Quillan swallowed. “Time for what?”
“For what healing there will be.”
Quillan squelched the panic of those words. He was maimed? Useless? Like Cain? Cain hadn’t been useless, a voice inside argued, but Quillan ignored it. How would he support his wife, children when they came? Would Carina even want a cripple for a husband? Surrender your independence. And what? Depend on her? He opened and closed his right hand, clenching the fist harder and harder.
Dr. DiGratia paused, the split cast and fragments balanced in his hands. “We will see when the time comes. There’s no use imagining the worst.”
“I doubt you’ve told me the worst.”
The doctor’s chin cocked slightly. “The worst is the leg will not bear your weight, and you’ll use a crutch.”
Again Quillan pictured Cain hobbling over the rough ground. Oh, God! He forced his voice to steady. “When will I know?”
“Once I determine the bone is fused, we will begin to strengthen the leg.”
“How can you tell anything through this?” Scowling, Quillan knocked on the plaster near his hip.
“I can’t. Maybe it’s ready now. But I will err on the side of caution.” He fixed Quillan with his blue stare. “Too soon a try might damage the bone beyond repair.”
Quillan closed his eyes. He was peevish and unfair in his impatience. Dr. DiGratia had expended much time and effort with his care. “I’m sorry.”
A faint smile pulled the doctor’s lips. “You must understand my position. One wrong move with you now, and I’ll have Carina’s ire forever.”
Quillan stared at him. That was the first acknowledgment of permanent status he’d had from the man. Why now, when he could offer so little?
He’d lost his fortune and even his strength. Now he truly had nothing to offer but himself, and even that was questionable. The tightness in his throat became an ache. Had he misunderstood something somewhere? But though the doctor left him brooding, he could not see it.
Carina passed her papa coming from Quillan’s room, the saw and cast pieces in his hand. “His arm is healed?”
“The break is knitted.”
“But his arm . . . it will . . .”
Papa paused his stride. “Your husband is strong and determined.”
Her husband. To hear it again from Papa’s lips assured her of Quillan’s place in her family. No one talked anymore of annulling; no one tried to keep her from the man she loved. If only it had come without Quillan’s pain. But even in that she was sure God had a purpose.
Vittorio came and took the pieces of the cast from Papa. “Shall I show him how to strengthen the arm?”
Papa nodded. “Slowly today. Strength only. We will train the reflexes later.”
Train the reflexes. She thought of Quillan’s speed with a gun when he shot the head from the rattlesnake. Train his reflexes?
But Carina felt a surge of pride. Quillan could be in no better hands than her papa’s. What if he had landed in the care of a doctor like Miss Preston’s father, who would have determined his care by the bumps on Quillan’s head or by his complexion and assumed temperament?
Appearances were nothing to Papa, not in his practice of medicine. He knew the body inside and out, which parts knitted to which, which organs performed what duty. Like Leonardo da Vinci he had studied a dead body once, had performed surgery on its parts. Maybe that was disrespectful to the dead. Many people thought so. But to the living it provided invaluable knowledge.
If anyone could bring Quillan through this, it was Papa. And Vittorio. Carina looked up at her serious-faced brother. Yes, he had been as stubborn as the rest, determined to keep her from the man they all considered a usurper. But he had worked tirelessly beside Papa when Quillan arrived injured. He would be a fine doctor in his own right.
Vittorio discarded the cast remains and went into Quillan’s room. Carina lingered in the doorway out of Quillan’s line of sight and watched her brother greet him with soft-spoken courtesy. Ah, how things had changed. Vittorio lifted Quillan’s arm, and Carina saw with dismay the shrunk muscle and limp tissue. She could well imagine training the nerves and muscles to respond again.
Vittorio ran his hand down the arm, nodding. “The bone is sound.
But the muscle is not, eh?”
“Not exactly.” Quillan looked uncomfortable, annoyed. Why did he persist in his grudge? Couldn’t he see they were trying to welcome him as best they could?
“Make a fist.” Vittorio watched the hand come together. “Tighter.”
Quillan strained.
“Let it go.” Vittorio held Quillan’s forearm. “Try again. Harder. Try harder.”
Quillan’s forehead took on a sheen as Vittorio ordered the same motion repeatedly, then switched to the other arm and did the same. If so little cost so much, how would it be to restore strength to the rest of him? She again realized the extent of the trauma to her husband’s body, worse by far than her injuries had been, yet she had felt weak as a kitten and helpless. How Quillan must fear that weakness.
She started to pray for strength, then thought of Saint Paul. Maybe it was in Quillan’s weakness that God’s power would be perfected. That thought was so different from her old demands and cajoling that she paused. She must desire God’s will even if it seemed contrary to her own wants and Quillan’s. Padre Eterno, heal my husband as you will. Let this misfortune be turned to good for all and especially the man I love. Grazie, Signore.
Her heart felt peaceful even as she watched Quillan’s frustration grow. He flung his arm down to his side. “Enough! Can’t you see it’s wasted?”
Vittorio merely nodded, so like Papa in demeanor she was sure that irked Quillan, as well. “Yes, I see.” This time Vittorio lifted the arm and studied the tendons as he closed the fingers himself. “That’s all for today.” He restored Quillan’s arm to his side and pointed to the left. “That one is better, eh?”
Quillan shrugged. “I’ve had some use of it.”
“Its injury was not so severe.” He touched the collarbone, and Quillan scarcely winced. “Good.”
Quillan might not have winced, but Carina saw him squirm. Was it Vittorio’s touch he disliked? An affront to his privacy? It was as natural to Vittorio as breath. Italian men touched, kissed, danced, and hugged. She tried to picture Quillan thus and failed. Oh, he touched her with fierce connection. But had she ever seen him reach out to anyone else?
Cain. He had regularly supported, even carried Cain in his infirmity. And Alan; Quillan gave his strength as Alan needed. That was it. He could touch to help others, especially the old ones, but he did not receive such touch himself. Nor, she supposed, would he take easily to affectionate touch from any but her. She bit her lower lip, smiling slightly at the learning he had yet to do.
Vittorio raised Quillan’s chin. “A shave, I think.”
“Just bring me a bowl and straight razor.”