Born to Love
- The 3rd book in The Night Riders series

Leigh Greenwood

Dorchester Publishing
ISBN: 0843950951
(click on the ISBN to order from Amazon.com)

 

 

Excerpt from BORN TO LOVE

Galveston, Texas 1867

Holt Price didn’t like the look of the crowd gathered down the street. It had the distinct appearance of passersby gathered to gawk at some tragedy. He brought his horse to a standstill while he considered finding another way through town. Despite the medical bag he carried with him, he wasn’t a doctor. He was a butcher. It’s what people called the Civil War doctors who cut off so many soldiers’ limbs they formed piles in front of the medical tents.

But he couldn’t turn away. It could be a serious accident with no doctor to help the victims. He’d always wanted to help people in trouble. That’s why he’d wanted to be a doctor in the first place. He approached the crowd slowly. From astride his horse, he could see there had been a carriage accident. He took his medicine bag out of his saddle bag and dismounted. He rarely used it anymore, but he couldn’t make himself leave it behind.

“Is anyone hurt?” he called out.

The gawkers, none of whom turned around to see who was speaking, were slow to move aside so Holt pushed his way in. The sight that met his eyes reminded him forcefully of scenes he’d witnessed during the war. Two people, one a man, the other a boy, apparently more battered than broken, were covered with blood, their clothes badly torn. The third man had the shattered spoke of a carriage wheel sticking out of his left upper thigh. He lay in a large pool of blood, his skin a nickel grey. Three men leaned over him, all talking, none doing anything.

“I’m a doctor,” Holt said as he approached the group. “Can I help?”

“He’s a doctor, too,” one of the three said as he pointed to a middle-aged man with untidy clothes and balding head.

Holt nearly sagged with relief. He wouldn’t be needed. He wouldn’t be forced to practice a profession that despite his experience he didn’t feel he had the right to lay claim to.

But his first look at the doctor’s upturned face shocked him. It didn’t take a physician to know the man had been drinking. What was worse, from the look in his eyes, he didn’t know what to do. Holt was dragged back into it. It was his duty to help. He couldn’t leave.

“What have you done for this man?” Holt asked.

“Nothing yet,” the doctor replied, his words slow and slightly slurred. “I’m Paul Moore. I wasn’t in my office. I don’t have my bag.”

There was no law that said a doctor couldn’t have a drink, especially when he wasn’t seeing patients, but Holt felt a doctor was honor-bound to keep himself in such a condition that he could function in an emergency any hour of the day or night. Holt would wait and see if Dr. Moore was more capable than he appeared. If not, he’d take charge.

“He has a wheel spoke sticking out of his leg,” the doctor said.

“We can all see that,” Holt said. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Pull it out, I guess,” Dr. Moore said in distracted, slow speech.

“You can’t just pull it out,” Holt said. “It's probably hit the femoral vessels by the look of all the bleeding. He may have injured a vital internal organ. He could bleed to death before we get him to a hospital.”

“We don’t have a hospital,” one of the onlookers said. “It got blown up during the war.”

“Then we have to get him to the nearest doctor’s office. If he doesn’t receive attention immediately, he’ll die.”

“He looks dead already,” someone said.

“How’s his pulse?” Holt asked Dr. Moore.

“I don’t know. I haven’t checked it yet.”

“See how badly the others are hurt,” Holt said as he knelt down beside the motionless man. He picked up the man’s arm — it was broken — and managed to find a weak, thready pulse. The chances were very good the man would die, but if he was to have any chance, they had to remove the spoke and stop the bleeding.

“Where is the nearest surgery?” Holt asked.

“Doc Moore’s the nearest,” somebody said.

“You two get me a wagon or a cart, something flat we can carry this man on,” Holt commanded as he pointed to two onlooking men. Holt then pulled out a rubber strap from his bag and slipped it under and around the bleeding man's upper thigh. He looped it twice and with a firm pull cinched on a tourniquet.

“How about the buggy seat,” an onlooker said. “It ain’t no use in that buggy now.”

“Fine. Help me get this man on it. Move him as gently as you can.”

“We moved enough men during the war to know how,” a young man said who’d stepped forward. “Don’t look like Durwin’s gonna make it. You ever taken a spoke out of a man’s leg?” he asked Holt.

“No, but I’ve taken just about everything else out. I was a surgeon during the war.

I've treated bayonet stabs that looked like this."“

“You mean you butchered men,” someone heckled. “It was doctors like you who cost me my leg.”

Holt had always done his best, but during a battle so many horribly wounded men came so fast there was seldom time for much more than desperate measures.

“Doctors did not fire the shots that killed and wounded so many,” Holt shot back. “That was nice young men like you. It was doctors who kept you from bleeding to death or rotting with gangrene. Now are you going to help me move this man or just stand there feeling sorry for yourself and let him die?”

The ex-soldier moved aside and several of the onlookers helped move Durwin to the buggy seat.

“Make sure the other two come to the office,” Holt said. “They’ll need attention.”

“I can take care of them,” Dr. Moore said.

“Right now you can serve us best by leading us to your office as quickly as possible.”

Holt guessed the doctor didn’t like having Holt take over, but as far as he could tell, the doctor had been unable to make up his mind about anything. Holt didn’t know whether it was the alcohol, shock, or something else, but they had to act quickly.

“Doc lives real close,” one of the men carrying the buggy seat said. “We all know how to get there.”

“Then let’s go. I need to operate.”

“That’s doc’s job,” one of the men said. “He’s the doctor around here.”

“I’m a doctor, too,” Holt said.

“That still don’t mean you can come in here and take over.”

Holt thought loyalty to friends was good but not when it put a man’s life in jeopardy. “With three men hurt, two doctors are better than one,” he said.

“Maybe we ought to let the new doc see to Durwin,” one man said, lowering his voice. “Doc Moore’s been drinking again.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with him,” another said. “A little bit of whiskey never hurt nobody.”

“I’d appreciate your help,” Dr. Moore said. “That spoke worries me. I’ve never done that kind of surgery.”

“I did it for four years,” Holt said. “I’ll be glad to do it for you.”

“You can help if you want, but you let doc take care of Durwin,” a man said. “He knows what to do.”

“Don’t you listen to him,” the cautious man said to Holt. “Everybody knows doc ain’t as good as he used to be.”

It was clear Dr. Moore didn’t know what to do and couldn’t have done it if he had. But it was also clear the men weren’t going to accept Holt’s taking over. Deciding it was better to leave things alone until they reached the doctor’s office, he dropped back to the wounded man and his son. “How are you two doing?” he asked.

“I sure am bloodied all over, but I’m doing better than Durwin,” the man replied. “I think my boy here broke something.”

“It’s his collarbone,” Holt told the father after a brief examination.

The small procession proceeded down the sandy streets of a town grown up on what had once been a windswept barrier island covered with sea grass and gnarled sea oaks. Fueled by a busy port, Galveston had expanded rapidly in the postwar years transforming the island into the largest and most important city in Texas.

It didn’t take them long to reach the doctor’s house. The procession entered a yard surrounded by a low picket fence that needed paint and slats replaced. The yard showed signs of neglect.

As the men carrying Durwin on the buggy seat climbed the steps to the porch, the door to the house swung open and a young woman appeared to hold the door. She was of average height, had a nice figure — what Holt could see of it — and was very pretty, but she wore a dress that could never have been more than plain and now showed wear.

Yet there was something about her that immediately caught his attention. Maybe it was her intensity. She seemed keyed up — worried, frightened, defensive, he couldn’t tell — but there was a nervous energy about her that was unmistakable.

“What happened to Durwin?” she asked.

“He was racing down the middle of the street like the damned fool he is,” the wounded father said. “He tried to run over me and Evan. Nearly killed himself instead.”

“Bring him in. I’ll show you where to put him so Papa can get that spoke out of him. Henry, I’ll get to you and Evan in a minute. Who are you?” she demanded of Holt.

“My name is Holt Price, ma’am. And you?”

“Felicity Moore. The doctor is my father.”

“You’d better call your mother. Your father is going to need help.”

“My mother is dead. I can provide all the help my father needs.”

Holt didn’t know her age, but he was certain she didn’t have the knowledge and experience needed to help her father. Not many women would.

“Then I guess I’d better wash up. He needs trained help.”

“What makes you think you can do a better job than I can?”

“I’m a surgeon. I spent four years trying to patch together boys that other boys had tried to kill. There’s little that’s stupid, senseless, and a criminal waste of bright, young lives I haven’t tried to fix.” He hadn’t meant to spout off at her. It had been two years since the war ended, but he hadn’t recovered from the shock of the senseless slaughter or his own helplessness.

His answer appeared to upset Felicity, but he got the feeling it had nothing to do with the horrors he’d witnessed. It was almost like she wanted to get rid of him.

“I told your father I could take the spoke out of Durwin’s leg. If he doesn’t need me to do that, I can take care of these others. The boy has a broken collarbone. His father doesn’t appear to have any broken bones, but both could have serious internal injuries. It was a very bad accident.”

“Do you think you can get that spoke out of Durwin without killing him?”

“I don’t know, but if somebody doesn’t try soon, there won’t be any need.”

“Maybe you could take care of Durwin. Papa hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

Holt couldn’t imagine she was naive enough to believe her father’s condition was due simply to feeling unwell. She had placed herself between Holt and her father as though trying to protect him.

“Papa doesn’t do much surgery. When he does, it’s mostly simple stuff. He can take care of Henry and his son.”

“I can’t do this by myself,” Holt said. “Your father will have to help me.”

“I’ll help you.”

“I need someone who knows how to assist in an operation,” Holt said as he moved quickly to get ready to see if he could save this man’s life.

Felicity’s chin jutted out and she got that unmistakable look of a woman who’d just been insulted. “If you know enough to get that spoke out of Durwin’s leg without killing him, I know enough to help you. Who do you think helps Papa when he's working or does the ether when he's got to put somebody out?”

“How would I know?” Holt asked as he opened his medical bag and began to lay out his instruments.

“You don’t, any more than I know you can take that spoke out without killing Durwin. Do you think you can save him?” Felicity queried after a short pause.

“I don’t know. I hope his internal injuries aren’t too severe.”

While they talked, she’d been moving about the room, taking out bandages, bottles with labels he couldn’t read, washing her hands thoroughly. That impressed Holt. He’d been introduced to the germ theory in medical school. Though he’d tried all during the war, he hadn’t been able to convince more than a few surgeons to wash their hands and their instruments between operations. Most thought he was a young fool with a newfangled theory. The notion that invisible germs were to blame for infections was too far-fetched for most to accept.

“What are you doing?” Holt asked. He wanted to know whether she was washing on purpose or out of a habit.

“Washing my hands,” she said. “There’s a theory that germs cause infection. If you wash before every—”

“I know about the theory,” Holt said. “I’m surprised you do.”

“My father studied medicine in Edinburgh. They believe—”

“I know what they believe. What do you wash with?”

“Carbolic.”

“Wash my instruments while I prepare the patient.”

Holt knew he sounded abrupt and unfriendly, but he was appalled that a man who’d had the advantage of a superior education should render it virtually useless because he preferred to pickle his liver in alcohol. He wondered if he remembered enough to set Evan’s broken collarbone.

Holt wrenched his thoughts from the doctor and his daughter and directed them to the man lying on the buggy seat. He dreaded removing the spoke. Once it came out, it would become a case of life and death, a test of Holt’s speed more than his skill. The same dilemma that faced him during the war. He tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. He'd have to use ether, but he still had his doubts about Felicity. Ether could kill if not used properly.

“Okay,” he said to Felicity. “I’m ready.”

The surgery lasted only a few minutes. Holt’s fingers flew from instrument to instrument: clamps, suture, gauze, more suture. The femoral vein repaired, Holt placed a few strategic sutures to hold the deeper flesh together and began giving instructions in how to bandage the still grisly wound. It would have to heal by growing in from the edges.

* * * * *

Felicity watched as Holt stepped back and slumped against the wall.

“That’s the best I can do,” he said. “From now on it’s up to him.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. She’d never seen anyone operate like that. It must have taken unbelievable courage to rip into a man's leg like he was cutting into the carcass of a steer. She knew her father could never have done it. She didn’t know many who could, but none could have done it with the confidence, the sureness, Holt Price had just demonstrated.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked.

“On the battlefield.”

“You didn’t hesitate. You acted like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I didn’t in the beginning. None of us did, but we couldn’t hesitate with the poor devils they brought to us. And they brought us so many. Sometimes the sheer numbers were frightening. No matter how little we knew, how poorly we could operate, we were their only chance and everybody knew it.”

He didn’t appear to take pride in his skill. Rather he seemed weary of it, or of the circumstance by which he acquired it. Or maybe it was the necessity to use it. She knew doctors of less than half his skill who were too full of pride to admit they had any limitations. For herself, she’d always thought the ability to save people’s lives, to make them well again, was the most wonderful gift anyone could have.

“Where did you study?” she asked.

“The University of Virginia. Why do you ask?”

“Your accent. I don’t know many Virginians, but you don’t sound like they do.”

“That’s because I come from Vermont. I’m a Yankee.”

She tried to stop it. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it. She practically recoiled. He smiled when he saw her reaction.

“My friends told me I’d better learn to talk like a Southerner if I wanted to keep my head. They wanted me to stay on the ranch for my own protection.”

“What are you doing here?” Felicity asked. “The only Yankees in Texas are soldiers come to trample in the dust what little pride we have left or carpetbaggers come to steal our money.”

“I’m neither,” Holt said. “One of the men I served with during the war invited me to Texas to help him round up his cattle and put his ranch back into working order. I might still be there except I’m not cut out to be a cowboy.”

“So you come to Galveston to set up a medical practice.” As the biggest and most important city in Texas, Galveston was the logical destination for a talented surgeon.

“No. I came to Galveston to search for the woman I love.”

Felicity didn’t like it when she had reactions she didn’t understand. She had too many uncertainties in her life to be undecided in her own mind, but her reaction to Holt Price confused her. At first she’d been afraid of him. She didn’t know if he was a good doctor, but even a bad one would know her father had drunk too much to be treating patients. She wanted him out of the house and out of her life before he could do anything to endanger her father.

At the same time she’d been hopeful he could save Durwin. Everybody knew Durwin had no sense, but he was such a sweet man everybody liked him. Holt’s skill had impressed her. She had to admire anyone who could do what he’d just done. But that made him even more dangerous to her father. Sending Holt off to look for his long lost sweetheart seemed the perfect way to get him out of her life, and her father would be safe.

So why didn’t she want him to leave?

Maybe she thought any woman who would leave a man for six years without letting him know where she had gone didn’t deserve him, but this woman might have run away because Holt was a horrible person. Felicity had no business letting herself think about him, but she couldn’t stop. She had this perfectly stupid, incredible feeling that she wanted to keep him there, to protect him. That upset her. There was no rational reason for her to feel as she did.

Except that he looked like the man of her dreams.

Holt didn’t look like a cowhand. Undeniably handsome, he dressed like a southern planter — black frock coat, blue embroidered silk vest, a white linen shirt and cravate, grey pants that clung to muscled thighs, and black shoes. He was tall, more than six feet. His body was lean, but the muscles in his chest, shoulders, and forearms indicated considerable physical power. The fact that she found that exciting worried her. Her mother had said she was born to love. This man could be the man of her dreams.

Yet he was the man of her nightmares. He was the one man who could ruin her father’s life.

“What’s the name of the woman you’re looking for?” Felicity asked. “Galveston is a large town and lots of new people have moved here in the last few years, but I might know her.”

“I doubt it. Her family is part of society.”

That annoyed her. She wasn’t part of society anymore, but Holt made it sound like she wasn’t good enough to belong.

“You might find it difficult to meet society people,” she said, determined to be helpful. “They don’t like Yankees unless they can find a way to make money from them.”

“Her name is Vivian Stone. She married Abe Calvert and moved to Texas, but he was killed in the war.”

“I don’t know any Calverts, but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be plenty of them around. There are more than ten thousand people in Galveston.” The city had recently passed San Antonio in size to become the largest in Texas, with newcomers arriving every day, but she knew little of them. Ever since her father lost his money, society had turned its back on him. “How do you plan to go about finding her?” Felicity asked. “Put an ad in the paper?”

“I haven’t decided, but I won’t place an ad. Vivian wouldn’t like that.”

“It will just take all that much longer.”

“I’ve waited two years. A few extra months won’t matter.”

He didn’t sound like a Yankee. All she’d ever heard made them sound impatient. Being willing to wait was a characteristic that made him almost Southern.

“I’d better see how your father is getting along with Mr. Black and his son,” Holt said.

“I’m sure he’s taken care of them and they’re gone. Father deals with cuts and broken bones all the time.”

“He was drunk.”

She knew her father drank too much, but it was not a problem as long as she was there to watch out for him. “He had something to drink, everyone does, but that doesn’t mean he was drunk.”

“He was confused, unable to make up his mind what to do.”

“The accident was unexpected.”

“All accidents are. That’s why they’re called accidents.”

“There’s no need to be rude. I’m not stupid.”

“No, and because you aren’t, I expect you to recognize drunkenness when you see it.”

“He hasn’t been well recently. The war—”

“You can’t use the war to excuse drinking.”

“Why not? Everybody else uses it as a reason to lie, cheat, and steal.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Nor does it give you the right to come in here and make judgments about something you know nothing about.”

“I know when I see a medical emergency. Durwin was in need of immediate help, and he wasn’t getting it.”

Holt Price might be low-keyed in his efforts to find this long-lost sweetheart, but he gave her the impression he would insist that every doctor hold to his own high standards. That made him even more dangerous. The sooner he started looking for Vivian the better.

“My father is not a surgeon. He can take out tonsils and gallbladders, but he was glad to have you operate on Durwin.”

“There must be other doctors in Galveston who could operate.”

“As you pointed out, we had to operate immediately.”

“So he would have tried to operate himself and bungled it.”

“He wouldn’t have tried to operate,” Felicity said putting her hands on her hips.”How do you know?”

“Because if he had wanted to, I would have stopped him.” She hadn’t wanted to admit that, but it was better than letting him believe her father would have been reckless.

“Why should he listen to you?”

What could she say that wouldn’t sound like she was making medical judgments? “My father takes his work seriously. As a consequence, he sometimes becomes too emotionally involved. He depends on me to tell him when that’s happening.”

“And you feel like you have the knowledge to do this?”

“I know my father.”

“I was referring to knowing when he wasn’t up to handling the medical situation.”

She wasn’t about to let him trap her that easily. “I leave it up to him to make any medical decisions.”

She couldn’t tell if he believed her. His expression made it abundantly clear he didn’t like the situation when her father entered the room.

“Is Durwin still alive?” he asked.

“For now,” Felicity answered. “If he survives, he’ll owe it entirely to Dr. Price. I was just telling him there isn’t anyone in Galveston who could have performed that operation as well as he did.”

Her father walked over to where Durwin still lay on the buggy seat. Much to Felicity’s relief he seemed much steadier. Maybe he hadn’t drunk very much. “Anything broken besides his arm?” he asked Holt.

“No. Considering the state of his buggy, it was a miracle he didn’t break both legs and arms.”

“Durwin’s like rubber,” Dr. Moore said. “You wouldn’t believe the accidents he’s survived with barely a scratch.”

“Well the law of averages caught up with him today.”

The doctor finished his inspection of Durwin and turned to Holt. “Do you think he’ll live?”

“I don’t know. The next couple of days will tell. He’s in as much danger of infection as anything else.”

“Was there much internal damage?”

“No, so I guess Durwin’s luck is holding. The spoke nicked the femoral vein but missed the artery and nerve.”

“You had no trouble closing him up?” Bandages covered Durwin’s leg.

“I closed up hundreds of soldiers during the war.”

Felicity wished Holt hadn’t mentioned the war. The effect on her father was immediate. The energy and confidence he displayed when he entered the room began to fade. “Dr. Pierce wanted to know how Henry and his son are getting along,” she said, hoping to distract his thoughts.

“Fine,” her father said, his agitation momentarily halted. “Henry’s got nothing more than cuts and scratches. I set Evan’s collarbone and sent them home.” He turned back to Durwin. “It was a good thing you turned up,” he said to Holt. “I couldn’t have done anything like that.”

“I’m glad I was able to help.”

Felicity could tell Holt was studying her father closely. She was relieved he looked almost sober.

“What do we do now?” her father asked Holt.

“We wait. The next few hours will determine whether he lives. I'm hopeful he’ll be okay. He woke up for a few minutes earlier. That’s a good sign.”

“What brings you to Galveston?” her father asked.

“I’m trying to find someone I knew before the war.”

“Got any place to stay?”

“Not yet. I just rode in today.”

“Good. You can stay with us.”

 

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