You're doing fine, son. Mrs. Sullivan's got the best hands in Texas. You'll be dancing at the Christmas social. Just wait and see. Margaret's hands moved with remembered skill, making tiny, careful stitches.
She was dimly aware of other cowboys gathering in the kitchen, of Tom keeping coffee hot, of the afternoon sun slanting through her cheerful curtains onto this desperate scene. Finally, she tied off the last stitch and stepped back. Will's breathing was stronger, his color marginally better. But she knew the real danger was still to come. Infection, fever, complications she couldn't predict or prevent.
"He needs to stay absolutely still for at least a week, " she told Jake, "The stitches could tear if he moves, and someone needs to watch him constantly. If fever sets in, we'll take shifts, " Jake said immediately. "Whatever he needs. " They moved Will carefully to Margaret's own bed. It was closest to the kitchen and its warmth.
She insisted, despite Jake's protests. "I can sleep on the kitchen settle, " she said. "He needs the comfort more than I do. " That night, sitting beside Will's bed, monitoring his breathing and temperature. Margaret found herself speaking to Jake in the dim lamplight.
He'd taken the first watch with her, refusing to leave. You were remarkable today, he said softly. I have seen field surgeons with less skill. I was terrified. She admitted in Philadelphia.
I only assisted. Charles made the decisions, held the responsibility. Today, she gestured helplessly. Today, you saved a boy's life. Maybe if infection doesn't set in, if the stitches hold, if a dozen other things don't go wrong.
She checked Will's forehead again. Still cool. Thank God. I used to think Charles was weak for turning to laudanum, but carrying this weight, knowing someone's life depends on your choices. I understand better now.
Jake shifted in his chair, the lamplight casting shadows across his face. After Sarah died, I swore I'd never be responsible for another person's life that way. Cattle, yes, ranch hands who knew the risks. Fine, but not, he paused. Then you arrived.
Margaret's breath caught. Jake, let me finish, please. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, not quite meeting her eyes. That first day, I told myself you were just another employee. Keep it business-like, distant, safe.
But then you burned those biscuits and swore like a sailor. And you set Tom's arm without flinching. And you turned my kitchen into something alive again. It's just cooking and basic medicine, Margaret said weakly. No, it's hope.