Page 44 of Healing Hazel

She glanced up as Dr. Jackson joined her. His coat was gone and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms. Although he’d been shoveling dirt, he must have found somewhere to wash. She studied him—his dark eyes that could be intense and brooding but also kind, the wrinkles at the corners that showed when he smiled or squinted. His hair was longer than was fashionable, curling over his ears and collar.

“That is the aunt?” he asked, lifting his chin toward where Iraxte was holding Nerea and speaking with some other women.

“Yes.” Hazel blushed, realizing she was staring. She looked toward the women. “She seems to be a very kindhearted person.”

“You are relieved.”

“I am.”

He studied her face. “You seem much calmer—serene, even.”

“I do feel more at peace.” She blushed at the intensity of his gaze.

Dr. Jackson clasped his hands behind his back. “And hungry?”

“Hungry?” she said, confused by the change of subject.

“I am, yes. And I don’t believe you’ve eaten today either.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Hazel slipped her hand beneath his elbow, and following the beckoning of the villagers, they were seated at a table surrounded by strangers who filled their plates and cups and communicated with exaggerated gestures and facial expressions. Hazel couldn’t help but feel warm at their hospitality. She spoke with a few of the women, hardly getting further than her name, but the villagers seemed just as happy as if they’d engaged in a very enjoyable conversation. Dr. Jackson seemed to have an easier time, knowing a few words of Basque.

The hosts offered Hazel more food, filled her cup whenever the level dipped, and treated her and Dr. Jackson and the others as if they were the most valued guests ever to grace the streets of Santa Rosa.

Hazel ate soup that warmed her through, thick hearty bread, and a delicious omelet filled with earthy-tasting mushrooms. When a woman moved to put a slice of meat on her plate, she finally waved her hand and patted her belly to show that she was filled.

A child came to the table then, reaching past Hazel to pinch a piece out of a cake. He crammed it into his mouth just as a woman rushed up, reprimanding him and taking him away.

Hazel laughed with Dr. Jackson, who looked at the cake with the hand-sized chunk missing. He sat back in his chair, taking his cup of wine in hand. “This work, this profession, it’s a strange one, don’t you think?” His voice had turned pensive.

“How do you mean?” Hazel asked.

“Some of the time, it’s utterly miserable, seeing people sick or injured or dying, watching their families mourn, and feeling completely helpless. Other times are the complete opposite. Joyful, even. Seeing a body heal and a family reunited, knowing a patient will have a chance at a healthy life.” He sipped his drink. “And sometimes each scenario happens so close together that it’s impossible to feel everything at once.”

Hazel knew exactly what he meant. “As if your emotions can’t keep pace with your circumstances.”

“Precisely.” He raised his glass in acknowledgment.

“Why did you become a doctor?” Hazel asked. Dr. Jackson seemed to be in a talkative mood, and there was so much about him that she wanted to know.

He took a long drink and let out a heavy breath through his nose. “It was a choice I made during the American War.” His eyes looked as if they were seeing something far away. He set the drink on the table and scooted his chair back so he could rest his ankle on his other knee.

“I was enlisted as a medic. Not by choice, but apparently, assisting my father in his veterinary practice was all the qualification the army needed to deem me suitable for the duty.” He shrugged as if armies made strange assumptions all the time. “My brother, Theodore—Teddy—he was two years younger than me. He served in the infantry.” Dr. Jackson took another drink, and a trace of a smile moved over his mouth. “Teddy excelled in the army. He was obsessed with everything about it: the uniforms, the ceremony, the fighting. He was brash and daring—a bit of a hothead, really—but everyone loved that about him.” He raised his brows in an expression of good-natured exasperation.

“You loved him very much,” Hazel said. The affection was evident in his eyes. She liked this side of Dr. Jackson, the side that laughed at a little boy’s antics and shook his head at thoughts of his eccentric brother. “What happened?”

He looked into his cup, swirling the wine around like a gentle whirlpool. “Of course, you’ve heard of Gettysburg.” His face seemed to darken.

“Your brother fought there?” Hazel winced, and a chill went over her. She knew both armies had suffered immense losses during the famous battle.

Dr. Jackson nodded, still watching the wine move around and around. “From the first shot, the medical tents were overrun. We could hardly keep up with the influx of wounded. So many were injured, and so fast.” He set the drink down on the table, clasping his hands together and closing his eyes.

“Teddy wasn’t even a part of Pickett’s infantry, but General Lee had a way of motivating men, rallying them to his cause.”

Hazel watched him, afraid of what he would say.

“I begged him not to join the charge, told him it was a suicide mission. From the medical tents on the hill, I had seen clearly that the Union soldiers were in a stronger position. They were protected behind a stone wall. The assault was doomed before Lieutenant General Longstreet even mounted his horse.”

“Your brother joined anyway?”

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