Page 14 of The Promise
She touched the blade experimentally. A thin line of blood appeared on her finger. Definitely sharp. "Okay, what do I do first?"
He smiled weakly. "I'd say the best thing to do would be to pull off my shirt. Then you're going to clean the wound with something. Do you have any whiskey?"
Actually it wasn't a bad idea. Maybe after a good stiff drink she could do this. Or better yet, maybe a couple of good stiff drinks. She pulled herself back to the task at hand. "I've got rubbing alcohol. It's better than whiskey. And I brought some Advil. It's not much, but it will help with the pain."
She put the little knife on the table and opened the bottle, shaking out a couple of pills. She glanced up at his face, cringing at the pain she saw etched there. She added a couple more tablets to the pile on her palm. "Here, take these." She held out the medicine, along with the water.
He looked at them with a puzzled expression. "I think I'd rather have the whiskey."
She smiled. "Take them. And this one too. It's an antibiotic." She added another pill to the pile, fervently hoping it was still potent.
Again, he shot her an odd look, his eyebrows raising quizzically. "Antibiotic?" He said it like it was a foreign word.
"You know, for infection." His injury must be affecting him more than he was letting on. He acted like he'd never heard of an antibiotic. He stared at the pills in her hand, a look of distrustplaying over his face. Men were such babies when it came to taking medicine.
"I'll tell you what," she said, placing the tablets in the palm of his hand. "If you take the pills, I'll get you some whiskey. Okay?" She wasn't at all sure letting him drink was the right thing to do, but hey, that's always what they did in Westerns when somebody got shot, and she really doubted the Advil was going to do a lot to deaden the pain.
"Whiskey first."
She met his gaze and was once more surprised at the determination reflected there. This was not a man to argue with, even in his current condition.
She left the room and opened the cabinet where she kept the liquor. Whiskey could mean several things, and not wanting to waste valuable time, she grabbed a bottle of Bourbon and another of Scotch, the 30 year old kind. If the guy had to drink his anesthetic, it might as well go down smoothly.
When she walked back into the bedroom he was in the process of trying to peel off his shirt. The look of agony on his face was almost her undoing. Dropping the bottles on the bed, she moved to his side and carefully helped him remove the shirt. The muscles in his back were rigid, taut evidence of a pain more intense than she could imagine.
She slid an arm around his shoulders. "Here, lean back." Once he was propped up against the pillows again, she reached for the bottles. "I wasn't sure what you wanted. Bourbon or Scotch—" She cut off the sentence. This wasn't a cocktail party.
He grabbed the Scotch and after unscrewing the cap, drank deeply.
"The pills." She hated to sound like a taskmaster, but he needed the antibiotics.
With a grimace, he swallowed the tablets and took another swig from the bottle, pausing to run a thumb over the ridgedglass at the mouth of the container. His brows drew together, then, with a sigh, he lay back against the sheets.
She sat beside him on the bed and carefully began to peel the bandages off. They were stuck in places and she could feel him tense every time she had to pull at one. Finally, there was only the wound. Using the washcloth and the water, she carefully washed away the blood.
She could see the bullet hole now, a perfect little circle, almost as if he'd been hole punched. The edges were black and the center oozed blood mixed with a greenish liquid.Infection. She could smell it. Swallowing to keep her stomach in line, she leaned back.
"Okay, what now?" Her voice was tight and came out sounding pinched. Her heart was pounding.
"Wash the area out and then make a cross cut to open it up."
She opened the alcohol and poured some onto the wash cloth. With a hesitant swipe, she brushed across the open wound.
"No. Not like that." He took the bottle from her and tipped it over. The liquid ran down his shoulder. His face tightened and she could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the bottle. Finally satisfied, he handed it back to her. "Now, cut."
Dreading what came next, she picked up the little knife, swabbing it with alcohol. Grimly she bent over his shoulder, concentrating on what she was about to do. Placing one hand so that her fingers splayed out around the wound, she inched the knife downward.
"Do it." His voice rumbled deep in his chest and she could feel the vibrations with her fingers.
Sucking in a deep breath, she tightened her grip on the knife and cut swiftly across the wound. Placing the alcohol soaked washcloth across it, she reached for the tweezers. After blottingaway the worst of the blood and sterilizing the tweezers, she began to search for the bullet.
Sweat ran down her face and she used her free hand to wipe it away.
Michael groaned once, but other than that, remained stoically silent, his eyes shut his mouth drawn tight.
She twisted the tweezers first to the left and then to the right, probing as gently as she could. Finally, just as she was beginning to think there was no bullet, she felt the tweezers hit something solid.
"I think I feel something. Wait." She withdrew the tweezers triumphantly. "I have it." The ball of lead looked more like a metal lump than a bullet. She felt like she should be dropping it into a bowl for posterity or something. "Should I keep it?"
