that had been concealed in a fold of Katharine's sleeve confirmed the worst of his fears. The girl had unfortunately been correct about the seriousness of her mother's injury. Morgan muttered an angry, silent prayer that Opper would come back in the next five minutes.
But he knew that prayer, like so many others, would not be answered. Without even looking at Julie, he said, "I need something to cut away the sleeve."
He expected questions, but almost before he had finished asking, she reached into the wicker sewing basket on the floor beside the sofa and produced a pair of shears. Still fighting the nausea, he took the instrument from Julie's outstretched hand. Her calm seemed to give him a measure of resolve enough to steady his own hand to carefully snip away the pink linen fabric. A long sigh escaped him when he had exposed the wound. Blood oozed slowly from a long scrap, but there was no sign of protruding bone.
As his fingers lifted her arm and gently probed, Katharine drew in a breath and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
"It's broken for sure," Morgan announced even before he had finished his examination, "but not as badly as I thought it might be. This scratch was probably caused by a splinter on the stairs."
Katharine moaned when he found the break. Whatever else he might have forgotten, he recognized instinctively that the ends of bone were out of alignment, not far but enough that he doubted the woman would be able to withstand the pain of having the break set. She was already near fainting.
He didn't take his eyes from the mother's pale, drawn face as he told her daughter, "I need a couple pieces of wood and strips of linen for a splint, plus some whisky. She won't handle it without help."
"There's no whisky in the house," Julie replied, wondering just whom he thought needed the fortification of liquor. "I can find the other things, but Papa doesn't allow spirits."
"Then I'm afraid--"
He was cut short by shouting and fists pounding on the front door.
"Miss Hollstrom! Miss Hollstrom!"
Julie ran the few steps to the door and admitted a frantic, florid-faced old man with a black bag gripped in his left hand. He pushed past her rudely and stormed into the parlor.
"Simon told me you were here, Morgan," Horace Opper puffed. "You no good drunken bastard, you don't have any business tending this woman's injuries."
Horace drew up his portly figure to his full height of five and one half feet and faced the green-eyed interloper who had also got to his feet. Morgan just looked down his nose with as much disgust as he could muster. Opper seemed unruffled.
"Get out, Del Morgan. Go back to your bottle and leave the practice of medicine to sober physicians."
"Sober, true, but it's a good thing you didn't describe yourself as competent, Horace. You were washed up and out of date ten years ago." He scratched at his beard unconsciously again and closed the green eyes for a long second. When they opened, he added, "By the way, she's got a displaced fracture of the left radius about three inches above the wrist."
Opper's red, fleshy face approached a brilliant crimson.
"I don't need you to diagnose my patients for me!"
As Julie watched in horrified disbelief, Morgan shrugged and backed off, then walked around the physician the way one would avoid horse droppings in the street. He came to a halt in front of her by the front door.
"That's five bucks for the consultation," he sneered. "Next time, wait for the old fart; don't take me away from my hangover and my bottle, all right, Miss Hollstrom?"
He held out his large, freshly scrubbed palm.
Five dollars was outrageous. Julie had some money in her apron pocket, a couple of silver dollars and some change, but not enough to make this charlatan's fee.
"This is all I have," she offered meekly. The coins jingled onto his hand, but he did not close his fingers over them.
He hadn't expected her to pay him anything. If she had
But he knew that prayer, like so many others, would not be answered. Without even looking at Julie, he said, "I need something to cut away the sleeve."
He expected questions, but almost before he had finished asking, she reached into the wicker sewing basket on the floor beside the sofa and produced a pair of shears. Still fighting the nausea, he took the instrument from Julie's outstretched hand. Her calm seemed to give him a measure of resolve enough to steady his own hand to carefully snip away the pink linen fabric. A long sigh escaped him when he had exposed the wound. Blood oozed slowly from a long scrap, but there was no sign of protruding bone.
As his fingers lifted her arm and gently probed, Katharine drew in a breath and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
"It's broken for sure," Morgan announced even before he had finished his examination, "but not as badly as I thought it might be. This scratch was probably caused by a splinter on the stairs."
Katharine moaned when he found the break. Whatever else he might have forgotten, he recognized instinctively that the ends of bone were out of alignment, not far but enough that he doubted the woman would be able to withstand the pain of having the break set. She was already near fainting.
He didn't take his eyes from the mother's pale, drawn face as he told her daughter, "I need a couple pieces of wood and strips of linen for a splint, plus some whisky. She won't handle it without help."
"There's no whisky in the house," Julie replied, wondering just whom he thought needed the fortification of liquor. "I can find the other things, but Papa doesn't allow spirits."
"Then I'm afraid--"
He was cut short by shouting and fists pounding on the front door.
"Miss Hollstrom! Miss Hollstrom!"
Julie ran the few steps to the door and admitted a frantic, florid-faced old man with a black bag gripped in his left hand. He pushed past her rudely and stormed into the parlor.
"Simon told me you were here, Morgan," Horace Opper puffed. "You no good drunken bastard, you don't have any business tending this woman's injuries."
Horace drew up his portly figure to his full height of five and one half feet and faced the green-eyed interloper who had also got to his feet. Morgan just looked down his nose with as much disgust as he could muster. Opper seemed unruffled.
"Get out, Del Morgan. Go back to your bottle and leave the practice of medicine to sober physicians."
"Sober, true, but it's a good thing you didn't describe yourself as competent, Horace. You were washed up and out of date ten years ago." He scratched at his beard unconsciously again and closed the green eyes for a long second. When they opened, he added, "By the way, she's got a displaced fracture of the left radius about three inches above the wrist."
Opper's red, fleshy face approached a brilliant crimson.
"I don't need you to diagnose my patients for me!"
As Julie watched in horrified disbelief, Morgan shrugged and backed off, then walked around the physician the way one would avoid horse droppings in the street. He came to a halt in front of her by the front door.
"That's five bucks for the consultation," he sneered. "Next time, wait for the old fart; don't take me away from my hangover and my bottle, all right, Miss Hollstrom?"
He held out his large, freshly scrubbed palm.
Five dollars was outrageous. Julie had some money in her apron pocket, a couple of silver dollars and some change, but not enough to make this charlatan's fee.
"This is all I have," she offered meekly. The coins jingled onto his hand, but he did not close his fingers over them.
He hadn't expected her to pay him anything. If she had