No Rules(51)

He was talking on the phone while leaning over, grimacing as he dug through the bag. She shoved him back, not gently since he tried to resist, and grabbed the bag from his hands. “That’s mine,” she told him. “Now lie still so I can see how bad this is.”

He looked surprised, but obeyed. As he related the attack to Kyle, she soaked a washcloth in the soapy water and began cleaning away blood. They undoubtedly had a disinfectant in their first-aid kit, but she knew without asking that soap and water would be best for cleaning.

Except…“Damn it. This is tap water. I didn’t boil it.”

“Don’t worry, I doubt he sterilized the knife before he stabbed me. Here, I’m going to put Kyle on speaker.”

He laid the phone on his chest and Kyle’s voice came through small but clear. “Describe the cut to me, Jess.”

She stuffed towels beneath Donovan’s side to soak up the water as she washed. “It’s about six inches long. There’s a lot of blood.”

“Is it still bleeding?”

“Yes. Not much, though.” She sighed with relief, one fear eased.

“Okay, look in the bag for latex gloves. Then I want you to pull the edge of the wound back gently and tell me how deep it is.”

With gloved hands, she touched the edge of the cut gently, then pushed. Donovan hissed through clenched teeth. More blood ran out, and she pulled back, dabbing at it with a new washcloth. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Donovan’s steady gaze held hers. “I’m fine, just do it.”

“Can you see yellow, fatty tissue below the skin?” Kyle asked.

Ick. “Yes.”

“Is it more than a quarter inch deep? A half inch? Look all along the cut.”

Gritting her teeth, she gingerly parted the sides and touched the gaping center. Donovan’s jaw clenched and he looked at the ceiling, but said nothing.

“Between a quarter and a half.”

“Okay, that’s good. I don’t think we have any major damage, but we have to get the wound disinfected and closed. Look in the bag for a surgical mask—we don’t want you breathing all over the wound. Also Betadine, syringes, and meds. There should be a couple small bottles of antibiotic and something to anesthetize the area. Don’t worry about the gloves, you’ll put on new ones. Tell me when you find everything.”

She dug around, then in frustration, dumped the contents onto a towel. “I have a syringe, antibiotic, and Betadine. No mask. No painkiller.” She met Donovan’s gaze, biting her lip. He said nothing. “Do we have whiskey, or something like that?”

Donovan managed a tight smile. “Watched a lot of Westerns, did you?”

“It wouldn’t have time to take effect,” Kyle said. “How about needles and sutures? There should be a box that says something like surgical-gut sutures, plus a curved needle, like a large hook.”

She looked. “Got them both.”

She knew where these instructions were going, but refused to think ahead. Kyle’s voice remained steady and matter of fact, guiding her through preparations so that she felt like his assistant, more of a nurse than a doctor. Kneeling at Donovan’s side, she cleaned the cut again then, following Kyle’s instructions, handed him several clean washcloths so he could blot excess blood as she worked.

“All right,” Kyle said in his unflappable voice “Have you ever mended a tear in anything?”

“My teddy bear.”

“This is the same thing. Pinch the end of the wound together and take your first stitch. It’s like sticking a needle through an orange peel. You want to poke through the skin far enough away from the cut that it won’t pull loose.”

She glanced at Donovan. He nodded. “Go ahead, Jess. I trust you.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. She wanted to throw the needle down and back into a corner, but she couldn’t. There was no one else there, and Donovan needed her. Praying her fingers wouldn’t tremble, she punched the curved needle into his skin.

Donovan clenched his jaw and grunted as it slipped through. “Sorry,” she muttered, shaken at causing him more pain. Gingerly, she pulled it the rest of the way, shaking off a touch of nausea at the resistance of the suture passing through skin.

Only slightly less hesitant, she repeated it on the other side of the wound, then brought the ends up and tied and cut them. She tried not to watch his face, but she couldn’t avoid seeing the rapid rise and fall of his chest and hear the panted breaths he took. Beads of sweat stood on his brow.

“Kyle, he’s in pain.”

“He’ll live,” Kyle answered. Curt, but not without sympathy. He was more used to accepting the rough patches of life than she was. They all were.