Free Candace McCarthy by Sweet Possession Page A

“Father—”
    “It’s all right,” he said in English, as if it would do any good when the Indian didn’t understand. “Taking out the bullet is going to hurt. We just want to ease the boy’s pain.”
    A second Indian murmured something to the one who held Amelia’s arm. The brave released Amelia, and it was all Amelia could do not to drop the glass. He stared at Amelia hard as he moved back against the wall to the position he’d been in before he’d rushed forward.
    “He did not mean to frighten you, doctor’s daughter,” the second Indian said, causing Amelia to start. “Runs-with-the-Wind feared what was in the cup. I explained to him that it was something to make Little Cloud feel less pain.”
    “You speak English,” she said.
    He nodded. “So, too, do Morning Eagle and Walks-with-Big-Stick.” He gestured toward two of his friends, both behind her.
    She nodded. “Thank you.”
    The Indian smiled. “Little Cloud is Runs-with-the-Wind’s son. He is concerned for him.”
    Amelia murmured that she understood. While curiosity prompted her to ask more questions, she kept silent instead, feeling that it would be somewhat inappropriate to pry into the Indians’ affairs.
    She waited until her father was done deciding the best way to extract the bullet, then she again extended the glass toward Little Cloud. He reached for it with his one free hand, raised it to his lips, and made a face as he swallowed it. He handed the glass back to her. She looked, and there was a little bit of the contents left in the glass.
    “Drink all of it,” she said. Her gaze went to the Indianwho spoke English. “Make him understand that if he doesn’t drink enough of it, it will not help him with the pain.”
    The older Indian spoke rapidly to the boy. The boy answered, and the man answered. The boy hesitated, but then he drank the remainder. He gasped when he was done, and his eyes watered.
    Amelia smiled as she took back the glass.
    “More, Amelia,” her father said.
    She froze. “But, Father, he’s just a child.”
    John Dempsey seemed to consider that. “All right. We’ll wait a few minutes to see how the medicine affects him.”
    Amelia nodded, relieved.
    When the boy closed his eyes and started to doze despite the pain he must have been feeling in his shoulder, the doctor proclaimed the patient ready for the operation.
    It had always bothered Amelia seeing people suffer, but she’d been able to do her job, because she knew they were trying to help them to heal. But on this occasion Amelia had to admit that she’d never felt a patient’s pain as much as she did with this young Indian. He didn’t cry out or whimper. Rather it was his courage and attempt to hide the pain he felt that garnered her sympathy and respect.
    All the while her father was digging into the child’s shoulder for the bullet, Amelia was conscious of the other Indians in the room, especially the boy’s father, Runs-with-the-Wind. She tried not to think what the Indians might do to them if the boy became ill or died under her father’s care. She offered up several silent prayers asking for Little Cloud’s quick recovery.
    Once while the doctor poured whiskey into the wound in an attempt to clean it, she’d met Run-with-the-Wind’s gaze and felt a chill shiver along her spine as he staredback at her without emotion. When she transferred her gaze to the Indian who helped her earlier, she found the same stoic expression unbroken by a smile.
    Amelia felt a pooling of relief when John Dempsey finally lifted the bullet with his forceps. He examined the bullet, then set it in a glass dish. After her father had stitched the boy’s wound closed, Amelia was able to relax, as she felt some of the tension leave the room.
    With a silent nod, the doctor instructed his daughter to put a plaster on the boy’s shoulder. Then he addressed one of the English-speaking braves. “The boy needs to sleep,” he said. “He shouldn’t be moved.”
    “We