“Aye,” Michael chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound. “If they had summoned Dr. Hatch, my older colleague in these parts, he would have taken your leg clean off by now.”
Alex shuddered and fought against panic in earnest.
A broken leg was an unknown quantity. The bone could heal beautifully well and be as good as new. Or infection could set in, causing the leg to gangrene. The only way to save a patient’s life at that point was to amputate the infected leg and pray the patient survived. The worse the break, the more likely the injury would become infected.
Consequently, many older doctors felt that amputation was the best solution for any significant break. Why risk a life-ending infection?
In an instant, Ian’s leg swam before his vision, a bloody mass of mangled flesh—
Alex took in another slow breath, desperate to quell the acidic terror he could taste in the back of his throat.
But his injury was too eerily similar to his brother’s. Alex wanted to laugh at the cruel irony. Worse, how was he to suppress the memory of Ian thrashing in agony—
Don’t think on it.
Don’t think about all that could go wrong.
But it was no use. More memories forced their way in, pushing past thoughts of Ian.
A coachman screaming as Alex amputated his infected leg, McNeal holding the man down.
A little girl drawing her last breath, skin gray and bloated, because infection from her broken arm had spread throughout her wee body.
And Ian himself, screaming and screaming, blood everywhere, Alex’s hand shaking so badly he had to leave another doctor to perform the amputation—
“Stop!” Michael’s sharp voice cut through Alex’s thoughts. “Stop it. Stop this instant! I can practically see the gears in your head, working through every worst-case scenario.”
Alex ran a hand over his face, not surprised to realize he was shaking. He took in gulping breaths of air.
Shock? Nerves?
He couldn’t say.
Michael grabbed Alex’s hand, holding it fast.
“Enough, Alex! You must stem these thoughts. For your very sanity, you must. We both know that the bone-healing business is a risky gamble at best. But your break is clean. The bone didn’t shatter. Between you and me, you are in the best of hands. If anyone can get this bone to heal straight and strong without infection setting in, it will be us.”
Alex swallowed, chest heaving.
Michael was right.
Alex knew this.
But his thoughts held a fuzzy quality, as if the trauma and stress of the day had stuffed his head with cotton.
He opened his eyes and met his friend’s intense gaze. Michael released Alex’s hand and sat down on a stool beside the bed, scrubbing his hands through his hair.
“I had no idea you were a relation to Lord Lockheade,” the doctor said after a moment. “I’m still trying to understand how you are here. I thought your family raised horses in Scotland.”
Ian’s face rose again in Alex’s memory. The agony of his screams. Alex’s hoarse sobs. King Arthur’s whinnying in distress—
Stop it. Don’t dwell on it.
Alex swallowed, gritting his teeth. “They did. But I’m a distant descendant of Lockheade. My father’s family renounced their English relations generations ago.”
“Wait.” Michael’s head went back. “Are you telling me you’rethatScottish relation? The new heir?” The doctor’s voice climbed with each word, eyes wide.
“Aye.” Alex was too tired to gauge if his friend was shocked or horrified. “Unless my blasted relatives finish me off first.” He flicked his hand, indicating his bandaged leg.
