with an armload of books.
Christopher picked up several books and followed her. He waited until she’d secured the books on the shelf. “You really don’t have to keep doing this.” He placed his books beside hers.
She eyed him intently for a moment. “Are you too proud to accept help?”
He rubbed his bearded chin. “Not at all.”
“Then what?”
He liked her spunk. “The books can wait, actually. If you truly want to be useful, I need to get the examination office set up first.”
Deborah dusted off her hands and headed back to the other room. “Very well. Let’s get to work. They’ll sound the whistle when the train is ready to head back up the line.”
Helping Dr. Clayton set up his examination office was a great diversion for Deborah. She found it fascinating to unpack his medical equipment and listen to his reasons for placement. When she came upon a collection of medical journals, Deborah couldn’t help but thumb through a couple of them.
“These look quite interesting.”
“If you’re of a mind to read them, be my guest. Just bring them back.”
She looked up to see if he was serious. His expression assured her he was. “I would like that very much.”
“You may feel free to borrow any of my books, as well.”
Deborah hugged the journals to her breast. “Do you always lend your books?”
“Never,” he said, turning back to a crate he’d been emptying.
Deborah thought about this for several seconds and was about to extend an invitation to him to utilize her book collection when someone called out from the open back door.
“Doc, you in there?”
“I am,” Dr. Clayton announced. He moved to the door and welcomed in a man and woman.
Deborah didn’t know the couple, but she knew their type. They were dirt poor, ill-kempt, and probably had no more than six years of education between them. The woman looked tired and was clearly with child. Her face was edged with lines and her hair was stringy and dirty. Neither the man nor woman looked as if they’d had a bath in a week of Sundays.
“I’m Dr. Clayton. What can I do for you?”
The man held up his hand. “I’m John. My wife here wanted me to see you. My hand is hurtin’ me something fierce.”
“What did you do to it?” Dr. Clayton led the man to the examination table and drew up a chair. “Just sit here and rest your hand on the table.”
The doctor went to a bowl of water and washed his hands. Deborah saw him pour something onto his hands before taking up a clean towel. He then took up a brown bottle and another clean towel.
Deborah could see the man’s hand had swollen to nearly double the normal size and was clearly inflamed. A jagged cut oozed green-tinged fluid. She watched as Dr. Clayton took the matter in stride.
“How did you injure your hand?”
“Cut it at work. Didn’t seem that bad. Miz Foster put a poultice on it, but it don’t seem to be any better.”
The doctor continued his exam. “When was that?”
Deborah couldn’t help drawing closer to see what was happening. The woman stepped forward, as well. “He cut it near a week ago. Ain’t been right since. Cain’t work with it like that.”
“Now, Sally,” he said, throwing her a grin. “You stop your frettin’. I came here like you asked.”
“And it’s a good thing,” Dr. Clayton announced. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose that hand.”
“What?” The man was clearly stunned.
“It’s desperately infected. I’m afraid this will be quite painful. Miss Vandermark, would you please bring over a basin and my scalpel set?”
Deborah didn’t even question him. She hurried to do his bidding, rather excited to be of some help. The procedure that followed was not at all pleasant. Without so much as an injection of morphine to kill the pain, Dr. Clayton cleaned the hand and applied the knife. The infection shot from the wound, filling the room with a hideous smell.
Unmoved by the situation, Deborah continued to follow the
Christopher picked up several books and followed her. He waited until she’d secured the books on the shelf. “You really don’t have to keep doing this.” He placed his books beside hers.
She eyed him intently for a moment. “Are you too proud to accept help?”
He rubbed his bearded chin. “Not at all.”
“Then what?”
He liked her spunk. “The books can wait, actually. If you truly want to be useful, I need to get the examination office set up first.”
Deborah dusted off her hands and headed back to the other room. “Very well. Let’s get to work. They’ll sound the whistle when the train is ready to head back up the line.”
Helping Dr. Clayton set up his examination office was a great diversion for Deborah. She found it fascinating to unpack his medical equipment and listen to his reasons for placement. When she came upon a collection of medical journals, Deborah couldn’t help but thumb through a couple of them.
“These look quite interesting.”
“If you’re of a mind to read them, be my guest. Just bring them back.”
She looked up to see if he was serious. His expression assured her he was. “I would like that very much.”
“You may feel free to borrow any of my books, as well.”
Deborah hugged the journals to her breast. “Do you always lend your books?”
“Never,” he said, turning back to a crate he’d been emptying.
Deborah thought about this for several seconds and was about to extend an invitation to him to utilize her book collection when someone called out from the open back door.
“Doc, you in there?”
“I am,” Dr. Clayton announced. He moved to the door and welcomed in a man and woman.
Deborah didn’t know the couple, but she knew their type. They were dirt poor, ill-kempt, and probably had no more than six years of education between them. The woman looked tired and was clearly with child. Her face was edged with lines and her hair was stringy and dirty. Neither the man nor woman looked as if they’d had a bath in a week of Sundays.
“I’m Dr. Clayton. What can I do for you?”
The man held up his hand. “I’m John. My wife here wanted me to see you. My hand is hurtin’ me something fierce.”
“What did you do to it?” Dr. Clayton led the man to the examination table and drew up a chair. “Just sit here and rest your hand on the table.”
The doctor went to a bowl of water and washed his hands. Deborah saw him pour something onto his hands before taking up a clean towel. He then took up a brown bottle and another clean towel.
Deborah could see the man’s hand had swollen to nearly double the normal size and was clearly inflamed. A jagged cut oozed green-tinged fluid. She watched as Dr. Clayton took the matter in stride.
“How did you injure your hand?”
“Cut it at work. Didn’t seem that bad. Miz Foster put a poultice on it, but it don’t seem to be any better.”
The doctor continued his exam. “When was that?”
Deborah couldn’t help drawing closer to see what was happening. The woman stepped forward, as well. “He cut it near a week ago. Ain’t been right since. Cain’t work with it like that.”
“Now, Sally,” he said, throwing her a grin. “You stop your frettin’. I came here like you asked.”
“And it’s a good thing,” Dr. Clayton announced. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose that hand.”
“What?” The man was clearly stunned.
“It’s desperately infected. I’m afraid this will be quite painful. Miss Vandermark, would you please bring over a basin and my scalpel set?”
Deborah didn’t even question him. She hurried to do his bidding, rather excited to be of some help. The procedure that followed was not at all pleasant. Without so much as an injection of morphine to kill the pain, Dr. Clayton cleaned the hand and applied the knife. The infection shot from the wound, filling the room with a hideous smell.
Unmoved by the situation, Deborah continued to follow the
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