Secret of the Wolf (4 page)

She ignored the stab of pain at the recollection and helped Oscar maneuver their

patient into the back of the buggy, where the rear seat had been removed for the

carrying of supplies and patients. This time she'd come prepared. She adjusted blankets

beneath and over him, made certain that he was breathing without difficulty, and took

the reins again. Oscar twisted in his seat to stare at the man
.

"Who is he?" he asked
.

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"I don't know. We'll find out when he wakes up." If he lived. Many patients didn't survive

the delirium. But with a flash of the intuition she'd learned not to dismiss, she guessed

that he wasn't one to lie down and die easily
.

Remember

he's just another patient in need of medical attention—and a drunkard at

that. They hadn't accepted inebriates at the old asylum in Pennsylvania. Could the

treatment she and her father had developed be used to illuminate the causes of a

drunkard's need for alcohol?

She shook her head. Papa had been the one for wild flights of theoretical fancy and

unorthodox schemes. Her business now was to keep this man alive
.

Careful to avoid the worst ruts in the path, Johanna guided Daisy at a walk back to the

house. Most of the Haven's residents were watching for her return, alerted by Oscar's

earlier warning
.

Irene leaned on the porch railing, patting at her dyed red hair with a beringed hand and

posing to display herself to what she considered her best advantage. God knew what

she'd think when she saw the new patient
.

May, the Haven's youngest at fourteen, hovered at the edge of the porch, ready to flee

at a moment's notice. The former reverend, Lewis Andersen, stood like a rigid sentinel,

his face set in its worn lines of disapproval and misery. Harper, of course, wasn't there.

It took far more than this to awaken him from his inner world
.

She and Oscar eased the man from the buggy and carried him to the porch. Lewis

stared at the stranger's face and backed away as if he'd seen the devil himself
.

"Stinking of damnation," he muttered. His gloved hands sketched out the meaningless,

repetitive patterns he adopted when he was upset
.

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Irene gave a high-pitched giggle and angled for a better view. May peered at the

newcomer and took a step closer, as if she felt real interest in him. Then, just as

abruptly, she skittered out of sight around the corner of the house
.

The spare room was at the very rear of the house, in a portion built of local stone. It was

always cool in summer, and isolated from the rest. Johanna and Oscar set their patient

down on the bed
.

" 'Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink,'"

Lewis said behind them
.

"Reverend Andersen, if you would be so kind as to fetch a fresh pitcher of cold water,

and a glass," Johanna suggested
.

Lewis backed out of the room. He would probably feel the need to wash his hands ten

or twenty times before returning with the water, but that would give her a chance to

undress her stranger
.

"He's very sick," Oscar said solemnly, towering behind her
.

"I'm afraid so. I must undress and bathe him and put him to bed, while he is still quiet.

He may become excited later on.”

"Like Harper does sometimes?”

Oscar hadn't forgotten the last time Harper came out of his cataleptic state in reaction to

some waking nightmare, screaming and crying until Johanna could calm him. All the

residents had been afraid
.

"It is possible," she said. "That's why I want to be ready. Do you think we could borrow

some of your clothes for this man when he wakes up?”

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Oscar grinned. "I'll go pick some out." He lumbered into the hall, footsteps thundering in

the direction of his room
.

Left alone, Johanna concentrated on undressing the patient. His shoes were too fancy

for extended walking, and she expected to find blisters on his feet. Surprisingly, there

were none. The coat had come from a quality tailor, though one might not realize it now
.

His liquor-stained shirt was held closed by a few remaining buttons; if he'd had a

waistcoat, it was gone. She removed his purse and then the shirt, tucking the pouch and

money into the drawer of the night table. No one here would steal it, except perhaps

Irene—and she wouldn't think to look
.

Stripped to the waist, the stranger confirmed Johanna's guess about a muscular frame

beneath the leanness. The pectorals were well developed, as were the deltoids and

biceps. His waist was firm and tapered, ridged with muscle. All just as any sculptor

could wish. No indication of prolonged illness or injury; not a man who had gone so far

in drink that his entire body was ready to fail him. For an inebriate, he appeared to be

remarkably healthy
.

After a moment's hesitation, she unbuttoned his trousers and tugged them down. He

was, after all, just another patient. She had no personal interest in him

no matter what

some prurient townsfolk might say about a woman doctor concerned with the intimacies

of male clients
.

She laid his trousers across the back of a chair and briskly discarded his underdrawers.

His thighs and legs matched the muscular leanness of his upper body; his hips were

well-formed. In fact, every major portion of his anatomy was a masculine ideal
.

Johanna licked her lips, grateful the patient was still unconscious
.

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Leaving him lightly covered, she went into her room, the closest in the hall to this one,

and retrieved her basin and a sponge. She drew the chair up beside the bed and gently

washed away the sweat from his body
.

It was a thing she'd done many, many times, but her hand was just a little unsteady as

she guided the sponge from his neck and shoulders down the length of each arm,

across his chest, his stomach, each long leg. She turned him gently and bathed his

back, glancing once at his muscular buttocks and then away
.

She felt tension drain from her body as she finished and replaced the sponge in the

basin. He needed a much more thorough bath than this, but she couldn't risk it now. If

he had delirium tremens, the chance of hallucinations and agitation was still very real.

He would have to be—

He pushed up from the bed before she realized he'd wakened. Fingers clutched at the

sheets, and his head tossed deliriously from side to side
.

"Where—" He coughed, and his voice cleared. He turned to stare at her. "Who are

you?”

"A doctor. Johanna Schell. You're safe here.”

He began to shake, violently, his teeth chattering. "Not safe," he said. "No." Fresh sweat

covered his forehead and upper lip. His face went white, and Johanna recognized his

impending sickness
.

Quickly she removed the sponge from the washbowl and offered the bowl to him. He

twisted his body and heaved into the receptacle, as if trying to keep her from witnessing

his illness. He kept his back turned to her until she gave him a cloth to wipe his face
.

"You shouldn't

have brought me—" He gasped. He made a warding motion with his

hand. "Go 'way.”

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"I can't do that." She reached for his flailing hand and held it firmly. "What is your

name?”

His face went utterly blank. She watched him struggle to find that information,

perceiving his panic when he couldn't
.

"Don't remember," he said. "Oh, God.”

"You are suffering from alcohol withdrawal," she said, keeping her grip on him. "You

may experience unpleasant symptoms, but you will not be alone.”

The door opened behind her, admitting Lewis with the pitcher of fresh water and a glass

on a tray. He set it down on the table by the bed and retreated, holding his hands out

from his body as if they had become contaminated. The stranger reared up, staring at

Lewis with an almost feral intensity
.

"Thank you, Reverend," Johanna said. "Would you be so kind as to close the door

behind you?”

He left with alacrity, doubtless to wash his hands another dozen times. Johanna poured

out a glass of water and pressed it into her patient's hand, holding it steady with her

fingers around his. "You must drink. Your body is badly depleted.”

He gazed at her with the driven intensity he'd shown Lewis. Such remarkable eyes. She

shook herself and lifted the glass toward him. He let her put it to his lips and swallowed

the water like a man dying of thirst. She refilled it, and he finished the second as

promptly
.

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"Excellent," she said. "Now you must rest. Rest and proper diet, plenty of water and

abstinence from drink are the only cures for your condition. When you are better, we

can talk.”

"No." He caught her wrist as he had by the wagon road, in that same unbreakable grip.

"Can't—" His throat worked, and he spread his fingers around it as if to choke himself.

He released her, pushing her away as he did so. He began to run his hands up and

down the lengths of his arms, slowly at first and then more and more desperately, as if

he were trying to rip something away from his flesh
.

"Not me," he said hoarsely. "Not me!”

Here it began, then—the delusions and hallucinations. He might be seeing insects, or

snakes, or some other loathsome object. The hallucinations might continue for hours.

Calmly she reached down for her doctor's bag and opened it. She carried a very small

vial of chloral hydrate, which she used as sparingly as possible. This time she'd

probably have no choice
.

Her patient was panting now, eyes wide and wild. "Get out," he cried. He clawed at his

arms, leaving red streaks. Seriously hurting himself could be the next step
.

"Listen to me, my friend. I can make you feel better, sleep until this has passed.”

He stopped his frenzied movements. "Help," he whispered
.

"Yes." She poured a few drops of the syrup into a small spoon. "If you will take this—”

She thought it might actually work, that he would take the medicine quietly before

matters proceeded to a dangerous point. He reached—as much for her as the spoon—

his face unyielding. Then he froze, fingers bending into claws. His eyes rolled back in

his head
.

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Johanna flung herself toward the bed just as his seizure began. She half lay across him,

holding him down with the weight of her body. He convulsed beneath her. His heart

pounded frantically, drawing her own into a sympathetic rhythm. His head slammed

back on the pillow, once, again. The rigidity of his body relaxed, every muscle gone limp

simultaneously
.

The seizure was over. She checked his pulse and his breathing. Not good, but not fatal.

Disentangling herself, she retrieved the fallen spoon and poured out new medicine. She

pried open his mouth and pushed the spoon between his teeth
.

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.”

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