say. Good job, doctor. I’ll leave those handful of secesh in your care.”
Her breath left her. He’d called her doctor for once and left her a ward to care for. Stunned, she vaguely heard herself saying thank you and as he left, heard the strangled Waxler gain his voice, uttering arguments against it to their retreating commander.
“Congratulations, Ada.”
She turned to find Will at the doorway to the hall, grinning. Instantly, a wave of excitement race through her. She’d won recognition for her skills. It was a victory she hoped she’d earned well and prayed the major would never regret it. Gathering her strength, she thanked him and took her cup and headed toward her patients with renewed spirit.
Francois woke, groggy and swore his mouth was full of cotton. He licked his parched lips, trying to gain his senses, but too weak to push up off the thin pallet he was on. He stretched in an attempt to shake off the layer of lethargy that encompassed him, but his right leg rebelled. To move it sent shards of pain streaking up and he moaned, angry and hurt. Vague memories of falling, of waking up and finding himself in agony, but pinned as the devils worked on him haunted his thoughts.
Where the hell was he?
The sound of pouring water made him turn his head, gauging the distance to that mouthwatering liquid. There was a woman, tipping a pitcher of it into a basin and his parched mouth begged for the whole bowl. He opened his mouth to speak but the cotton that lined it and down his throat gave no volume to his voice.
The woman turned. When her gaze found him, he recognized her. She was the one he’d begged to stop the others from taking his foot, the word amputate still ringing in his ears. Instantly, he shot a look down at his right foot, fearing he’d find the source of his pain coming from a severed limb but when he saw the bandaged form, he collapsed in relief.
“Good morning.” She was at his side, lifting his head with her arm, a cup of water in her hand, pressing it against his lips. “I wondered when you’d wake.”
The water tasted like manna from the heavens and he craved more but she murmured.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She pulled the rim back slightly. “You’ve had chloroform and been out for some time. If you take too much, you may choke.”
He wanted to snarl, but even that made the water in his throat skip and he fought against the cough.
“See.” She took the cup back and laid him down. “There will be more. Relax.”
He stared at her. She was the angel, or was it the devil he recalled, burning his feet earlier. Even now, she was moving toward the end of the pallet and he immediately tried to escape her touch.
“Do not touch me!” he growled.
She gave him a raised brow, yet continued, lifting his calf and shoved a wad of blanket under it. “Have no worries, soldier. You’ll keep your foot. But you were shot and though it went through, it didn’t go deep. You’ll recover, though it might have nicked a bone. We’ll wait and see.”
Slowly the colors in the room blared and he saw the navy uniform on the medical staff and what appeared to be a Union flag in the corner hanging.
“I’m in a Union hospital? I can’t stay here,” he retorted. “I need to get back to my men.”
“There’ll be no leaving anytime soon,” she continued her exam, ignoring his reference to being captured.
“Let me go!”
She took a step back, shooting him a questioning but stern look. Biting her lower lip, she crossed her arms. “I can’t stop you. While I’d advise against it, that is, if you want to walk again, go ahead. Leave.”
Francois heard the smugness in her tone and that irritated him. Some Yankee witch thought she could prevent a good Southern soldier from doing his duty? At the moment, she was the only one here. In his peripheral vision, he noticed four other patients, none of who appeared awake or moving. Assessing the odds, he sat up and went to swing his legs off the pallet when a sharp, jabbing pain exploded in his injured leg. The minor lift of it sent a cascade of lightning shards burning through him, his ears began to ring and he felt lightheaded. He fell back on the bedding, furious to
