The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(108)

Vittorio brought a pail of warm soapy water and washed the dirt and splinters from the wounds and all Quillan’s skin, searching, she knew, for damage beneath. There was a gash on the side of Quillan’s head that clotted his hair with blood and dirt. Vittorio held the scissors uncertainly.

Carina shook her head. “Don’t cut it.”

Vittorio dipped the cloth and soaked the wound. “He must have struck a sharp edge in falling, but it’s not deep.”

“Suture?” Papa asked without stopping his own examination.

“A bandage will do, I think.”

“Then leave it.” Papa swabbed the blood from Quillan’s chin, then opened his mouth and washed inside. When his head was laid to the side, a trickle of fresh blood seeped out again. Papa frowned, probing Quillan’s abdomen.

“What is it?” Carina asked.

“Heat. Swelling. Something damaged. It will need surgery.” Papa met her eyes, knowing the terror those words would give.

Carina swallowed the terrible tightness in her throat. “Papa.” She held him with her eyes. “Don’t think it would be better if he died.” She saw him flinch at her words, but she had to say it. “Save him, Papa, and I will let him go.”

“That’s not our concern now.” He moved swiftly, scrubbing his hands while Vittorio prepared his instruments.

“It’s my concern, Papa.” Her throat burned with tears wanting release. Her voice shook. “I want him to live. I need him to live.”

Her papa stopped scrubbing. “He will live if God is willing.” The stern intensity of his face warned her.

She glanced at Vittorio, knowing as she did that he had not been told about Flavio’s father. He wouldn’t guess Papa could choose to let Quillan die. But would he notice if Papa did? She would be there for that. She looked back at her papa, the doctor. There was sadness in his eyes. Sadness that she doubted him? How could she not?

He said, “I will do all I can. Now prepare or leave us.” Papa finished his scrubbing and dosed Quillan with chloric ether. The smell wafted up from the cloth to Carina, standing at his head. She held her breath to avoid the fumes as she turned and washed her hands thoroughly in case Papa would call on her. Then she pulled a full apron over her dress and resumed her post at Quillan’s head.

Papa swabbed Quillan’s belly with carbolic acid, feeling with his fingers for the worst of the swelling. She had witnessed surgeries before, but when Papa cut Quillan she felt it as her own flesh. Tears forced their way through her closed eyelids. Signore Dio. Caro Signore.

Before the disinfectant qualities of carbolic acid, Quillan would surely have died from such a cut alone. She lost track of time, focused only on keeping Quillan’s head between her hands, repeating a dose of anesthetic when Papa indicated the need. He worked silently, cutting, suturing, and disinfecting, draining the blood and toxic fluids. Part of the intestine had been crushed, and Papa had to cut away the damaged part before sewing it back together. Then he closed up the incision, poulticed and bandaged it.

Quillan’s head shifted in her hands. Carina lifted the bottle of chloric ether and looked to her father. “More?”

He shook his head. “There’s enough in him for us to set the bones.”

Quillan’s whole body shuddered when Papa and Vittorio reseated the hip joint; he jerked when they aligned the femur of his right leg, broken in two places. Papa worked a long time over the leg, removing shards of bone from the gash and shaking his head. At last he sutured the leg, wrapped, and cast it in plaster. By the time they set and cast the ulna of Quillan’s right arm and his left collarbone, he did not respond. Pain was its own anesthetic. Last of all they swabbed and bandaged the cuts and gashes, suturing the worst of them.

At last Papa stood back. At no time had Carina suspected he did anything but his best for Quillan. He looked drained as he washed up once again. Carina met his eyes, searching his thoughts. She would know if Papa thought Quillan would die. She always knew. He tried now to shield her, but his face was grave. “I don’t know, daughter.” Then lower, “I’ve done what I can.” And his eyes pierced. “All that I can.”

She nodded, believing him. But her heart was breaking anyway. What if Papa’s skill was not enough? Was this why God had insisted she surrender Quillan? Did He know so soon He would call him away forever? Let him live, Signore. Please let him live.

Carefully Papa and Vittorio lifted Quillan to the litter. So much of him was bandaged and cast in plaster, they did not attempt to dress him. They laid him on the single bed near the wall and covered him with fresh sheets and a wool blanket.

“I’ll sit with him.” Carina pulled a chair to the bedside.

Papa spooned morphine into the side of Quillan’s mouth. “He must be still. If he shows any agitation, call me immediately.”

Carina nodded. Papa must know she would watch more closely than even he himself. Did he see her pain? His hand on her shoulder as he left told her that yes, he knew.





Flavio hunched down against the hollow of the old oak’s trunk, shaking and horrified. What had he done? What would happen to him now? He pressed his face into his hands. He could have left Quillan Shepard trapped beneath the burning wagon to die. Then no one would know his part in it.

Did anyone suspect, or was Quillan Shepard the only one who could testify against him? Giocco might guess, but he’d been paid too well to tell. And Flavio had never said what he wanted the dynamite for. But those thoughts were simply distracting him from the full horror of what he found inside himself. How could he do such violence?