Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [107]
“Michael—”
“Again, Jules. Keep doing it.”
She continued, becoming more adept each time. Finally he said, “That’s fine, Jules. Now, there’s a clean handkerchief in my pocket. Fold it and tie it around my head over my eyes.”
“Saint, you’re back to the world again, dear boy?”
“Samuel?”
“Yes, what’s this, ma’am?” He wondered briefly if the young woman had finally cracked as he watched her tie the handkerchief around Saint’s head. She smoothed it firmly over his eyes, then sat back on her heels.
“Thank you, Jules,” Saint said. “You did fine, just fine.”
Suddenly Samuel Pickett closed his own eyes, feeling sickness rise in his stomach.
“Michael,” Jules whispered.
“Help me up,” Saint said. “Now, Jules, I know you’re looking at me as if I’m on the brink of dying. But I’m not, I’m all right. Come.”
Both Jules and Dr. Pickett helped him to his feet. He swayed a moment, then stood firmly.
Slowly he raised his hands and pressed the handkerchief more firmly against his eyes. “I think, Sam, that my usefulness here is over.”
“Is there much pain, my boy?” Sam Pickett asked quietly.
“It’s lessening . . . a bit. Jules probably got most of the fragments, but . . .”
Jules stared at him, hugging his side. “You’re soaking wet,” she said, her mind refusing to accept what she knew to be true. “We’ll go home, Michael, and you can have a hot bath and—”
Saint knew she was trying to keep a firm hold on herself, and he admired her vastly at that moment. “Jules,” he interrupted her quietly, “get Thackery and Thomas—”
“Not Thomas,” Samuel said. “He accompanied some of the wounded men to the hospital after I assured him you were all right. The black man, is that Thackery?”
“Yes, it is. We’re not going to lose anybody, are we, Samuel?”
“Perhaps the one man you did your damnedest to save. I’m not certain yet. Maybe old Bunker will escape with a clear conscience after all, but the foundry’s gone. Now, Saint, let’s get you home.”
“Michael,” Jules said, her voice high and taut. “Yes, we must go. You’re going to catch a chill.”
He turned at the sound of her voice and said very quietly, “Hush, sweetheart. Everything will be fine.”
He paused a moment, squeezed his wife’s hand, heard her gulp down a sob.
Dr. Samuel Pickett said quietly, “I’ve got my buggy. Mrs. Morris, stay with him until I bring it around.”
24
Jules was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. If Saint had been able, he would have tried to reassure her. He said nothing. He was scared. The searing pain was lessening in his eyes, but he knew as well as Sam Pickett that even those pale flashes of white he’d seen briefly could fade forever, leaving him completely and forever blind. Dear God, a blind doctor would be good for absolutely nothing.
The buggy lurched into a muddy rut, and he groaned, unable to keep it inside. He felt Jules lightly stroke her fingertips over his forehead and gently ease him a bit so that his head was firmly pillowed in her lap. He heard her say gently, “Everything will be fine, love, I promise.”
He would have smiled, but it required all his concentration to control the damnable pain. She was sounding like him. Soothing and in control.
The buggy finally came to a halt, and Sam’s voice said, “Mrs. Morris and I are going to help you down now, Saint. Just hang on a bit longer.”
He said nothing, allowed them to assist him into the house. It seemed odd in the extreme to be stretched out on his own examining table.
“Now, my boy, I’m going to take off the bandages. It’s likely that you’ve still got some fragments in your eyes, and I’ve got to get them out. Then . . .” Sam paused.
“Then,” Saint finished, “we’ll bandage me back up and pray.”
“Yes,” said Sam.
Saint listened to Sam give Jules instructions, and forced himself to lie quietly. When Sam unwound the handkerchief about his eyes, he blinked and opened them.
“Anything, Saint?”
“Same as before. Pale white, like hoary ghosts from my boyhood, and that’s it.”
“That’s as much as we can expect