But her heart pounded in her chest and her hands shook, and she couldn’t walk back into the hall, worrying and wondering.
She needed to know.
Would Dr. Whitaker be all right?
And so she remained stock-still, standing between the fireplace and the bed, watching as Dr. Smithson pulled back Dr. Whitaker’s eyelids and studied his pupils intently. The doctor probed the blood on Dr. Whitaker’s head, assessing the cut there.
He then unbuttoned Dr. Whitaker’s waistcoat and ripped his torn shirt from top to bottom, exposing the doctor’s chest.
Lottie jumped at the noise.
Gracious!
She needed to leave. In fact, she ordered her feet to do just that.
But her stubborn legs refused to obey. All of her too riveted to move.
Though leanly built, Dr. Whitaker clearly cared rigorously for his body. His chest was comprised of defined cords of muscle, the sort of which Lottie had only ever seen in paintings.
But in this case, it was anything but art. Blood and scrapes crisscrossed the whole. Moreover, Dr. Whitaker groaned when Dr. Smithson pressed on his ribcage, probing the extent of his injuries.
“You’ve got a nasty but shallow cut right at your hairline,” Dr. Smithson said. “Some bruising and cuts along your left shoulder and arm. Three bruised ribs, but I don’t think any are broken. Your pupils are dilating normally. No signs of concussion that I can see.”
“Thank my hard head for that.”
Dr. Smithson smiled faintly before turning his attention to Dr. Whitaker’s lower left leg. He pressed along its length. Dr. Whitaker hissed and cursed.
“I’m concerned about the leg.” Dr. Smithson shook his head. “I’m going to have to cut off your fine Hessian boot.”
“Lucky I was wearing boots when this happened, honestly.” Dr. Whitaker grunted as Dr. Smithson gently lifted and repositioned his left leg. “I reckon the boot prevented the break from coming out my skin. God willing, it provided just enough protection to keep the bone from utterly shattering.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” Dr. Smithson nodded, his face grim as he retrieved a sharp knife from his bag. “I’ll go slow, but it’s going to hurt like hell.”
Dr. Whitaker touched Dr. Smithson’s elbow, drawing his attention.
“Michael, please, ye must promise me.” Dr. Whitaker’s voice turned hoarse, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Promiseme you’ll do everything ye can tae save my leg. I dinnae want it amputated.”
The blood drained from Lottie’s face.
Had she truly heard that correctly? The doctor’s leg might have to beamputated?
But—
But . . . what else was to be done if the break were bad enough? The bone would be impossible to set.
She knew this and yet . . .
She hadn’t thought that . . .
No!
She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, abruptly blinking back tears.
“Alex—” Dr. Smithson’s voice broke. “I promise I will do my utmost.” He rested a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But you and I both know that I may not have a choice. If the break is bad enough . . .”
Dr. Whitaker swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in the low light. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, his throat convulsing over and over as he fought some ghastly internal battle.
Yes. Lottie needed to leave.
