Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [110]
He did. He was praying, hard. Nothing but the same shadowy pale white light. He wanted to curse and cry. He swallowed, knowing Jules and Sam both were holding their breath.
“Just the lights,” he said. “I guess I need more time to heal. Another week, Sam?”
Sam was bitterly disappointed, but not overly surprised. He’d seen quite a bit of damage in the cornea. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jules, as he now called her. She was a strong girl, and he knew she was silent because she would refuse to cry.
“Yes,” he said calmly, “let’s give it another seven days. Is the light any clearer?”
“No, just pale and hazy.”
“Hold very still. I want to take another look to make sure all the fragments are out.”
Jules was fighting the lump in her throat. He doesn’t need you to burst into tears like a silly ninny, she told herself firmly. Don’t you dare!
“Looks good to me,” Sam said. “Any pain?”
“No.”
“Back on with the bandage.” Sam looked at Jules. He stretched out his hand and took hers, squeezing it hard. “Why don’t you put it on, Jules? You’ve a light, sure touch.”
It gave her mind direction, focus. She smiled at Sam, looking up for his approval as she fastened the bandage. He nodded.
“We’ve seen little of Thomas,” Saint said, then laughed roughly at his choice of verbs.
“I’ve got the boy working hard, as you can well imagine. He’ll be a fine doctor someday, Saint, a fine doctor.” He added a moment later, after sending an assessing look toward Jules, “He’s got grit, just like your wife here. Yes, indeed. Seems to me, Saint, that not all your patients need to come to me. Lord knows I’m old and tired! Perhaps Jules here could examine some of them, and you could tell her what to do. What do you think, Jules?”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
“Good, I’ll spread the word.”
When Jules returned to the surgery, she stopped cold in the doorway. Saint had gotten off the examining table and was feeling his way toward her. He bumped his leg against a chair and cursed.
“To your right, about a foot away,” she said in a calm, clear voice, “is your drug cabinet. If you walk straight, you’ll come right to me.”
He wanted to yell at her that she was a stupid twit and that every goddamned thing in the world was nothing but black, impenetrable black. He said instead, “Keep talking. Balance is still difficult.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Jules said. “You’re doing fine, Michael.” She swallowed convulsively, and forced some wickedness into her voice. “As you come straight at me, stretch our your hands. But not too far apart, mind!”
That did make him smile, a bit.
“Now, lower your arms, Michael.”
He did, and encountered her breasts. He stood quietly a moment, concentrating on the shape of her. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and Jules moved quickly into his arms.
He felt her cheek nuzzling his shoulder, felt her slender arms tighten about his back.
“I’m glad you’re my wife, Jules, but dammit, it’s not fair to you and—”
She clasped her hands behind his back and squeezed as hard as she could. “If you finish that thought, you will make me very angry. Now, do you promise?”
“Promise what?” he asked, resting his chin on the top of her head.
“Are you truly glad I’m your wife?”
Her voice was muffled, and he wished more than anything that he could see her face at that moment. Her expressions were so open, at least to him. Now, he thought, he had to rely on the nuances in her speech. “Yes,” he said.
“And can we work together with patients?”
Pleading, he thought. It was important to her, and, he realized, it wasn’t such a bad idea for him. It would certainly keep his mind occupied.
“We’ll try,” he said.
But it wasn’t Dr. Pickett who sent them their first patient, it was Limpin’ Willie.
“Me name’s Ryan,” the huge, shaggy man said, standing in the doorway, his black felt hat in his hands.
“Do come in, Mr. Ryan,” Jules said. “Come into the surgery. I’ll fetch my husband.
“Limpin’ Willie told me he’d rather come to you, no matter you can’t see nothing.”
Saint smiled. “Tell me what’s wrong, Ryan.”
“I got meself pounded on