Chapter 7

She couldn’t stay here another day. She was choking, drowning to death each and every moment. Drowning in the mistake she’d made a month ago, marrying a man who could never love her and whom she could never make happy. She couldn’t do it anymore. Their marriage had been a sorry mistake, and wasn’t it better to face up to it now than to live with more regrets? Audrey was right. Grace was a failure. Totally unworthy and incapable of ever winning the heart of a man like Dr. McNair. She just couldn’t bring herself to relax, let her guard down, even though he encouraged her to do so. No one had ever encouraged her like that before. The very process was unnatural. And she was tired of trying to be someone she wasn’t.

She wouldn’t go back to her father’s house. That would only bring further disgrace upon everyone. She’d set off by herself, perhaps find a job as a teacher or store clerk somewhere far away. Anything would be better than staying here and continuing to live this lie.

Tears stung Grace’s eyes as she packed her belongings in a carpetbag. She’d married Dr. McNair hoping they could make things work. None of it had come to be. She was a jinx, a failure, and it was wrong to force her presence upon him any longer.

She clasped the bag shut and ran her gaze once more over the room. The one he had prepared for Audrey. Ever since she stepped through that door, she’d been an intruder. An interloper. And she was through playing second fiddle to a memory. Of being the substitute wife.

She smoothed the lacy coverlet then opened the door. All yesterday, she’d scrubbed every inch of the house. It was the least she could do, leave his home in better order than when she arrived. She picked up her hat from its peg and placed it atop her head.

The front door burst open. Dr. McNair raced in. His hair stuck up at all angles, and real fear emanated from his gaze. An apron swathed his waist, streaks of red marring the white. She gasped.

“I know I have no right to ask this, Gracie, but I need your help.” His breath came out in short gasps. “There was a hunting accident and a man got shot in the back. I need to perform emergency surgery. If you say yes, you’ll have to promise to stay with me throughout the entire operation. Can you?”

He truly needed her. She sensed it from the pleading in his eyes, the urgency stretching his every muscle.

She could do this. One final task before she left forever.

But if she could be of use to him … could she really leave at all?

“I’ll help you.” She took off her jacket and followed him down the stairs, snatching up her skirts and taking the treads two at a time. At the examining room door, he paused.

“There’s a lot of blood. Are you ready?”

Lord, give me strength. Help me to assist Dr. McNair in saving this man’s life.

She nodded. “I’m ready.”

The moment she entered the room, the metallic scent of blood assailed her like a weapon, trying to disarm her resolve. Red. Everywhere. On the table, the floor, caking the sheets wrapped around the man’s lower back. So much red.

Dizziness unsteadied her, but she shoved it back and moved forward. Dr. McNair rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the pitcher and basin. He dried them and faced her.

“First, we’re going to clean the wound so I can assess how much damage has been done. I need you to go upstairs and heat some water. Don’t make it too hot.” He hurried to the table and began to unravel the bandages. She dashed from the room with as much speed as the first time she entered his clinic. But unlike last time, she would be strong. She would show Dr. McNair he could rely upon her.

It seemed to take an eternity for the water to heat, but it finally warmed to a sufficient temperature and she carried it back downstairs. By now, Dr. McNair had removed the bandages, exposing the man’s bare back, blood oozing from a small but lethal hole. She shivered.

Quickly but carefully he cleaned the wound. By the time he finished, the water was crimson. He handed her the basin, and she placed it on the floor.

“Thank God it doesn’t appear to have hit any vital organs.” He surveyed the hole. “Still, removing the bullet will be tough. I’m going to have you administer the chloroform. Just soak that cloth in the liquid in that bottle and hold it over his mouth and nose. All right? Once he’s out, you can help me.”

Grace unscrewed the bottle and poured some of the contents on the cloth. A sickly, sweet fragrance filled the air. She pressed it tight against the man’s face, and soon his groans and shudders subsided.

“Hand me the scalpel on that tray. I’m going to have to cut around the hole so I can remove the bullet.”

Grace handed him the tool. Forced back the nausea at the sound of knife breaking flesh.

Lord, give Dr. McNair strength. And, please, keep me from fainting.

“Have you found it yet?” She tried to keep her voice steady.

“Not yet. It’s deeper than I thought.” More cutting. “There. I see the tip of the bullet.” He glanced at her. Blood covered his hands, his forearms. Could this patient live after undergoing such a procedure?

A furrow knit his brow.

“What’s the matter?” Her words trembled a bit.

“It’s too near the renal artery. Go ahead. Wash up.”

“Wash up for what?” Grace bit her lip.

“So you can apply pressure to the artery while I remove the bullet. If we don’t, there’s a very good chance he will bleed to death.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. No. It wasn’t possible. Assist, she could do, but put her hand into that mess of blood and tissue? She wasn’t that brave.

“Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit.” The verse came unbidden to mind. God would give her strength. And Dr. McNair would help her.

Trembling, she washed her hands and made her way to stand beside him.

“Do you see it?”

She nodded. Up close, the tang of blood was even more overpowering, the hole angrier. The top of her head brushed the firmness of his chest, the warmth of him so close.

“You can do this, Gracie. Just be brave, lass.” He pressed a piece of gauze near the wound, holding it open.

She took a deep breath. Her legs wobbled.

A life depended on her. She could do this.

She reached inside, her fingers pressing against the artery. Perspiration dripped down her back, the heat of the room strangling.

Beside her, Dr. McNair worked with his instruments, his face a study in concentration. Her fingers slipped. She pressed harder.

“You’re doing fine, lass.” The gentle lull of his tone unwound some of her anxiety. She took another breath.

Please, God, let this be over soon.

Suddenly, he held the bullet in his palm. They’d done it. Her legs nearly buckled under the relief.

With careful precision, Dr. McNair cleaned the wound then threaded the needle and began to close the hole. Grace focused on the intensity of his face, the chiseled lines of his jaw as he worked. A dull ache throbbed between her shoulder blades, but she kept her post beside him. The worst was over.

At last, he made the final stitch and, after washing his hands, bandaged the wound with fresh linen strips. She handed him the final bandage then collapsed to the floor. The enormity of what she’d just done struck her afresh, and she leaned her head against her knees, trying to still her thundering heart. Right now, bursting into tears sounded like the most refreshing thing in the world.

She sensed him beside her and looked up.

“You were wonderful, Gracie.” His eyes warmed, turning their brown depths to milky coffee. “I’ve never been prouder of any assistant. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Tears misted her eyes. She’d helped him. Perhaps that would make up for the mistakes she’d so far made. For the first time in her life, as she looked into his eyes, one word came, like a song to her hungry heart.

Valued.

Truly, honest-to-goodness valued.

In a million years, he would never have believed that his shy little sparrow could put her fingers into a man’s flesh with a cooler head and steadier hands than a third-year medical student. Sure, she’d been nervous, but she’d managed in spite of it, and rather than fainting on the floor afterward, assisted with the remainder of the operation.

She intrigued him. A mystery. So guarded and hesitant. What thoughts ran through that mind? What hopes and dreams did she cherish?

He wanted to know everything about her. Her likes, dislikes, thoughts, and aspirations. The things that made her laugh and those that made her cry.

And sure as Ireland was green, he wasn’t going to accomplish any of it unless things changed. Though they’d been married over a month, he knew less about her than he did about Audrey after only one church social.

So he’d court his wife. Lay on the charm until her eggshell exterior cracked, revealing the softer parts within. To start with: their long delayed picnic on Lake Compton.

He opened the door to his examining room. Grace sat in a chair beside their patient’s bedside, head tilted back, eyes closed in slumber. Their patient also appeared to be sleeping, thank goodness. Like the professional doctor he was, Raymond went first to the patient and checked pulse and respiration. All good. The man would live. Not only that, but he would enjoy a full and active life for many years to come. He could have attributed it to his own skills, but truly he couldn’t have done it without Grace. Nor the strength of the Lord he served.

He knelt beside the chair and studied her. His breath faltered. In sleep, her features relaxed, long lashes fanning over her rose-tinted skin, no one in their right mind would describe her as plain. Nor gorgeous, either. She had the sort of beauty that grew on a man, drew him closer. Like layers of the finest silk, making him want to go deeper, understand more.

She stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. “You should be in bed sleeping.” She blinked, her hair falling down around her shoulders.

“And just where should you be, lass?” Teasing sternness lilted his tone.

“Where every good doctor’s wife is. Caring for the patient.” She smiled, sweet and shy.

Doctor’s wife. His wife. The words struck him anew in their poignancy. This wasn’t just any woman he intended to court. He’d already married her. She was, in the legal sense anyway, his.

Yet he wanted more than a marriage license that pronounced them man and wife. They’d accomplished the legalities. Could their hearts join as well?

“Time for bed, Mrs. Doc.” He fought the sudden desire to pick her up and carry her upstairs, her arms around his neck, her slight frame so close … “I’ll sit with the patient. I want you to get your rest.”

“Why?” She attempted to subdue the tangles of her hair.

He offered his hand and helped her to her feet. “Because tomorrow we’re going on a picnic. And I don’t want my wife yawning over the sandwiches.”