“Don’t you have a place of your own?” Hannah, scanning him up and down as if he were something disagreeable washed onto a beach, had asked coldly.
The doctor’s dramatic clasp to his heart would have done any repertory actor proud. “Gadzooks. I’m detectin’ a distinct lack of welcome here.”
“Oh, hush up. I suppose you want breakfast, too.”
“Well, I am performin’ a necessary service...”
He was delighted with Ben’s improvement, with barely a day and a half gone by. “Color looks good, everything is startin’ to heal, blood clottin’ in a healthy manner. Yes, sir, Ben, my lad, I do b’lieve you’re gonna survive to harass the rest of us a great long while, after all.”
Camellia, who had helped soak away the old stained bandage with warm water, to be replaced with fresh bindings, was not so sure. She would freely admit that her talents lay in another direction, other than the sickroom parlor. (Although she wasn’t quite sure what those might be.)
The very sight of that wound, with its bruises and gore and shriveled flesh, sent strange little chills up her spine, and she actually felt light-headed. But she set her jaw, pulled up every reserve of strength, and persevered. Whatever the doctor wanted or needed, she would do her best to provide.
Ben was, surprisingly, well enough to growl a minor protest at his treatment. “I ain’t a chunk of wood, straight off—some tree,” he complained.
“If you’re stupid enough to stand there and be shot,” snorted the doctor, neatly tying up the bandage ends, “you’re stoic enough to handle whatever I do to you. Lay still and stop twitchin’.”
“At least give me somethin’ else to eat,” Ben pleaded, when the torture session was finished.
“Somethin’ with some meat in it.”
Hannah, overhearing, had already retreated to the kitchen table, where she was poring over a book of cooking receipts. “I told you, too many eggs,” she muttered.
“Never fear,” Gabe, rising, reassured his patient. “Camellia and I are gonna spend some quality time together, workin’ in front of the stove. Oh, and you, too, Miss Hannah, if you’re interested.”
The wooden box which he had hauled in, that short time ago, contained a number of paper-wrapped parcels. He had then lifted those out, one by one, instructing Camellia to cut the strings while he procured a fry pan and a tall soup pot from her cupboard.
“Didn’t know what all kinda supplies you had around,” he explained, rolling up his shirt sleeves to scrub briskly with soap and water at the sink. “So I hiked myself over to Forrester’s this morning—” the flash of a grin, “and picked up the essentials.”
“Where did you learn so much about fixing a meal?” Hannah, watching from the sidelines, wanted to know.
“My mama gave birth to four sons.” Gabe was patiently demonstrating how to cut a chunk of raw red beef into small pieces, that must then be dredged in seasoned flour before plopping the whole lot into sizzling fat to fry. Already the appetizing aroma had everyone suffering hunger pangs. “She said none of her chicks might ever marry, might always be on our own, without a woman to do for us. So we would at least be taught how to cook our own food and press our own clothes. Believe me, I bless that woman’s name every day of my life.”
&n
bsp; “What was her name?”
“I forgot.” Gabe paused in his stirring of the skillet’s contents to grin disarmingly. “Naw. Of course I couldn’t forget. Her name was Sophia, and she passed along a wagon load of wisdom. Now, let’s just cut up these vegetables, here, Camellia, and get some of that beef stock...”
Soon, with all the ingredients simmering together, the chefs—experienced and beginners—were able to join Ben for a bit of conversation. He was likely to fall into a doze every so often, so he wasn’t very entertaining company. But the doctor figured he might appreciate hearing about the raid on the Putnams’—due, no doubt, to go down in the history of Turnabout as a most daring exploit—now that he was coherent enough to listen.
The tale took the better part of an hour. It might have been finished in more timely fashion, but for the eagerness of three contributors to add their own part in the whole affair. And but for the invalid’s proclivity to ask questions. They shared coffee and Hannah’s biscuits, spread with butter and strawberry jam, while the conversation ebbed and flowed.
The homemade soup turned out to be a rousing success, a little sample of ambrosia straight from heaven. Gabe accepted all compliments with becoming modesty.
Much as Ben had longed to join the group at the table, “to feel human again,” his wishes were determinedly ignored. He ate his dinner from a tray set across his knees.
“Ladies, a fond farewell,” Gabriel offered politely, finally heading for the door. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it, with a flourish. “Much as I hate to depart from your charmin’ company, I do have patients to see. Some that are more grateful than others. Benjamin, my man, I will stop back again this evenin’ to see how you are. Might even let you up tomorrow, God willin’. Camellia, Hannah, I leave you to it.”
“To the mess, you mean,” muttered Hannah, as the door closed behind him. She looked gloomily around at the kitchen, strewn with empty pans and used knives, the discarded tail ends and peels of vegetables, used plates and cups and cutlery. “And why must he always use so much lard?
The room absolutely reeks of grease.”
“I know. But you have to admit the soup was delicious.”
Camellia started clearing away some of the clutter, but Hannah, already tying an apron in place, shooed her away. “No, no, I’ll take care of this. It’s good training. You just go and—and hold your hero’s hand, soothe his fevered brow, whisper sweet nothings into his ear.”
Hannah’s tongue, Camellia reflected uneasily, as she moved sideways to take her sister’s advice, was really growing a little too sharp for comfort.