the fibia. It would take more than luck. It would take all the skill Dwight possessed to save this man’s leg. Dwight felt the adrenaline rush through him as he accepted the challenge. He would save the leg. That was why he had become a doctor. That was why he had come to France.
“Scalpel,” he called. Dwight’s order was followed by the sound of metal clanging on the floor. He glared at the nurse. Didn’t she understand what was at stake here? “Scalpel,” he repeated. “And maybe this time you can place it in my hand.” Her movements jerky, the nurse dropped the blade end of the scalpel onto his outstretched palm. Instinctively, Dwight recoiled, and the instrument tumbled to the floor without lacerating his hand. The adrenaline that had been preparing him for a difficult surgical process began to fade, replaced by anger.
“Nurse—what’s your name?”
“Helen Guthrie.” Her voice trembled almost as much as her hand had. It was infuriating, the way the nurses seemed to find even the most elementary tasks difficult.
Dwight fixed his stare on her. “Very well, Nurse Guthrie,” he said, holding out his hand for a scalpel. “Are you aware that the reason you’re here is to assist me?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Then do so, and kindly refrain from causing lacerations. We have more than enough injuries to treat without our staff inflicting others.”
Though she did not fumble again, Nurse Guthrie’s movements were awkward, and the sidelong glances she gave him reminded Dwight of a frightened rabbit he had once seen cowering under a branch. Dwight tried not to sigh with frustration. The nurse was obviously afraid of him. They all were.
He knew they called him Hollow Heart and that they thought he had no emotions. They were wrong. He cared—oh, how he cared—about these patients. The soldiers were fighting in almost unbelievably primitive conditions, living in mud-filled trenches, sharing their quarters with rats whose size was legendary, somehow dealing with the incessant noise of artillery. When they were wounded, it was Dwight’s responsibility to heal them. And to do that, he needed nurses. He didn’t demand perfection, only competence. Was that so unreasonable? Apparently Nurse Guthrie thought it was.
Dwight clenched his jaw as he studied his patient’s leg, knowing that his success depended in part on the woman who was assisting him. There had to be one nurse who wouldn’t cower in his presence, one who could do her job. The other doctors claimed they had no such problems. That might be true, but those same doctors sent the most difficult injuries to Dwight. If he was going to save lives, he needed the best nurse Goudot had to offer, and that was not Nurse Guthrie.
As he tied the suture, Dwight heard a burst of laughter from the ward next door. The sound was so unexpected that it broke his concentration, and for a second he felt a flicker of annoyance. Then the realization hit him with the force of an ornery mule’s kick. That was it! That was the answer to his problem!
Dwight glanced at the window. The day was still gray and somber. Rain still lashed against the panes. Nothing had changed, and yet he couldn’t ignore the way he felt, as if he had found the elusive something he’d been seeking for the past week.
“Miss Pierce.” As soon as surgery was over, Dwight made his way to the head nurse’s tiny office. Now that he knew what he needed, he would waste no time in obtaining it.
“How may I assist you, Dr. Hollins?” If the gray-haired head of nurses was surprised by his appearance, she gave no sign of it. Nor, he noted with approval, did her hands tremble. Perhaps there were two members of the nursing staff who weren’t afraid of him.
“My request is fairly simple,” he said. “I need you to ensure that Carolyn …” Dwight shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know her last name,” he admitted, “but the patients call her Clothespin Carolyn.” To Miss Pierce’s credit,