Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jeane was reviewing her supplies in the healer’s quarters when the door burst open with such force it slammed against the wall.
Mary stood there, her face pale and streaked with tears.
“Miss Liliana! Please, ye have to come quick!”
Jeane was already on her feet, grabbing her black bag. “What’s happened?”
“It’s wee Thomas, Cecily’s oldest boy. He fell from the barn loft. He’s bleedin’ somethin’ awful, and he willnae wake up.”
Jeane’s heart lurched, but she forced herself to stay calm. Panic wouldn’t help anyone.
“Take me to him. Now.”
She followed Mary through the castle at a run, her bag clutched in her hands. They burst out into the courtyard where a crowd had gathered around a small form lying on the ground.
Jeane pushed through the people, dropping to her knees beside the boy.
Thomas was maybe seven years old, his face pale beneath the dirt and blood. A gash across his forehead bled freely, and his left arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Worst of all, he wasn’t moving.
Cecily knelt beside her son, sobbing. “He’s dead;. he’s dead; oh God, me boy.”
“He’s nae dead,” Jeane said firmly, pressing her fingers to his throat and finding a pulse. Weak, but there. “He’s breathin’, but we need to move him inside. Carefully. Someone get me a board—a door, anythin’ flat and sturdy.”
“I’ll get one,” a deep voice said, and Jeane looked up to see Fergus pushing through the crowd. His eyes met hers for just a moment before he disappeared back toward the castle.
“Cecily, I need ye to be calm,” Jeane said, taking the woman’s hands. “I ken ye’re frightened, but Thomas needs me to focus, and I need ye to trust me. Can ye do that?”
Cecily nodded, tears still streaming down her face. “Aye. Aye, just save me boy. Please.”
Fergus returned with a wooden board, and Jeane directed several of the men to help her move Thomas onto it without jostling him too much. The boy let out a weak moan which Jeane took as a good sign—unconscious but responsive to pain.
“Take him to me quarters,” Jeane ordered. “And someone bring me hot water, clean cloths, and all the bandages ye can find.”
The men carried Thomas carefully, Cecily walking beside him with her hand on his chest. Jeane followed, mentally cataloging his injuries and what she’d need to do.
Head wound, likely causing the unconsciousness. Broken arm would need to be set. But were there internal injuries? Broken ribs? Bleeding inside that she couldn’t see?
She couldn’t think about that now. She could only deal with what was in front of her.
They laid Thomas on the bed in Jeane’s quarters, and she immediately went to work, cutting away his tunic to examine his torso. Bruising was already blooming across his ribs, but when she pressed gently, he didn’t cry out.
“Ribs might be bruised, but I daenae think they’re broken,” she muttered.
Mary arrived with the hot water and cloths, and Jeane set to work cleaning the head wound. It was deep and would need stitches, but it had stopped bleeding as much.
“Cecily, hold his head still for me,” Jeane instructed, threading a needle with steady hands even though her heart was racing.
She worked quickly but carefully, stitching the gash closed while Cecily whispered prayers under her breath.
When she was done, she wrapped a clean bandage around Thomas’ head and moved to his arm.
“This is going to be the hard part,” Jeane said quietly. “I need to set the bone. It’ll hurt, even though he’s unconscious.”
“Do what ye must,” Cecily said, her voice stronger now.
Jeane looked up and realized Fergus was standing in the doorway, watching. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his eyes were intent on her.
“I need someone strong to hold him still,” Jeane said. “When I set the bone, he might thrash.”
“I’ll do it,” Fergus said immediately, moving to the bedside.
He positioned himself at Thomas’ shoulders, holding the boy firmly but gently.
Jeane took a deep breath and felt along the break, visualizing how the bones needed to align. She’d done this before but never on someone so young, never on someone who might not survive other injuries she couldn’t yet see.
“On three,” she said. “One… two…”
She pulled and twisted on two, and Thomas let out a scream that made everyone in the room flinch. His body tried to jerk away, but Fergus held him steady.
“Almost there,” Jeane muttered, feeling the bones slide back into place with a sickening sensation. “Got it.”
Thomas went limp again, his scream fading to whimpers.
Jeane quickly splinted the arm, wrapping it tight to keep the bones aligned. Her hands were shaking now, adrenaline making her fingers tremble.
“What else?” Fergus asked quietly. “What else can ye do?”
“Now, we wait,” Jeane said, sitting back on her heels. “We wait for him to wake up.”
“He’ll wake,” Cecily said fiercely. “He has to.”
Jeane mixed a poultice for the head wound and applied it gently then checked his pulse again. Still weak but steady.
“I’ll stay with him,” Jeane said. “Through the night if I have to. If doesnae wake up by tomorrow…” She didn’t finish the sentence. They all knew what that would mean.
“I’ll stay too,” Cecily said.
“And I’ll have food and drink brought up,” Fergus added. “Whatever ye need.”
Jeane looked up at him, surprised. “Ye daenae have to.”
“Aye, I do,” he said firmly. “This is one of me clan. And ye’re doin’ everythin’ ye can to save him.”
Hours passed. The sun set, and candles were lit around the room. Cecily dozed fitfully in a chair, exhausted from crying and worrying. Jeane sat on the edge of the bed, monitoring Thomas’ breathing, checking his pulse regularly.
Fergus had left and returned several times, bringing food that Jeane barely touched, asking for updates in a quiet voice.
It was nearing midnight when Thomas’ eyes finally fluttered open.
“Ma?” he whispered, his voice weak and confused.
Cecily jerked awake and rushed to his side, sobbing with relief. “Oh, me boy, me sweet boy.”
“Me head hurts,” Thomas mumbled. “And me arm.”
“I ken, love. Ye had a terrible fall. But ye’re going to be all right.”
Jeane checked his eyes—pupils the same size, responsive to light. She asked him simple questions—his name, his age, what he remembered. His answers were slow but accurate.
“Ye’re a very lucky boy, Thomas,” Jeane said with a smile, even though her own eyes were burning with tears of relief. “Ye gave us quite a scare.”
“Sorry,” Thomas whispered.
“Daenae be sorry. Just be more careful next time, aye?”
He nodded slightly then winced at the movement.
Jeane gave him a small dose of milk of the poppy to help with the pain and to let him sleep. Within moments, his eyes were closed again, his breathing deep and even.
“He’ll sleep through the night,” Jeane told Cecily. “And that’s good. Rest will help him heal, but he’s through the worst of it. I’m certain of that now.”
Cecily grabbed Jeane’s hands, squeezing tight. “Thank ye. Thank ye so much. I daenae ken what I would have done if—”
“Daenae think about it,” Jeane said gently. “He’s going to be fine. The arm will take time to heal, and he’ll have a scar on his forehead, but he’ll be runnin’ around causin’ trouble again before ye ken it.”
Cecily laughed through her tears and pulled Jeane into a fierce hug.
When she pulled back, she looked at Jeane with shining eyes. “Ye’re a blessin’ to this clan, Liliana. A true blessin’.”
Jeane flushed, unused to such praise. “I’m just doin’ me job.”
“It’s more than a job,” Cecily insisted. “Ye saved me son’s life. I’ll never forget that.”
After Cecily settled in to sleep in the chair beside her son, Jeane slipped out of the room, needing air and space.
Her hands were still shaking, not from fear anymore but from the release of all that pent-up tension. She’d been so afraid Thomas wouldn’t wake up, that she’d done something wrong, that she’d fail him and his mother.
She found herself in the washroom, scrubbing Thomas’ blood from her hands. The water turned pink then red then finally clear.
But she couldn’t stop washing. Couldn’t stop seeing that moment when she’d first seen him lying there, so small and still.
“Jeane.”
She turned to find Fergus standing in the doorway.
“Ye did it,” he said quietly. “Ye saved him.”
“I was terrified I wouldnae be able to,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “What if I’d made the wrong choice?”
“But ye dinnae,” Fergus said, crossing to her and taking her wet hands in his. “Ye were brilliant, little mouse. I’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”
“I’ve never treated anyone that badly injured,” Jeane confessed. “I was just… I was makin’ it up as I went, hopin’ I was doin’ the right thing.”
“Ye were,” Fergus assured her. “Ye were calm and confident, and ye took charge. The whole clan saw it. They saw ye save that boy’s life.”
Jeane looked up at him, seeing something in his eyes that made her breath catch.
“I’m so proud of ye,” he said softly. “So damn proud.”
Tears spilled over, and Jeane let herself lean into him as he wrapped his arms around her. She pressed her face against his chest and let herself cry—from relief, from exhaustion, from the weight of what she’d just done.
Fergus held her through it all, one hand stroking her hair, murmuring softly in Gaelic.
When she finally pulled back, wiping at her eyes, she found him looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite name.
“Ye’re remarkable, Jeane Forrest,” he said. “Do ye ken that?”
“I’m just a healer,” she whispered.
“Nay. Ye’re so much more than that.” He cupped her face with one hand, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Ye’re everythin’.”
And then he kissed her, soft and sweet and reverent, like she was something precious.
When he pulled back, Jeane was breathless.
“Come,” he said gently. “Ye need rest. Ye’ve earned it.”
He walked her to her chambers, not the healer’s quarters where Thomas and Cecily slept but her own room. At the door, he paused.