One
Union Army Hospital, Tennessee
July 18, 1864
Sweat beaded at Grace Sinclair's temple and trickled inelegantly along the side of her face. Elegance... Pah! The stifling August heat, and the overwhelming stench of the makeshift hospital had long since eclipsed any semblance, or even memory, of elegance. It seemed an eternity, another lifetime, since she'd donned fine silks and—
The door leading to the upstairs operating theater flew open, crashing against the wall with such force Grace jumped and dropped the woven basket filled with linen.
"I can't do it anymore!" Sarah Walters huffed into the hall in a flurry of dark skirts. Blood smeared her white apron. "I will not assist Dr. Connor's again. The man is insufferable."
"Nurse Walters!" Dr. Connors bellowed from within the operating theater. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"Away from you, and your godforsaken Irish temper," Sarah spat. She turned to Grace. "I'm sorry, Nurse Sinclair, but I am through with that man. I will resign my position before I go back into that room."
Grace licked her lips and glanced nervously toward the door. "That won't be necessary, Sarah." Grace gave the other woman's arm a quick squeeze. "Take these linens to stock the wards. I'll assist Dr. Connors."
Sarah scoffed. "Good luck."
"Nurse Walters!" Connors barked. "Do you wish for the patient to bleed to death in your absence?"
"That's unlikely," Sarah hollered back. "He has a tourniquet on his thigh."
"Enough, Sarah," Grace ordered with calm, quiet authority. "Go."
Cheeks blazing with rage, Sarah glared at the door. Finally, she harrumphed and hefted the linen basket into her arms. "Good luck," she muttered, and stomped down the hall.
A pit settled in Grace's stomach, but there was nothing for it, she'd have to take over for the other nurse. Steeling her resolve, she squared her shoulders, and marched into the room. "How may I be of assistance, Doctor?"
Connors briefly glanced up from the mangled limb he was amputating. "Get a towel, lass. I can't bloody see with all this sweat in my eyes."
Grace nodded and strode efficiently across the room. She quickly located a clean, dry towel and mopped his brow with the folded edge. She glanced at the pile of discarded rags on the floor beside them. No doubt Sarah had been responsible for wiping his brow as well.
"The light!" Dr. Connors snapped. "How am I supposed to operate without sufficient light?"
Grace blanched and cast an empathetic glance to the orderly directing sunlight onto the patient with a mirror. A muscle worked testily in the young man's jaw, but he showed more dignity than Nurse Walters, and wordlessly shuffled to the left, redirecting the light. Grace turned her attention back to Dr. Connors and swiftly wiped another river of sweat from his face. She tensed, waiting for him to scold her, but, surprisingly, he said nothing.
Instead, he leaned over the limb he was amputating, his brow furrowed in a study of supreme concentration. "Hand me that clamp," he muttered tersely.
Deftly Grace did as she was told. She tensed, praying she'd retrieved the correct tool. To her immense relief he simply took the instrument without comment. Relieved, she dabbed his forehead again, and watched in fascination as he snaked the curved end under the flap of severed flesh to snare an errant blood vessel. Securing the clamp, he masterfully ligated the vessel with silk. "There," he murmured, visibly relaxing. "Now we can close."
Without being told, Grace gathered the silk suture material already loaded onto a curved needle and deftly placed it in his hand. For good measure, she wiped his damp brow again. "Should I administer more chloroform, Doctor?"
He glanced toward the anesthetized soldier's face. "I don't think that will be necessary."
"Very well." For just a moment her gaze rested on the boyish features of the sleeping Private Thomas. Her heart wrenched. He was so young, she'd never asked, but he couldn't be more than twenty, and he'd be lucky to escape this with his life.
With effort, she shoved away the dour thought. It wouldn't do to focus on death and loss, it only hindered her ability to help the living.
Instead she watched in fascination as Dr. Connors swiftly sutured the skin flaps together with effortless skill. There was an art to his work, a certain mastery. If only his disposition was half as lovely as his surgical ability. Unfortunately, Everett Connors was as notorious for his foul temper as his brilliant surgical skill. He'd reduced so many nurses to tears that most refused to work with him any more. As the temporary head nurse, Grace was not so lucky.
Once he completed this surgery she'd have to address the matter with him. She dreaded the confrontation.
"Bandages."
Grace turned and quickly located the rolled white bandages in a basket beside the operating table. Deftly she passed Dr. Connors a roll and watched as he meticulously bandaged the stump.
Connors turned to the two orderlies in the room. "He'll revive shortly. Once he does, return him to his bed in the Confederate ward." He lifted the bloody apron from his frame and then crossed to the water basin. He plunged his hands within, scrubbing the blood from his hands. "I will check on him this evening."
The orderlies murmured acknowledgement, and, without another word or glance, Dr. Connors quit the room.
Grace was quick to follow, calculating her steps until they were more or less alone and out of ear shot. "Dr. Connors, might I speak with you?"
"Speak," he replied curtly. He didn't slow or turn around.
A flash of anger warred with the nervousness twisting inside her, and Grace glared at his broad back striding away from her. She had half a mind to reach out and grab his navy blue vest by the back of the collar.
"Might I inquire about your misunderstanding with Nurse Walters?" she said pressed, striving for patience.
"She's incompetent."
Grace fisted her hands at her sides. How many times had she heard him say that about near every other person in the hospital? "Then it would seem all of my nurses are incompetent as none of them are willing to work with you."
"The competence, or incompetence, of the nurses is your responsibility. I'm not certain what you wish to speak with me about."
Infuriated by lack of sleep and his dismissive attitude, Grace rushed forward and grasped his arm just above the elbow. "Major Connors, stop! May I please have one moment of your time."
He halted and spun so abruptly that she ran square into the broad expanse of his muscular chest. She wobbled and stepped hastily backward, stepping on her petticoats. She lost her balance and would have toppled over, but Dr. Connors swiftly slid his arms around her waist and at the same moment she caught his sturdy shoulders. Thusly anchored, she looked up and found herself staring... no not staring... trapped in the entrancing beam of his beautiful gray eyes.
She froze and her throat dried.
It was no secret that Dr. Connors had lovely eyes, or that he cut a strikingly handsome figure with his dark wavy hair and remarkably tall stature, but Grace had never given his physical attributes more than a passing notice. She was far too busy and he too ill-tempered, but today... suddenly clasped in his impromptu embrace, she was becoming entirely too aware that he was strong, and very, very... manly. The strength of his arms cradled around her made her tingle all over, and combined with his transfixing, fathomless eyes she knew the sudden sense that she could be simply sink into the powerful embrace.
What is wrong with me? Desperately, Grace tried to regain her senses.
But, to her shock and horror, Dr. Connors didn't immediately release her. Instead he tugged her right up against his toned body and leaned improperly close. "Find me some time, lass," he murmured in a low husky tone. "A moment, an hour, and it's all yours." His stormy gaze roved freely over her and his warm breath breezed over her lips, reminding her of the moment leading up to a kiss, making her acutely aware of just how long it had been since she'd been kissed or experienced any intimacy with a man.
Shivers ran down her spine, and for a few seconds she stared up at him, completely under the spell his musical brogue created. Slowly, her shock ebbed and his meaning dawned. A moment, an hour... What a cad! Her blood boiled at his implication, and she finally snapped out of her trance. She planted her palms against the flat of his chest and shoved with all her might. "How dare you!"
He staggered back a step, keeping an unremorseful eye fixed on her.
"How dare you take advantage of my clumsiness and imply that... I—we might..." at a complete loss for words she crossed her arms and speared him with a lethal glare. "You know."
He shrugged, an unrepentant smirk quirking his lips. "You chased after me, grabbed my sleeve, and tumbled into my arms." He winked, his teasing grin widening. "You can't blame a man for trying."
"You are a horse's ass."
He shrugged those incredibly broad, and, maddeningly enticing, shoulders. "A known fact, Nurse Sinclair."
Grace lifted her chin and started backing away from him down the hall. "Stop barking at my nurses," she ordered. "Incompetent or otherwise, they're the only help we have. These soldiers need them, and like it or not, so do you." With that she turned on a heel and marched away from the insufferable man.
~*~
Interest piqued, Everett suppressed the overpowering impulse to follow Nurse Sinclair as her rich dark hair disappeared around the corner. A mixture of intrigue and guilt roiled inside him. He didn't know what had possessed him to behave so deplorably. One moment she'd been chasing him down the hall—no doubt to chastise him for mistreating the nurses—and the next her sweet little frame had been nestled in his arms.
How many times had he fantasized about holding her in such a way?
Too many to count.
For a split second there'd been an unexpected spot of brightness in his day. For a moment this world of gruesome war had faded away, and he'd escaped into the blissful oblivion of her chocolate brown eyes. The chance to hold and tease the prim and proper head nurse had been an irresistible departure from the usual misery of his day.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair. With a heavy sigh he turning toward the staircase leading to the second story ward. The complete opposite direction Nurse Sinclair had gone.
Best not to follow her.
Such would only lead to a fight, and he was bloody well sick of fighting. Exhausted. Nothing he did was ever enough. The hospital was teaming with sick and wounded soldiers, and more men flooded in by the day. Bed space was sparse, supplies thin, and good help nearly impossible to find. How could he patch these boys up and give them a fighting chance to return home without the necessary resources?
His usual frustrations returned, souring the brief respite of good humor and feminine warmth he'd found seconds ago. Scowling, Everett shuffled about and ambled down the wooden hotel staircase leading to the second floor ward to begin his afternoon rounds.
"Connors!" An angry voice bellowed the moment he stepped onto the ward. "A word if you don't mind."
Everett gritted his teeth. Would no one leave him alone today? "What is it, Dr. Shaffer?" He turned to the lanky, red-haired man stalking across the wooden floor. He wanted nothing more than to tell the man to piss off, but this confrontation was bound to happen sooner or later.
"My patient from the Confederate ward isn't in his bed. I don't suppose you know anything about that?"
"If you're speaking of Corporal Anderson, I shouldn't worry, he'll be returned from the operating room shortly."
Shaffer's face deepened at least three shades redder than his hair and his brow furrowed with fury. "The operating room? You took my patient to the operating room?"
"I did," Everett replied matter-of-factly.
"On what grounds?"
"I outrank you."
"Damn it, Connors. You had no cause to operate on that Reb."
"No cause? Is amputation no longer the appropriate treatment for a leg that's been blown apart by a mini-ball and gone gangrenous." In truth the lad's left leg should have been amputated the day he'd been carted in from the battlefield. The extremity had been shattered just above the ankle. It would never have healed well. The below the knee amputation would grant him a far better chance at life with a prosthetic leg.
"The wound was not gangrenous," Shaffer seethed.
"If you cannot recognize an obvious case of gangrene then you do not deserve the title physician."
"You overstep, Connors. Colonel Dayhuff will hear of this."
"By all means," Connors responded coolly. "I'm sure the colonel will be very interested to hear that you provide lesser medical care to our Confederate brethren."
Fury lit in Shaffer's ice blue eyes. "That is not true."
It was true. It had been a problem for as long as Everett had worked with the man. "As you say."
"You can go to Hell, Connors." Shaffer stabbed a finger into Everett's chest. "You haven't heard the last of this. Stay away from my patients." With that the other man turned sharply and quit the room, no doubt to seek out Colonel Dayhuff.
Everett sighed. The contention in this place was as miserable as the battlefield. Maybe he should volunteer to go back to the front.