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They placed him gently on his bed, adjusting his position so he lay comfortably, his neck propped on his pillow. Dr. Davenport left the room briefly for his satchel and began preparing to administer the sutures.

“Make sure we have enough candlelight. I’ll need a properly lit room for this work,” Dr. Davenport instructed, and Cora immediately obliged, gathering all the candles in the house, arranging them strategically around the room and lighting each one.

Cora sat in the chair beside her father’s bed, holding one hand and gently stroking it with her thumb, while Roy stood behind her with a firm, steady hand on her shoulder.

Dr. Davenport used sanitized forceps to remove the bullet, and then carefully cleaned the wound with a damp cloth, and the pungent smell of antiseptic permeated around the room. Cora had to turn her head from the sight of the wound. It was strange how she was able to look at it earlier, when Alfred was in the house and adrenaline was running high, but now that the situation was calmer, her tolerance for the sight of such a graphic injury had drastically lowered.

She watched as Dr. Davenport’s hands moved with precision, threading a slender needle with a fine silk thread, revealing his experience not only as a town doctor but also as a field medic during the war.

Dr. Davenport spoke in a hushed tone as he worked. “It’s good that he is still unconscious, likely from the shock. That means that he won’t be in any discomfort. I’m going to work as quickly as possible.”

Cora and Roy stood vigil as he began the suturing process, pulling the edges of the wound together with the thread and aligning the torn tissue until, finally, the wound was closed. Dr. Davenport reapplied antiseptic and the bandages. Cora released a breath that she didn’t realize she had been holding through the process.

“What are his chances?” she whispered, afraid to know the answer. Dr. Davenport’s face was somber, his voice gentle but honest.

“I don’t want to sugarcoat it, Cora. Your father’s condition is serious. Wounds of this nature can be unpredictable. The biggest risk at this point is the possibility of infection on the wound site.”

Cora nodded in understanding, wiping away the tears that wanted to free fall down her face. She needed to be strong to care for her father.

“What do we do now? When will he wake up?” she asked.

“You’ll need to keep a close eye on him,” Dr. Davenport replied, his voice serious. “If you notice any signs of infection or complication—especially if his temperature spikes—you must send for me immediately. As for when he’ll wake up, that’s harder to say. His unconscious state could be due to the shock and trauma. Now that the worst of it has passed, he may regain consciousness within hours to a few days. We will just have to remain vigilant.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Cora said, clasping his hands in hers. Dr. Davenport smiled and nodded reassuringly. “Your father is in good hands, having a daughter he loves so much watching over him. Stay by his side and talk to him. Hearing loved ones’ voices is one of the best medicines for recovery. I will be back in the morning to check on him.”

Dr. Davenport nodded at Roy, picked up his bag, and left. Roy made two trips into the living room to transfer two of the large, comfortable chairs to her father’s bedside, and both of them settled in, exhausted after a long, traumatizing day. Cora linked her arm into Roy’s, using his shoulder as a pillow. She knew she should get cleaned up—she still had her father’s blood on her clothing—but she was too exhausted. Within minutes, she had dozed off.

A few hours later she woke up, her head still on Roy’s shoulder. The sky had darkened, and the clock on the wall told her she had been asleep for only a couple of hours. She looked up at Roy, who was still awake, staring distantly into the abyss. When he realized she was awake, he smiled down at her.

“Thank you for helping take care of my father,” Cora whispered as she snuggled closer to Roy.

Roy looked down at her with love in his eyes, leaning forward and kissing her on the forehead. “And thank you for taking care of mine.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Two days had passed since the day Alfred Mills had broken into the Williams’ home and put a bullet in Sheriff Williams, intending to kill them all. He now sat in the jailhouse at the police station, awaiting a trial for attempted murder—or perhaps murder if, Heaven forbid, the sheriff took a turn for the worst.

Roy and Cora hadn’t left the Williams’ house since that day, and Cora had only left his side to wash herself and use the outhouse. At night, he would sleep on the living room couch, and during the day, he would join Cora by the sheriff’s bedside and focus on caring for her so she could care for her father. He had taken over preparing meals, making sure that Cora was taking care of herself and getting proper nutrition. He worried about Sheriff Williams for his own sake, but he also worried for Cora should the sheriff not recover.

The good news was that there had been no sign of infection. His temperature had not spiked, and three times a day Dr. Davenport would check his vitals, and everything seemed to be normal. The bad news was that in the two days, the sheriff had yet to wake.

“This isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Dr. Davenport reassured them. “He has been through a trauma, and his body is working hard to recover. The human body is a marvelous thing, knowing when we need to rest to heal and when we are ready to regain consciousness. Trust the process.”

So, Cora and Roy spend their days praying over Sheriff Williams. Sometimes Cora would lead the prayer, sometimes Roy, and sometimes they would pray silently.

On the second evening, Cora had gone into her bedroom to change clothes. When she came back out, she returned to her seat by her father’s bedside, taking Roy’s hand and placing a small object inside it.

Roy looked down at his palm to see a small lion figurine.

“Is this…” his voice trailed off as recognition formed.

“From the night of the carnival,” Cora said. “It’s been among my favorite possessions.”

Roy turned the small figure over in his fingers, a symbol of the beginning of their love story.

“That will always be one of the best days of my life,” Roy said, placing the lion back into Cora’s palms, closing her fingers tightly around it and kissing her softly on her knuckles.

“Mine too,” Cora whispered back.