A Broken Wing (Kansas Crossroads) Read online

  “Thank you, Miss Scott,” Mr. Foster said. “Could you now please help him turn sideways on the bench, slide his right arm from both the coat and shirt, and lie him down?”

  Again, she did as she was asked. The man’s knees came nearly up to his chest on the seat, but his abdomen was flat, and she supposed that was the most important thing.

  She pressed herself up against the wall of the train to allow Mr. Foster to come nearer their patient. So many bodies in such a tight space . . . it was a very good thing she wasn’t prone to claustrophobia.

  Mr. Foster’s eyes focused on the wound intently, and he probed it with his uninjured hand. “Ah, just as I hoped. I can see the end of the bullet just there. Can you make it out, Miss Scott?”

  Trinity could think of any number of things she’d much rather do than to peer into a gaping wound, but she had to admit, curiosity was one of her failings, and she craned her head to catch the best light. “Yes, I see it.”

  Mr. Foster dug around in his bag and pulled out a pair of forceps. “This is the tool we’ll use to extract the bullet.”

  “We?” Trinity suddenly felt as though the floor of the train had dropped out from under her. She pushed her hands against the wall of the train, trying to find some stability. “Please tell me that you’re just using the word ‘we’ as a common courtesy so I don’t feel excluded.”

  His lips twitched. “Would you feel excluded?”

  “Oh, not at all. You’re more than welcome to do this entirely on your own. I give you every permission.”

  He shook his head, now smiling. “Believe me, Miss Scott, I wish I didn’t need your help, but I do. Here we are on a moving train. Our conductor is missing, who knows if the engineer knows what’s going on, and a man’s life is in our hands … our hands, Miss Scott, because I only have one at present. Can I count on you?”

  His eyes fixed on her with an intensity that wasn’t present in his voice. She guessed that he was trying to keep his tone light for the sake of the other passengers, particularly Mrs. Jensen, but his gaze conveyed just how serious this was, how very much he needed her. She was suddenly aware of his closeness in a way she hadn’t been before. She nodded, and he returned that nod.

  “All right, let’s see what we can do about this, shall we?” He glanced around the train car. “Does anyone have clean handkerchiefs we may use?”

  Five or six handkerchiefs were passed their way, and Trinity gathered them into a neat pile.

  “Now, I’ll ask you all to move down to the other end of the train,” Mr. Foster continued. “I need to concentrate, and Mr. Jensen needs his privacy.”

  “May I stay?” Mrs. Jensen asked.

  Mr. Foster was about to answer, but one of the other female passengers wrapped her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Come sit with us,” she urged. “We have some lemonade, and it would be much more comfortable.”

  Mrs. Jensen’s eyes flicked back and forth between her husband and the other woman, and then she nodded. “All right. But you’ll tell me as soon as you know anything, right, Doctor?”

  Mr. Foster nodded. “I will.”

  Mrs. Jensen allowed herself to be led away.

  Just then, the door at the other end of the train car opened, and Mr. Dupree staggered through. He was supported by the two men who had gone in search of him.

  “He’s all right,” one of the men called out. “They knocked him over the head after they took the money, but we got him to come around.”

  Mr. Dupree held up a hand. “I’ll sit for a minute, and then I’ll be right with you.” His face looked a little gray, but his voice sounded hearty enough. Trinity took a deep breath. That was one worry off her plate, but there was still plenty to be concerned about. She met Mr. Foster’s eyes, and he returned her gaze.

  “We’ll begin by preparing the instruments we’ll need. Please lay a handkerchief out on the opposite bench.”

  His mellow voice gave her courage. He seemed calm, and she could pull from that. She laid out the cloth, hoping that the vibrations of the train wouldn’t disrupt the organization he was trying to achieve.

  She found the needle, suture material, scalpel, and forceps he indicated and placed them in a neat row. Each time she moved, her skirts bunched and got in the way, and she wished they weren’t quite so voluminous—and then she had an idea. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, stepping out into the aisle. “Close your eyes.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Foster looked startled.

  “Now is not the time to argue.”

  He closed his eyes. After glancing around to make sure the other passengers had indeed gone to the other end of the car, she edged between the next set of seats, lifted her skirts as discreetly as she could, one side at a time, and removed her petticoats. Then she rolled them up and placed them on the bench. There! Now she could move about in the tight area with much more freedom.

  She stepped back into the aisle and made sure her clothes were all proper. When she gave Mr. Foster permission to open his eyes, he flicked his eyes down to her much-narrower skirts and back up again. He shook his head, merriment all over his face, but he didn’t say anything. “I have a bottle of chloroform in the bag. If you’ll remove the stopper, I’ll show you how to administer it.”

  She edged back alongside her patient, already appreciating her greater ease of movement. Then she held a soaked handkerchief to their patient’s face until his breathing was even. “What next?”

  “Let the fabric rest lightly on his face.” Then Mr. Foster met her eyes. “Next is the hardest part of all. Miss Scott, I need you to press on either side of the wound and hold it open for me. I can use the forceps with one hand, but I’ll need you working in concert with me so I have access to the bullet.”

  She took a deep breath, lightheaded once again. She’d never been asked to do anything so frightening in all her life. If she failed, if she couldn’t do it, a man’s life could be forfeit.

  “Miss Scott, I believe you are a godsend,” Mr. Foster said, seeming to know the battle she faced. “You have a calm head and a quick wit, qualities that make for an excellent nurse. You can do this, and I need you.”

  “How do you know I can do this? You only just met me,” she said.

  His gaze didn’t waver. “I saw you stand up to that man after he made you collect these people’s valuables. You were toe-to-toe with him, and I imagine that you only backed down because of the threat to the other passengers. I need that courage now, Miss Scott.”

  She looked into his eyes again, the eyes that were rapidly becoming her lifeline. “Tell me where to place my fingers,” she said in reply.

  She knelt on the filthy floor of the train so as to reach their patient more easily, and Mr. Foster showed her how to spread the tissues apart. Fresh blood sprang from the wound, and she had to look away. She’d never seen blood that color. It was so bright, so vibrant—it was fascinating and horrid at the same time. It smelled warm and sweet and dreadful.

  “A bit more pressure on the left, please,” Mr. Foster said, and she snapped back to attention. She followed his lead, pressing her fingers here and there as he probed with the forceps. Glances at Mr. Jensen’s face told her he couldn’t feel what they were doing, and she was so glad—she couldn’t imagine doing such a thing otherwise.

  Mr. Foster seemed to read her thoughts. “Be careful that the cloth doesn’t move from his face,” he cautioned. She checked it to make sure it was still in place.

  “You haven’t told me about yourself,” Mr. Foster said a moment later.

  Trinity looked up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

  His eyes didn’t move from the wound as he continued to probe. “I’ve told you almost everything there is to know about me, with the exception of my middle name. That happens to be Richard. And yet, I know nothing about you.”

  “I’m on my way to Denver. There’s nothing particularly fascinating about that.”

  “Oh, but there is.” Mr. Foster lifted the forceps from the
wound, a bullet held in his grasp. Trinity took the instrument and the bullet from his hand and wrapped them in a handkerchief.

  “And what’s fascinating about it?”

  “Needle and thread, please.”

  She handed him what he asked for. He paused, his hand poised over the wound. “Why is a young woman like yourself traveling so far away from home by herself? Sponge the wound, please, and then hold the sides together.”

  They were down to one remaining handkerchief. Trinity pressed it to the wound, absorbing some of the blood, and then gathered the skin between her fingers. Nausea washed over her yet again, but she refused to let it get the best of her. They were so close to being finished.

  Mr. Foster began to sew the wound, and Trinity focused on Mr. Jensen’s face. He seemed peaceful, and it was much more pleasant to look at him than it was to watch the needle darting in and out of his flesh.

  “All right, I’m done,” Mr. Foster said a moment later. “Would you be so kind as to take the scalpel and cut the end of the thread?”

  Trinity did just that. Then, gathering up her skirts and edging past Mr. Foster, she raced to the door at the near end of the car, leaned over the platform railing, and vomited until her stomach was completely empty.

  Chapter Three

  When she finally felt well enough to relax her grip on the railing, Trinity took a deep breath and reentered the train car. One of the female passengers stood there holding a dampened cloth, and Trinity took it gratefully and used it to wipe her hands and face. A man offered a flask, but she turned him away with a smile. No one would have blamed her, but she could just see her grandmother’s face if she did such a thing.

  She made her way back to her seat and sank into it, only then wondering where Mr. Foster had gone. A glance around told her that he was washing up in a bucket in the corner. Then he moved to the other end of the car and spoke to Mrs. Jensen. She nodded and smiled, her hand pressed over her heart, and she reached out to pat Mr. Foster’s cheek with her other hand. Trinity smiled. She hadn’t considered him the type to have his cheek patted, but she supposed she was wrong.

  After speaking with Mrs. Jensen for another moment, Mr. Foster moved on to visit with Mr. Dupree, who was looking much better, and then he came back and slid onto the bench next to her. “Are you all right, Miss Scott? You don’t look as though you feel well.”

  “I’m doing much better than I was, now that I’ve thrown up off the back of the car,” she said with a little laugh. She shouldn’t mind telling him that—he was a doctor, after all, and probably used to hearing about all sorts of strange physical reactions to stress. The admission did embarrass her more than she would have liked, though.

  “Are you still nauseated?”

  “I’d nod, but that would set it off again.”

  Mr. Foster rose and patted the bench where he’d been sitting. “Down you go.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lie down, Miss Scott. Tuck your knees up, put your head here, and rest. It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, I’ll grant you, but you must relax.”

  But . . . it was so unseemly. Her mother had always taught her to remain prim and proper when traveling—one never knew who was watching. Then she laughed. Hadn’t she taken off her petticoats for the sake of convenience? Surely she could lie down if it meant she’d feel better eventually.

  “Here,” Mr. Foster said, handing her the very petticoats she’d just been thinking about. “These could act as a pillow. Or perhaps, a pillow and blanket both—there’s certainly enough fabric here.”

  “Give me those!” She snatched them out of his hand, her cheeks hotter than she’d ever felt them in her life. “You shouldn’t be handling a strange woman’s underthings! Or anyone’s underthings. But especially mine.”

  His grin was wide. “No harm meant, Miss Scott. I was merely keeping them from getting trampled.” He nodded over his shoulder. The passengers were now moving back to their previous seats, and she supposed he was doing her a favor after all.

  “Well. Thank you.” She tried to smooth them into a smaller bundle. “I believe I will try to sleep.”

  He nodded. “Rest well.” Stepping across the aisle to his original seat, he took out his book and began to read as though nothing at all had happened over the last hour and a quarter. Trinity made herself as comfortable as she could on the bench, giving up all semblance of dignity and using her petticoats as a pillow, and eventually drifting off to sleep.

  ***

  The train whistle sounded, jolting Trinity awake. She hadn’t been too far gone anyway—the noise and the rattling had kept her from drifting off completely, but she was still startled. She came to a sitting position as the train slowed, grateful to have something else to think about. She’d been having flashbacks of Bob’s hot breath on her neck, and she wanted nothing more in all the world than to get away from him.

  “Folks, we’re going to take a longer-than-usual break here in Topeka because of our unusual circumstances,” Mr. Dupree announced. “I need to send a few telegrams, we need to get Mr. Jensen into bed, and I imagine Dr. Foster and Miss Scott could use a little extra rest. The Brody Hotel is just right across the way there, and you can get a hot meal and wash up. We’ll sound the whistle when we’re ready to start up again, but plan on at least two hours, and possibly longer.”

  “I imagine you’ll be talking to the sheriff?” one of the men called out.

  “Absolutely. The law will be my first priority.”

  Mr. Foster was at Trinity’s elbow as she made her way toward the door. “I’d like to buy you lunch, Miss Scott,” he said in her ear just as she reached the threshold. His voice, so close, startled her, but she quickly realized it was him and composed herself.

  “Buy me lunch? Weren’t we just robbed at gunpoint? With what do you plan to buy me dinner?”

  He gave her a long, slow smile. “I always tuck most of my money away in a safe place when I travel. Makes it easier to buy people dinner after I’ve been robbed.”

  She laughed. “I do the same thing, but I’m not telling you where.”

  “And I’m not asking.”

  “All right, as long as you’re not entirely destitute, I’ll take you up on your offer,” she replied. “I’m going to overnight here in Topeka, so I’m not in any hurry to get back on the train.”

  “I believe I will too. A good night’s sleep would set us both right.”

  Something in the tone of his voice caused her to look at him sharply. He’d seemed so implacable before, so calm, but now she could see his fatigue. “Let’s go find that hotel.”

  She took a few steps, but then her knees buckled, and she stumbled. Mr. Foster’s right arm came around her waist, supporting her. It was such a familiar gesture, her first instinct was to be offended, but then she realized that without his help, she’d likely sit down in a heap right where she was and not move. “Thank you,” she said instead as they walked off the platform.

  A couple of men from the train carried Mr. Jensen the short distance to the tall building marked “The Brody Hotel,” Trinity and Mr. Foster right behind. The kind woman just inside the door directed them to carry the injured man to the second floor, then she took in Trinity and Mr. Foster at a glance.

  “My goodness. You look exhausted. What’s this I was just hearing about a train robbery?”

  “It has been an interesting day, ma’am,” Mr. Foster said with a weary chuckle.

  “Please, come this way and wash up, and we’ll get you a hot meal immediately.” She held out her arm, and Trinity went where she beckoned. A basin of warm water had never looked so good.

  Moments later, feeling much refreshed and with her petticoats restored to their proper place, Trinity walked into the dining room, where Mr. Foster stood waiting. He glanced down at her skirts and smiled. “Shall we?” he asked, indicating a table.

  “Yes, please.”

  He held her chair while she sat, then took the seat next to hers. A bright-eyed yo
ung woman came up to their table, all smiles.

  “I’m told the two of you are heroes, and that you’re to order whatever you like on the house,” she said.

  “Oh, come now. I invited this lady to dinner. If I let the hotel pick up our ticket, I won’t seem nearly so generous,” Mr. Foster protested.

  The waitress smiled. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you. What would you like?”

  “I’ll take whatever you recommend. I’m too hungry to make a decision,” Trinity replied, hiding her smile at the banter.

  “And I’ll have the same,” Mr. Foster added.

  After the girl moved away, Trinity turned to her table companion. “It’s only been part of a day, but I feel as though we’ve known each other for years. Please call me Trinity.”

  “And I’m Raymond.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a relief.” She picked up her napkin and placed it on her lap.

  “A relief? What do you mean?”

  “For the first half of our time together, I thought of you as Mr. Foster. But then I learned that you are a doctor, so I had this horrible internal struggle—should I be calling you Dr. Foster, or was Mr. Foster still appropriate? But now, if I call you Raymond, that ends the deliberation entirely. Thank you. You’ve quite eased my mind.”

  He chuckled. “I had no idea I was causing you such distress.”

  “Oh, it was quite terrible. I hardly knew what to do with myself.” She caught sight of a spot on his sleeve and nodded toward his arm. “You said I should let you know if you were mussed in some way. I hope you have a clean shirt.”

  He looked down. “Drat. Yes, I do. Perils of operating in one’s traveling clothes. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to help fold up my cuff. I don’t think the other diners need to see this patch of red.”

  “And it’s all right if I see it?”

  “I assume that after everything you’ve seen today, a small splotch will hardly phase you.”

  “You’re most likely right.” She reached across the table and folded up his cuff until the spot could no longer be seen. Her hands trembled as she did so, the memories coming back with a rush, and he glanced at her with an eyebrow raised.