Read Online St Matthew's Passion: A Medical Romance by Sam Archer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sam Archer
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most experienced doctor available. It was natural. On the other hand, if the trainees never learned by experience, they’d never themselves become experts. It was one of the trade-offs for coming to a teaching hospital for treatment.
‘Ms Havers is one of our top surgeons,’ said Fin. ‘She’ll do a fine job.’
‘It’s just that she’s – well, you know.’ Harrow gestured vaguely.
One of his friends said, ‘Hey, George. You’re better off with a lady. She’ll be good at stitching and sewing.’ They erupted into sniggers.
Melissa didn’t falter, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She looked neither flustered nor annoyed, even though Fin thought she must have been seething inside at the chauvinism of the men. Fin thought she was handling it terrifically.
George Harrow seemed to realise things had gone too far because he shook his head at his friend, grimacing again. A nurse took them through to the suturing area and began to prepare a sterile field.
Melissa looked up at Fin and said, ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
He wasn’t worried, and his confidence in her turned out to be well-placed. Fin said nothing during the entire procedure, handing her swabs and wielding the small selection of retractors according to her instructions. He marvelled at the delicacy of her suturing technique, the flair with which she stitched the elaborately tricky tear within the man’s mouth and, later, the laceration as it extended across his outer cheek, ensuring the edges of the wound were as closely opposed as possible to minimise the scarring. There had been no damage to the facial nerve so with any luck, and assuming they could head off any infection, Harrow’s face should look almost as good as new within a few weeks.
Although Fin watched Melissa’s hands intently, aware of his responsibility to the patient, he glanced from time to time as surreptitiously as he could at her face. Often all he could see was the smooth curve of her forehead leading to the delicate arches of her pale eyebrows and, beyond, her long, thick lashes. It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out and tracing a forefinger across her brow, down the bridge of her small nose to her lips.
When at last she’d snipped the final suture and dabbed the wound dry, watching for tiny bleeding vessels, Melissa sat arrow up and brought him a mirror. He turned his head this way and that, peering at the thin pink line which looked like nothing more than a nasty paper cut.
‘Thanks, Doc,’ he nodded at her.
Outside the suture room, a dressing freshly applied, Harrow met his friends.
‘You look like a princess, my darling,’ one of them said.
‘Sling your hook,’ Harrow retorted, and they departed in gales of laughter.
Fin watched Melissa help the nurse tidy up. ‘Another satisfied customer,’ he said.
She tried to look noncommittal but couldn’t keep up the pretence, and her face broke into a beaming grin.
‘Not bad, was I?’
Without any trace of irony, he said, ‘You were sensational.’
She darted a quick look at him, a demure look from beneath lowered lashes. He felt his stomach do a slow somersault. Glancing at the nurse who was separating out the various pieces of waste into different containers, he thought: I’m glad we’ve got a chaperone .
‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘That was a top-notch job. We won’t know fully how it turns out until it’s healed a little, of course, but… I haven’t seen skill like that for a long time.’ He raised his eyebrows ruefully. ‘I only hope we don’t lose you to a career in plastic surgery.’
‘No chance. Trauma’s where I belong.’ Melissa finished drying her hands, and turned to face him fully. ‘But thank you again, Fin. For the opportunity, and for the praise.’
Her head was thrown back a little, her breasts thrust forward almost imperceptibly. Almost unconsciously he responded, shifting so that he faced her square-on and pushed his hips slightly
‘Ms Havers is one of our top surgeons,’ said Fin. ‘She’ll do a fine job.’
‘It’s just that she’s – well, you know.’ Harrow gestured vaguely.
One of his friends said, ‘Hey, George. You’re better off with a lady. She’ll be good at stitching and sewing.’ They erupted into sniggers.
Melissa didn’t falter, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She looked neither flustered nor annoyed, even though Fin thought she must have been seething inside at the chauvinism of the men. Fin thought she was handling it terrifically.
George Harrow seemed to realise things had gone too far because he shook his head at his friend, grimacing again. A nurse took them through to the suturing area and began to prepare a sterile field.
Melissa looked up at Fin and said, ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
He wasn’t worried, and his confidence in her turned out to be well-placed. Fin said nothing during the entire procedure, handing her swabs and wielding the small selection of retractors according to her instructions. He marvelled at the delicacy of her suturing technique, the flair with which she stitched the elaborately tricky tear within the man’s mouth and, later, the laceration as it extended across his outer cheek, ensuring the edges of the wound were as closely opposed as possible to minimise the scarring. There had been no damage to the facial nerve so with any luck, and assuming they could head off any infection, Harrow’s face should look almost as good as new within a few weeks.
Although Fin watched Melissa’s hands intently, aware of his responsibility to the patient, he glanced from time to time as surreptitiously as he could at her face. Often all he could see was the smooth curve of her forehead leading to the delicate arches of her pale eyebrows and, beyond, her long, thick lashes. It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out and tracing a forefinger across her brow, down the bridge of her small nose to her lips.
When at last she’d snipped the final suture and dabbed the wound dry, watching for tiny bleeding vessels, Melissa sat arrow up and brought him a mirror. He turned his head this way and that, peering at the thin pink line which looked like nothing more than a nasty paper cut.
‘Thanks, Doc,’ he nodded at her.
Outside the suture room, a dressing freshly applied, Harrow met his friends.
‘You look like a princess, my darling,’ one of them said.
‘Sling your hook,’ Harrow retorted, and they departed in gales of laughter.
Fin watched Melissa help the nurse tidy up. ‘Another satisfied customer,’ he said.
She tried to look noncommittal but couldn’t keep up the pretence, and her face broke into a beaming grin.
‘Not bad, was I?’
Without any trace of irony, he said, ‘You were sensational.’
She darted a quick look at him, a demure look from beneath lowered lashes. He felt his stomach do a slow somersault. Glancing at the nurse who was separating out the various pieces of waste into different containers, he thought: I’m glad we’ve got a chaperone .
‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘That was a top-notch job. We won’t know fully how it turns out until it’s healed a little, of course, but… I haven’t seen skill like that for a long time.’ He raised his eyebrows ruefully. ‘I only hope we don’t lose you to a career in plastic surgery.’
‘No chance. Trauma’s where I belong.’ Melissa finished drying her hands, and turned to face him fully. ‘But thank you again, Fin. For the opportunity, and for the praise.’
Her head was thrown back a little, her breasts thrust forward almost imperceptibly. Almost unconsciously he responded, shifting so that he faced her square-on and pushed his hips slightly
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