doesn't surprise me." Unimpressed by his boast, she moved to a basin and washed her hands with disinfectant soap. "If you know Doc Patton well enough to know where he stashed his Jack Daniel's, you must live here."
"Born and raised."
"Then why didn't you know he'd retired?"
"I've been away for a while."
"Were you a regular patient of his?"
"All my life. He got me through chicken pox, tonsillitis, two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, a broken arm, and an altercation with a rusty tin can that was serving as second base. Still got the scar on my thigh where I landed when I slid in."
"Were you called out?"
"Hell no," he replied, as though that were beyond the realm of possibility. "More than once I've come through that back door in the middle of the night, needing Doc to patch me up for one reason or another. He wasn't as stingy with the medicinal whiskey as you are.
What's that you're fixing there?"
"A sedative." She calmly depressed the plunger of a syringe and sent a spurt of medication into the air.
She then set it down and swabbed his upper arm with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol. Before she knew what he was about to do, he picked up the syringe, pushed the plunger with his thumb and squirted the fluid onto the floor.
"Do you think I'm stupid, or what?"
"Mr. "If you want me anesthetized, get me a glass of whiskey. You're not pumping anything into my bloodstream that'll knock me out and give you an opportunity to call the hospital."
"And the sheriff. I'm required by law to report a gunshot wound to the authorities."
He struggled to sit up and when he did, the open wound gushed bright red blood. He groaned. Lara hastily slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and began stanching the flow with gauze pads so that she could determine how serious the wound was.
"Afraid I'll give you AIDS?" he asked, nodding at her gloved hands.
"Professional precaution."
"No worry," he said with a slow grin. "I've been real careful all my life."
"You weren't so careful tonight. Were you caught cheating at poker?
Flirting with the wrong woman? Or were you cleaning your pistol when it accidentally went off?"
"I told you, it was a "Yes. A pitchfork. Which would have punctured instead of tearing off a chunk of tissue." She worked quickly and effectively. "Look, I've got to trim off the rough edges of the wound and put in some deep sutures. It's going to be painful. I must anesthetize you."
"Forget it' He hitched his hip over the side of the table as though to leave.
Lara stopped him by placing the heels of her hands on his shoulders.
The fingers of her gloves were bloody. "Lidocaine? Local anesthetic," she explained. She took a vial from her cabinet and let him read the label. "Okay?"
He nodded tersely and watched as she prepared another syringe.
She injected him near the wound. When the surrounding tissue was deadened, she clipped the debris from around the wound, irrigated it with a saline solution, sutured the interior, and put in a drain.
"What the hell is that?" he asked. He was pale and sweating profusely, but he had watched every swift and economic movement of her hands.
"It's called a penrose drain. It drains off blood and fluid and helps prevent infection. I'll remove it in a few days." She closed the wound with sutures and placed a sterile bandage over it.
After dropping the bloody gloves into a marked metal trash can that designated contaminated materials, Lara returned to the sink to wash her hands. She then asked him to sit up while she wrapped an Ace bandage around his trunk to keep the dressing in place.
She stepped away from him and looked critically at her handiwork.
"You're lucky he wasn't a better marksman. A few inches to the right and the bullet could have penetrated several vital
"Born and raised."
"Then why didn't you know he'd retired?"
"I've been away for a while."
"Were you a regular patient of his?"
"All my life. He got me through chicken pox, tonsillitis, two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, a broken arm, and an altercation with a rusty tin can that was serving as second base. Still got the scar on my thigh where I landed when I slid in."
"Were you called out?"
"Hell no," he replied, as though that were beyond the realm of possibility. "More than once I've come through that back door in the middle of the night, needing Doc to patch me up for one reason or another. He wasn't as stingy with the medicinal whiskey as you are.
What's that you're fixing there?"
"A sedative." She calmly depressed the plunger of a syringe and sent a spurt of medication into the air.
She then set it down and swabbed his upper arm with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol. Before she knew what he was about to do, he picked up the syringe, pushed the plunger with his thumb and squirted the fluid onto the floor.
"Do you think I'm stupid, or what?"
"Mr. "If you want me anesthetized, get me a glass of whiskey. You're not pumping anything into my bloodstream that'll knock me out and give you an opportunity to call the hospital."
"And the sheriff. I'm required by law to report a gunshot wound to the authorities."
He struggled to sit up and when he did, the open wound gushed bright red blood. He groaned. Lara hastily slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and began stanching the flow with gauze pads so that she could determine how serious the wound was.
"Afraid I'll give you AIDS?" he asked, nodding at her gloved hands.
"Professional precaution."
"No worry," he said with a slow grin. "I've been real careful all my life."
"You weren't so careful tonight. Were you caught cheating at poker?
Flirting with the wrong woman? Or were you cleaning your pistol when it accidentally went off?"
"I told you, it was a "Yes. A pitchfork. Which would have punctured instead of tearing off a chunk of tissue." She worked quickly and effectively. "Look, I've got to trim off the rough edges of the wound and put in some deep sutures. It's going to be painful. I must anesthetize you."
"Forget it' He hitched his hip over the side of the table as though to leave.
Lara stopped him by placing the heels of her hands on his shoulders.
The fingers of her gloves were bloody. "Lidocaine? Local anesthetic," she explained. She took a vial from her cabinet and let him read the label. "Okay?"
He nodded tersely and watched as she prepared another syringe.
She injected him near the wound. When the surrounding tissue was deadened, she clipped the debris from around the wound, irrigated it with a saline solution, sutured the interior, and put in a drain.
"What the hell is that?" he asked. He was pale and sweating profusely, but he had watched every swift and economic movement of her hands.
"It's called a penrose drain. It drains off blood and fluid and helps prevent infection. I'll remove it in a few days." She closed the wound with sutures and placed a sterile bandage over it.
After dropping the bloody gloves into a marked metal trash can that designated contaminated materials, Lara returned to the sink to wash her hands. She then asked him to sit up while she wrapped an Ace bandage around his trunk to keep the dressing in place.
She stepped away from him and looked critically at her handiwork.
"You're lucky he wasn't a better marksman. A few inches to the right and the bullet could have penetrated several vital
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