He swallowed normally. She hovered over him for several minutes to make sure it had gone down, and used a clean cloth to mop his wet forehead. With her thumbs she massaged his temples and the space above his eyes, willing him to surrender.
The sharply etched lines between his brows smoothed out under her ministrations. His breathing slowed, steadied. It would be an hour before the chloral hydrate took effect, but in this state sleep might come more quickly.
She permitted herself to draw away at last, dropping into the chair and closing her eyes. She was exhausted, a state she did not enjoy admitting even to herself. Where was Papa’s Valkyrie now?
The door swung open with a faint creak. “Doctor Johanna!”
Bridget Daugherty stepped into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well, I’ll be! The others didn’t even tell me you was home. I was out in the back with the wash—” She glanced at the patient. “You been busy, I see. New guest?”
“For the time being.”
Mrs. Daugherty sniffed. “Likkered up. You never took one of them in before.”
“The opportunity hadn’t arisen,” Johanna said crisply. Bridget was a naturally garrulous soul, curious about everything and completely uneducated, but she also felt she owed Johanna a great debt for delivering her eldest daughter’s child safe and alive when the other local doctor had proclaimed the case hopeless. She was steady, trustworthy, and tolerant of the odd residents of the Haven. Johanna could ask for no more.
“I found him in the road,” she said. “He might have died if I’d left him.”
“An’ you can’t leave any poor soul in need, can you?” Bridget shook her head. “Well, looks like you might need a hand tonight, after supper.”
“I would much appreciate it,” Johanna said, daring to close her eyes again.
“You’re plumb tuckered, Doc,” Bridget said. “You ought to rest.”
“Not now. He must be watched.”
Bridget clucked. “Same old story. Well, at least the wash is done, and I didn’t have no trouble from anyone. I’ll fix you up a supper tray and feed the rest.”
“Thank you, Bridget.”
A broad, callused hand settled on her shoulder and squeezed. “There’s a letter for you came in yesterday’s mail, from that Mrs. Ingram. I put it on your desk.” Mrs. Daugherty left the room.
Another letter from May’s mother, a full four months after the last. This time it might contain good news, something other than vague hints of her plans to return for her daughter, and the usual questions about May’s well-being. But Johanna couldn’t count on that.
In any case, the letter could wait. Johanna got to her feet and lifted her new patient’s trousers and coat from the back of the chair. They might be washed, mended, and saved, with a little effort. Irene might be persuaded to do it for such a handsome stranger.
She waited out the next hour until it was clear that her patient was sleeping deeply, unlikely to wake for some time. She tucked the sheets and blankets high about his shoulders, smoothing them down over the contours of his upper body.
How beautiful he was, even in sleep.
She stepped sharply away from the bed, barked her shin on the chair, and reached for the doorknob. Papa. She must see Papa. He would be waiting, and she’d left him alone so long. Papa would have advice—
No, he wouldn’t. Sometimes, when she was very tired, she forgot about the attack and what it had done to him. She expected to walk into his room and feel his arms around her, hear his laugh and his chatter about his latest progress with a patient.
Not today. Not ever again.
But this man might recover. This was within her control. She would see that he was up on his feet and well again, whatever it took.
With a final backward glance, she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 3
He remembered his name.
Quentin. Quentin Forster. Born in Northumberland, England, thirty-two years ago.
And suffering from a throbbing headache, a mouth full of cotton, and eyes that all too slowly focused on the room in which he lay. He blinked against the spill of light from the lace-curtained window. Thank God the sun wasn’t shining from that direction.