Page 13 of The Promise
He touched the stain on his shirt. "Yeah, I think the walk opened the wound."
"Look, Michael, we've got to call a doctor."
"No time." Their eyes met and she saw the certainty in his gaze. "The bullet has to come out now."
She helped him into the house and across the living room, for once thankful that the cabin was small. Reaching the door to the bedroom, she paused, summoning the last of her strength. "We're almost there." She wasn't certain who she was talking to, Michael or herself. She steered him across the room to the bed. With an exhausted sigh, he dropped down on it, his eyes closed, his lashes dark against the ashen pallor of his skin.
"Come on, we've made it this far. You've got to stay with me."
Blue eyes flickered open. The pain reflected there made her gasp. With steely determination, he struggled to sit up, leaning back against the pillows. "Have you ever removed a bullet?" He spoke slowly, as if each word were an effort.
"It's not something I list on my resume." He frowned. "I'm sorry. It's just that I haven't dealt with anything like this before." Her voice trembled. What if she lost him?
He reached out, covering her hand with his. "It's all right. I know how. I'll guide you."
She bit her lower lip and nodded. She could do this. A man's life depended on it.Michael'slife depended on it. "Okay. I'm just going to go get some bandages and things."
Pulling her hand away from his, she hurried into the bathroom. Throwing open the doors to the medicine cabinet, she searched among the antacids and cold remedies for something that could treat a gunshot wound. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. Pepto Bismol was a poor substitute for anesthesia.
Oh, God, she prayed, help me.
Clamping down on her rising hysteria, she forced herself to focus on the assortment of containers in front of her. Alcohol, that was important. She picked up the bottle. What else? She grabbed a tube of Neosporin, feeling a lot like a fireman fighting a raging forest fire with a squirt gun. Pain killer. She needed a pain killer. The best she could do was a bottle of Advil, but something was better than nothing.
Reaching for the analgesic, she spied a prescription pill bottle. She picked up the plastic container. Antibiotics. They were probably old. A refill she'd never used. They'd have to do. She grabbed the pills along with the Advil, adding them to the things already in her hand. In her haste, she dropped the lot.
The alcohol bottle bounced against the wooden floor, but didn't break. The tube of antibiotic landed near the wall. The pill bottles rolled into a corner. Grabbing a basket of potpourri from the back of the toilet, she dumped the contents into the bowl. Then, on hands and knees, she retrieved the bottles, placing everything in the basket.
Her breath was coming in ragged gasps now and tears threatened. She had to calm down.
Standing with the basket clutched in one hand, she pushed aside bottles and tubes, discarding the metal box of Band-Aids when she came to it. Hardly adequate for the job at hand. Finally, in the back of the cabinet, she found a roll of gauzeand some tape. Tossing them in the basket, she turned, her gaze falling to the counter.
A pair of tweezers lay by the sink. She swallowed back a wave of queasiness. She'd need something to pull out the bullet. Throwing them in with the rest, she grabbed a pillow case and a wash cloth from the linen closet and headed for the kitchen.
She needed a knife. Wrenching open a drawer, she surveyed her pitiful collection of cutlery. Never much of a cook, her array of knives was sadly lacking. Selecting the best of the lot, she threw a paring knife into the basket and grabbed a bottle of water from the counter on her way back to the bedroom.
She stopped in the doorway, trying to compose herself. The situation was dire enough without adding her panic. Breathing deeply, she crossed to the bed. His eyes were closed again and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. She placed the basket on the bedside table and sat on the bed beside him. "Michael?" His eyes opened. "You've got to tell me what to do."
He nodded. "Did you get a knife?"
She held up the paring knife. "It's the best I could find."
He reached for it and ran a thumb across the blade, a flicker of laughter passing across his face. "If you want to butter me, this might do, but I don't think it'll actually cut anything."
She flushed. "I don't have anything else."
"You can use mine." He pointed at a small leather pouch hooked to his belt.
With shaking hands, she unhooked the flap holding it in place, and withdrew a tiny knife. Balancing it in her palm, she examined it more closely. It was beautifully wrought. The handle was ivory in color and striated with gray and black. The blade itself was polished brass or some similar metal. It was flat on one side and intricately carved on the other with interlocking circles and curls.
"It's a sgian dubh."
"A what?"
"Sgian dubh. It's Gaelic."
"Skeen doo." She pronounced the strange words slowly.
"That's it. Sgian dubh. It means black knife. This one is very old. It's been in my family for generations. Came from Scotland. But more importantly, it's sharp enough to dig out the bullet."
