Read Online Comes a Time for Burning by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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Malone remains unchanged. Alvina is upstairs with the Snyders.”
“Thank you, Berti.”
When the door closed softly behind the nurse, Hardy nodded his approval. “She’d be a beautiful young lady if she would smile more often.”
“She has to feel the need,” Thomas said. “The most important thing is that she has made herself indispensable, as you have no doubt noticed. Come with me? You’ll have an introduction to the Clinic before you take a few hours to relax. After dinner, we can settle in for a serious chat. Alvi has made the pronouncement, and our housekeeper Gert James will have outdone herself with the preparations.”
Hardy slapped his belly. “As you can see, food is of little interest to me. But lead on, Doctor.”
Howard Deaton leaned on the end of the examination table, arms crossed over his chest, his thatch of eyebrows and lined face giving him an expression of vexed impatience—and at this moment, a little more than usual. He straightened as the two physicians entered the examining room.
“Howard Deaton, my man. Let me introduce you to Dr. Lucius Hardy.” Howard extended a hand uncertainly, as if undecided about how deferential to be. “Dr. Hardy, Howard is the best man with horses and an ambulance on the planet, in addition to a long list of other skills.”
“My pleasure,” Hardy said, and then nodded another greeting at Bertha Auerbach.
“The leg troubles you some?” Thomas’ question appeared to take Deaton off guard. Perhaps he’d been expecting a discussion of proposed new ambulance features, or the general health of one of the horses.
“Some days more’n others,” he said. “But I’m gettin’ on.” His convalescence had been both exquisitely painful and complicated, and no doubt seemed interminable. That he was loath to even broach the subject of his injury was understandable.
“May I have a look?”
“Ain’t no different from what it was,” Deaton replied, and for a moment it looked as if he wasn’t going to oblige. Then he stepped across the room and sat in one of the straight wooden chairs. “You need the boot off?” Thomas nodded. “I was afraid of that.” He took his time unlacing his boot, pulling the laces wide all the way to the bottom of the tongue.
“A multiple compound fracture of the tibia and fibula a few inches above the ankle,” Thomas explained to Hardy. “The result of an accident with a steel-shod freight wagon. A Stimson’s fracture box was tried first, but the results were unsatisfactory. Eventually we resorted to open surgery, and I pinned the large bone fragments with silver.”
Hardy’s left eyebrow raised a fraction.
“Closure and healing of the wound were uneventful, except that Mr. Deaton went through hell for several weeks.”
“Months,” Deaton muttered morosely. “I wouldn’t be the one to call it uneventful.” His jaw set in determination, he eased the boot off, and let out a sigh of relief when it slipped free. The woolen stocking came next, not yet showing signs of life of its own, but certainly due for a walk in the nearest creek. Thomas patted the table, and Deaton limped across and positioned himself near the head so the he could swing his leg up. He hiked up his trouser leg, and Thomas regarded the enormous scar that marked the front of Deaton’s shin for eight inches above the ankle. With the lightest of touches, he ran the index and middle fingers of each hand down the sides of the man’s leg. At one point four inches above the ankle he felt Deaton’s involuntary jerk.
“Tender there?”
“A mite.”
Thomas repositioned himself, remembering exactly where he had pinned the shattered bones. He could feel a prominent knot on the anterior blade of the tibia where the bone was repairing itself, but as he moved his fingers laterally where he could feel the rise of the fibula, Deaton sucked air sharply through clenched teeth.
“Dr. Hardy?” Thomas nodded toward the leg.
“I’m no surgeon,” Hardy
“Thank you, Berti.”
When the door closed softly behind the nurse, Hardy nodded his approval. “She’d be a beautiful young lady if she would smile more often.”
“She has to feel the need,” Thomas said. “The most important thing is that she has made herself indispensable, as you have no doubt noticed. Come with me? You’ll have an introduction to the Clinic before you take a few hours to relax. After dinner, we can settle in for a serious chat. Alvi has made the pronouncement, and our housekeeper Gert James will have outdone herself with the preparations.”
Hardy slapped his belly. “As you can see, food is of little interest to me. But lead on, Doctor.”
Howard Deaton leaned on the end of the examination table, arms crossed over his chest, his thatch of eyebrows and lined face giving him an expression of vexed impatience—and at this moment, a little more than usual. He straightened as the two physicians entered the examining room.
“Howard Deaton, my man. Let me introduce you to Dr. Lucius Hardy.” Howard extended a hand uncertainly, as if undecided about how deferential to be. “Dr. Hardy, Howard is the best man with horses and an ambulance on the planet, in addition to a long list of other skills.”
“My pleasure,” Hardy said, and then nodded another greeting at Bertha Auerbach.
“The leg troubles you some?” Thomas’ question appeared to take Deaton off guard. Perhaps he’d been expecting a discussion of proposed new ambulance features, or the general health of one of the horses.
“Some days more’n others,” he said. “But I’m gettin’ on.” His convalescence had been both exquisitely painful and complicated, and no doubt seemed interminable. That he was loath to even broach the subject of his injury was understandable.
“May I have a look?”
“Ain’t no different from what it was,” Deaton replied, and for a moment it looked as if he wasn’t going to oblige. Then he stepped across the room and sat in one of the straight wooden chairs. “You need the boot off?” Thomas nodded. “I was afraid of that.” He took his time unlacing his boot, pulling the laces wide all the way to the bottom of the tongue.
“A multiple compound fracture of the tibia and fibula a few inches above the ankle,” Thomas explained to Hardy. “The result of an accident with a steel-shod freight wagon. A Stimson’s fracture box was tried first, but the results were unsatisfactory. Eventually we resorted to open surgery, and I pinned the large bone fragments with silver.”
Hardy’s left eyebrow raised a fraction.
“Closure and healing of the wound were uneventful, except that Mr. Deaton went through hell for several weeks.”
“Months,” Deaton muttered morosely. “I wouldn’t be the one to call it uneventful.” His jaw set in determination, he eased the boot off, and let out a sigh of relief when it slipped free. The woolen stocking came next, not yet showing signs of life of its own, but certainly due for a walk in the nearest creek. Thomas patted the table, and Deaton limped across and positioned himself near the head so the he could swing his leg up. He hiked up his trouser leg, and Thomas regarded the enormous scar that marked the front of Deaton’s shin for eight inches above the ankle. With the lightest of touches, he ran the index and middle fingers of each hand down the sides of the man’s leg. At one point four inches above the ankle he felt Deaton’s involuntary jerk.
“Tender there?”
“A mite.”
Thomas repositioned himself, remembering exactly where he had pinned the shattered bones. He could feel a prominent knot on the anterior blade of the tibia where the bone was repairing itself, but as he moved his fingers laterally where he could feel the rise of the fibula, Deaton sucked air sharply through clenched teeth.
“Dr. Hardy?” Thomas nodded toward the leg.
“I’m no surgeon,” Hardy
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