Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

When Lydia opened the front door, she gasped.

“Get Dr. Saint,” Thackery said, and carried the man to Saint’s surgery.

Saint was daubing iodine on a miner’s leg. “Now, there, Lewis, you’ll be—” He broke off when the door burst open.

“Later, Lewis,” he said, and motioned for Thackery to put the man on the table. Saint said nothing, all his attention on the bullet wound. It was high on the man’s shoulder, and the bullet had gone clean through. The man moaned and began to struggle. “Hold him, Thackery,” he said, not looking up.

“Damned little whore shot me,” the man muttered. He stared up at Saint, confusion and pain on his face. “Why would a whore shoot me? I told her I’d pay her. I ain’t no liar.”

“Maybe she didn’t like brown eyes,” Saint said, his hands busy. “Just hold still, you’re not dying, for God’s sake!”

“She shot me,” the man repeated blankly, his eyes dazed now from shock.

Saint got the bleeding stopped. He bathed the wound, spread on a thick layer of basilicum powder, and tightly bandaged the shoulder. “You’ll be good as new in a week.”

The man merely regarded him vaguely, and Saint asked Thackery, “Do you know who he is?”

“With that beautiful gold tooth? Maybe the president,” Thackery said dispassionately.

Saint lightly slapped the man’s face. “Name. What is your name?”

“Avery. I made me a good-sized strike. I was here celebrating, at the Oriental Hotel, and the little whore shot me.”

“At least he won’t have to spend the night in the parlor,” Saint said. “Thackery, hail a hack for him and get him back to his hotel.”

“Dr. Saint,” Thackery began, knowing the time for reckoning had arrived.

“Well, what?”

“Before I get him out of here . . .”

Saint pulled his attention from the man and eyed Thackery.

“It’s Mrs. Saint,” Thackery said. “She shot him.”

Saint said nothing. He didn’t move. His face was an unreadable mask.

“She didn’t mean to, but he was trying to force her.”

“Don’t defend her, Thackery,” Saint said very calmly. “It isn’t necessary. Get him out of here, please.”

Thackery lifted the man in his arms. Saint followed him silently, not looking at his wife, who was standing quietly in the entrance hall, watching.

When the front door closed, Saint walked calmly into the kitchen. Lydia was pounding at some bread. “I want you to go home,” Saint said. “Now.”

Lydia wiped the flour from her hands, her eyes studying Saint’s face. She wasn’t blind, nor was she deaf. “I don’t know if I should,” she said.

“Leave, Lydia,” Saint repeated. “I won’t kill her.” He gave a short, harsh laugh. “I’m a physician, remember?”

Lydia sighed. At least, she thought, he would speak to his wife. That, she supposed, was better than the deadening silence that pervaded the house.

Jules watched Lydia slip out the front door. She felt numb, blessedly numb.

Saint looked at her a moment, then said, “Come here into the parlor. You need a brandy.”

She followed him, standing quietly in the middle of the room until he pressed a glass in her hand.

&nb