She wet a cloth with the hot water and began washing around the wound to get rid of as much fresh and dried blood as possible. She poured more whiskey over it, then threaded some catgut into her father’s stitching needle. She soaked some gauze with whiskey and ran it over the catgut, then doused the wound again with the same whiskey before beginning to stitch up the hole.
Doctors were not sure yet of the reasons, but it seemed that if wounds were cleaned with pure alcohol, or at least whiskey, infection, which could kill a person from even a simple wound, could often be avoided. When her father left the medical profession, there had been heated debates going on at the time over how to prevent infection. She wondered how those debates had turned out. Her father had always been adamant that wounds must be washed or kept clean with alcohol.
She hoped she had done the right thing. It would be a shame now, after all her good work, if Jake Harkner should die from infection. Bad as he was, she would be very disappointed if that happened. It felt good to do what she had just done. She thought how proud her father would be, and how she had often wished women were more accepted into the medical profession. She would have liked being a doctor. There was no reason why a woman couldn’t do this as well as any man.
She finished the stitches, then untied Jake’s wrists and ankles and managed to get his arms out of his long johns so she could pull the top of them down under his hips. Then she wrapped the wound, reaching under his hard, heavy body over and over to bring the gauze around and then tie it. She decided then that all his clothes needed washing, and realized the man could have another kind of accident while lying there unconscious. She pulled the long johns all the way off him and tossed them to the floor, then wrapped a towel around his privates and between his legs, feeling a little embarrassed, but knowing it had to be done. Any nurse in a hospital would have done the same. When it came to medicine, there was no room for modesty.
“I’ll give you a good bath when I’m sure you’re all right otherwise,” she told him. There came no response. She removed her prize quilt from the bed, glad to see he had gotten no blood on it. She replaced it with an older blanket and covered him, but his legs were so long that his feet hung over the end of the bed. As she drew the blanket up to his neck, she noticed another scar at his left shoulder, a sign of stitches at his right ribs, and as she drew the covers to his neck, a strange, wide scar at the right side of his neck.
She dipped some gauze into the hot water then and began washing the wound at the side of Jake’s head, noting that the blow of Luke Putnam’s rifle had left a deep gash from just in front of Jake’s left ear across his left cheekbone. An ugly blue swelling surrounded the cut. She cleaned it as best she could and dabbed at it with more whiskey. “I’m afraid you’re going to have another scar here,” she said.
She jumped back then when Jake’s eyes suddenly flew open. He stared at her a moment, his dark eyes looking glassy and blank. “Santana?” he muttered. His eyes closed again. Miranda put a hand to her chest and breathed deeply to stop her sudden shaking. Was she crazy to do what she had just done? She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay calm. The man certainly couldn’t do her any harm tonight, and he didn’t even know where his guns were. She gathered the doctor bag and utensils and carried them out to the table, then retrieved the pan of hot water. She washed the surgeon’s knife and the stitching needle and put them back into the bag. She put away the whiskey and the laudanum, and a sudden sense of utter exhaustion overcame her then. She realized that nearly every part of her body ached. It had been the longest, most trying day of her life, one that was not just a physical drain but an emotional one. She realized there was nothing more she could do for Jake Harkner tonight, and what she would do with him after this would have to be decided in the morning.
She went back into the bedroom to get her rifle. The man still lay quietly resting. She hoped it was more of a sleep now than unconsciousness. She took the rifle and set it over near her father’s cot in the main room. She stoked up the fire against what she knew would be a chilly night in spite of the warm day. She straightened then, rubbing her hands at her aching lower back. She longed to just lie down now, but she remembered the poor draft horses were still in harness. She lit one lantern and set it on the table, then lit another and carried it outside.
It was dark now, which made everything seem more frightening. She hung the lantern in the shed and began the arduous task of removing the harness from the horses, a job difficult for most men and doubly difficult for her small arms, especially tonight, when her whole body screamed from a day of emotional upheaval and a tenseness that brought physical pain. The only thing that gave her the strength for this was realizing how miserable the poor, loyal horses would be if she left them in harness all night.