A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(44)

SEVENTEEN

Mercy helped another woman stack wood while several men chopped. The snow had let up after two inches had fallen, but she suspected more was coming. The stacked wood was covered with tarps, which annoyed Mercy. Unless someone was assigned to remove snow from the top and around the covered stacks every day, everyone would have to dig to get to the wood. It was best stored under a roof.

She’d mentioned the problem to the men chopping wood. They’d ignored her.

“Jessica.” Mercy spun around at Vera’s voice. Vera’s skin looked more yellow than usual against the snowy-white background. But her eyes and the force of her stare were as tough as ever. “You’re needed in the kitchen.”

The other woman stacking wood stopped and scowled. “I need her.”

Vera looked down her nose at the woman. “This is important. And I’ve been watching you for a full minute. You’re moving as slow as possible to make Jessica do most of the work.”

Mercy had noticed her partner slacking off but hadn’t cared. She had nervous energy to burn. Since Chad had left, she’d felt wound tighter and tighter by the hour.

“What do you need?” Mercy asked as she followed Vera through the snow, kicking the fluff out of her way.

“Cindy burned her hand,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I decided you should at least look at it.”

“How bad is it?” Mercy wondered if the other kitchen women had insisted on medical care. Vera didn’t seem happy to be fetching her.

“Covers most of her palm and fingers. Some blisters. Sort of a chalky white in spots.”

Alarm shot through Mercy. The chalky white could mean a third-degree burn.

And Vera had watched her stack wood for a full minute before saying anything?

Power trip.

“How bad is the pain?” Mercy crossed her fingers, hoping the shock and pain wouldn’t send Cindy into labor.

“Pretty bad. That’s why I came.”

And took your own sweet time.

Mercy wondered what she had against the pregnant woman. Vera’s frequent criticism of Cindy felt personal. Not that she treated the other women any better.

“I’m stopping at the supply depot.” Mercy jogged past Vera toward the little building straight ahead. She’d seen gauze and antibiotic cream among the meager supplies. That would help if Cindy had second-degree burns, but if they were third degree, there wasn’t much Mercy could do.

She could picture the recommended treatment for third-degree burns in her first aid manual. Call 911.

Her knock brought Beckett instantly to the door. He looked past Mercy at Vera. “What?” he asked the older woman.

Vera pointed at Mercy. “Cindy has a bad burn. Give Jessica what she needs.”

Thank you.

Beckett promptly brought the beat-up medical box. Mercy snatched the gauze, medical tape, and tube of antibiotic ointment. She squinted at the date. Two years expired. It was better than nothing, she decided. Rooting around in the box, Mercy found nothing else of help.

I’ve got nothing for her pain.

She handed back the box. “Vera will fill out the log. I need to go.”

Beckett glowered. “Now wait a minute.”

Vera glanced at the supplies in Mercy’s hands and lifted one shoulder in acquiescence.

Mercy darted away, cursing both stubborn people under her breath. No empathy. If Cindy went into labor, how many people would Mercy have to beg to get her to a hospital?

At the mess hall she bounded up the few steps and burst in the door. The benches were empty, dinner not starting for another hour. She hit the swinging door to the kitchen and found Cindy sitting on a stool in front of the sink, running cold water over her hand. Two other women worked close by and looked up with expressions of relief.

Cindy’s face was pasty. Sweat dotted her temples, and her stomach seemed impossibly large to Mercy. As if it’d doubled in size overnight.

Please don’t go into labor.

There was no avoiding it; that baby would come at some point. Soon.

Mercy forced a smile onto her face and gently pulled Cindy’s hand out of the water. Giant blisters laced her palm, and her fingertips were white. Damn. “How are you feeling?”

“My palm is killing me,” she said through pale lips. “The fingers don’t really hurt.”

The nerve endings had been severely damaged. Third-degree burns were often less painful at first. At least the burns on her fingertips were small.

Mercy returned the hand to the stream of water and pulled up another stool for herself to keep an eye on Cindy. Without any pain reliever, the cold water was the best she could do. “How’s the baby?” she asked tentatively.

“Okay. Kicking lots.”

“Good. Any contractions?” Mercy held her breath for the answer.

“I’ve had a few single, light ones recently. I assume they’re those fake ones, you know?”

“Right.” Mercy hoped.

“You should pop the blisters,” one of the women suggested. “Get that nasty fluid out of there.”

Cindy went another shade paler.

“I don’t want to risk any infection,” Mercy told her. “They’ll deflate with time. How did this happen?”

The pregnant woman sighed. “I was stupid. I grabbed the pan in the oven without a mitt. I don’t know where my brain is these days.”