Chapter 37 Mallory Plantation—Remy
Mallory Plantation—Remy
This time, the never-ending carnival ride through the vortex didn’t just spin.
It soared through a breathtaking light show.
Perhaps the multicolored display had always been there.
But it took Skye, traveling beside him, to unveil the universe’s infinite sprawl of stars and galaxies.
What did that beautiful expanse mean to him now?
That he was no longer a solitary traveler lost in the void, that he was seeing the world not just with his eyes but through shared wonder.
The moment Remy’s feet hit the ground with a dull thud, a weight lifted from his chest, only to be crushed by the reality of the scene—a bleeding man secured firmly to Capone’s iron safe. Before the fog cleared, Remy unknotted the rope that bound the three travelers to the stolen safe.
“Skye. Archibald. Are you okay?” he asked.
“A little shaky,” she answered, her voice thin and wavering.
Archibald gasped, the sound ragged with pain. “Where are we?”
“We should be in a secure room at Mallory Plantation next to Charlotte’s surgery.”
And they were.
Suddenly, the world didn’t just fracture. It imploded with a thunderous shriek that mirrored the ear-splitting scream of a locomotive jumping tracks.
The mental image alone was a physical blow.
Clay had careened into Braham’s clean room.
The thought sent a chill straight through Remy’s core.
But the pristine room—its stainless steel and filtered air—could rot for all he cared.
His entire universe had shrunk to the five souls tumbling in an unbelted metal death trap.
“Clay!” he shouted, still half-blind in the thinning fog, desperate to see who had landed where. The soupy mist possessed claw-like fingers that clamped down, refusing to let him go.
After several impatient seconds, the fog finally thinned, and then poof—it was gone.
Elliott, Braham, and David remained rooted to the spot, a silent tableau of shock.
Braham’s jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out like steel cables.
David gnawed at his lower lip, his eyes wide.
And Elliott maintained his customary chess face, though his eyes absorbed every shattered detail, silently screaming the unanswered question—what the hell just happened.
“Is anybody hurt?” Braham yelled, rushing toward the Chevrolet.
Clay staggered out from the driver’s seat, dazed. “Don’t think so.”
“If ye’re not hurt, then get that goddamn thing out of here.”
Clay pivoted and stuck his head back inside the car. “Everybody okay?”
“Anyone injured?” Remy shouted at Clay.
“Stunned but okay,” Clay said.
Remy put his arm around Archibald and headed toward the prep room connected to Charlotte’s surgery. “I hope Clay’s amateurish landing didn’t damage the car too much.”
“To hell with the car!” Braham barked. “It brought all kinds of contaminants in here. How am I supposed to get it out?”
“Clay will take care of it,” Remy said matter-of-factly.
“How?” Braham asked.
“He’ll figure it out. Now, will somebody please text Charlotte? Archibald’s got a gunshot wound to the shoulder. I’ll take him into her surgery and start cleaning the wound. He’s bleeding through the field dressing.”
“Wait a goddamn minute!” Elliott ordered. “Archibald can’t be here. He’s dead.”
Remy waved Elliott off. “I had to make a battlefield decision. If he doesn’t get medical attention, he’ll be double-dead. We’ll patch him up and take him back to 1928, and he can go on his merry way.”
“Who shot him?” David asked.
Remy continued toward the prep room. “An angry husband.”
“That’s a first.” David observed the action in the clean room with acute attention while sending the requested text.
Skye stood there shaking. “What… what should I do, Remy?”
Remy gave her a quick kiss. “I need to take care of Archibald. Pretend those men are all Capones and don’t back down.
You can pull a stool up to the glass and watch.
I’ll introduce you to everyone in a minute.
” Remy guided Archibald into the newly designed prep room, the air thick with antiseptic.
He closed off the space with a swift pull of the privacy curtain, its chrome rings rattling against the rod.
Remy stripped away Archibald’s shoes and bloody clothes, leaving him in only his underwear. Then he helped Archibald into scrub pants before doing the same, adding a shirt, booties, and finally, surgical caps pulled over their hair. Before leaving, he dumped everything into a bin.
“Almost there.” Remy pushed the automatic door button, and the door swished open into a state-of-the-art operating suite where UV lights glowed overhead, part of Braham’s overbuilt safety net.
He helped Archibald onto the med-surg bed and covered him with blankets from the warmer.
Remy’s gaze was drawn to the panoramic view of the action unfolding in the clean room, relayed through the high-definition monitors and the voice—activated intercom.
He wasn’t the least bit disappointed to be relegated to Archibald’s care.
In fact, he was secretly relieved that Clay had to face the brunt of Braham and Elliott’s anger alone.
Remy strode to the sink, scrubbed up, and snapped on a pair of surgical gloves, a chuckle rumbling in his chest at the sight of Clay’s fake nonchalance.
He knew Clay would try to prove that Elliott’s legendary temper didn’t faze him.
Which was absurd. Elliott scared everyone who possessed a pulse—except for Meredith, Charlotte, David, and Braham.
It was only the fresh-faced new folks who hadn’t yet learned that Elliott’s bark was always, always, ten times worse than his bite.
Archibald hissed. “Is Clay going to get away with being so cavalier?”
“Hell, no. But he’ll try, and they’ll forget all about the car when they see who’s inside.”
In the clean room, Braham scowled at Clay. “Remy’s right. Not much damage to yer car, but it made a hell of a mess in my clean room, broke valuable equipment, and blocked access to my safe. Get that goddamn antique out of here and clean up this shit.”
“It’s worse than I thought it would be,” Remy said to Archibald. “I’ve never heard Braham cuss like that.”
“What’s with the safe?” David asked, examining the mechanical combination lock with a spinning dial.
Remy glanced at David through the glass. “We stole it from Capone. He wasn’t happy with us, so he made Swiss cheese out of Skye’s house.”
“Capone? The missing vault?” David put his ear close to the dial and turned slowly. “It’ll take a bit to open it, but I will.”
“Who’s Skye?” Elliott asked.
She waved her hand. “I am. And it was a beautiful house.”
“Skye Marshall,” Remy said. “And she’s the best jazz singer you’ll ever hear.”
“Did ye bring her back to sing in yer band?” Elliott asked.
Remy started cleaning Archibald’s wound again. “I brought her back because Skye’s my soulmate. Be nice to her.”
A wide smile lit up Elliott’s face. “Ye’re a much-appreciated surprise, lass. I’m Elliott Fraser.”
“Remy mentioned you.” Skye shook his hand. “Do you mind if I watch Remy take care of Archibald?”
“Not a bit.” Elliott pushed a stainless-steel stool over to the surgery room’s glass wall. “Ye can sit here, talk to him, and watch what he’s doing. He can see and hear everything going on out here.”
“Thank you,” she said, settling onto the stool, Remy’s thick wool socks still clinging to her small feet. “Remy, can I do anything to help?”
“Ye can hold my hand,” Archibald mumbled.
“I don’t think Remy will let me in there.”
“He’ll let ye sit close to me on a piano stool,” Archibald hissed. “But not in this homemade surgery unit where he makes the rules.”
“I doan make the rules,” Remy said. “Dr. Charlotte Mallory does, and she’ll be here in less than sixty seconds. So please doan call this a homemade surgery unit. She woan take kindly to that. It’s a state-of-the-art facility.”
“Skye, if ye cannot grace this hallowed ground with your physical presence, then by all means, serenade me,” Archibald declared with a theatrical sweep of his good arm, his tone laced with tongue-in-cheek sarcasm.
“Anything in particular?” Skye asked.
“How about ‘That’s Why I Love Ye’?”
“I’ll give you a beat,” Remy said as he started beatboxing, hoping Skye’s voice would take Archibald’s mind off his pain.
Skye sang, “Doesn’t it feel like this could be real life / If we have something to prove / Life would be normal, dinner formal / I could be happy with you…”
Braham stood close by, his brow furrowed in a knot of confusion, his gaze tracking Skye’s expressions—seemingly so engrossed that he momentarily forgot about the car’s destruction.
Archibald’s lower lip disappeared between his teeth—a telling gesture—and in that raw moment, Remy caught it: Archibald’s gaze lingered on Skye a beat too long, something unguarded flashing before it vanished.
Charlotte entered the prep room to change, tying her hair up in a bun. “Tell me who’s in my surgery and what’s wrong.” She disappeared behind the curtain and came out wearing scrubs. Then she headed to the sink to wash and don surgical gloves.
Remy pushed thoughts of unrequited love out of his mind and focused on Archibald.
“This is Clay’s father, Archibald MacIntyre.
He has a gunshot wound in his left shoulder, which occurred approximately forty-five minutes ago.
I applied direct pressure to the wounds and bandaged them. He didn’t want pain medication.”
Charlotte examined the wounds, nodding toward Skye. “Whose friend? Yours or Archibald’s?”
Remy gave Skye a playful smile. “She’s mine.”
Charlotte continued examining the wounds. “Then explain why she’s all dressed up and wearing your socks and no shoes. I hope it’s not as convoluted as what’s going on out there.”
“This is a tough movie to come in during the middle and expect to know what’s going on,” Remy said. “It might be one of the more complicated adventures.”
Remy calibrated the console built into the operating theater wall, fine-tuning sensors designed to detect innocuous airborne particles and microbial contamination.
The system’s low hum was a direct shout-out to Charlotte’s uncompromising standards.
Just because her clinic wasn’t in a bustling hospital didn’t give them the license to forgo crucial steps to ensure patient safety and prevent surgical site infections.
“Let’s give Archibald an anesthetic,” Charlotte said. “The bullet dragged fabric from his shirt—”
“And jacket,” Remy added.
“I’ll have to dig out the debris. Modern bullets cut through clothing, but older rounds drag fabric and dirt into the wound and increase the risk of infection. We’ll have to watch for that.”
Remy collected what he needed, administered sedation, and remained at Archibald’s side to monitor his vitals and adjust anesthetic depth.
He wasn’t certified to do any of this, but Charlotte had taught him what he needed to know.
Neither of them would attempt major surgery here, but for emergencies, they could get the job done and didn’t have to report a gunshot wound.
In the MacKlenna world, that wasn’t a rare occurrence.
“Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me about your friend.” Charlotte carefully cleaned the wounds, working to dislodge the fragments, clear the damaged tissue, and irrigate away the impurities.
“Meet Skye Marshall. She’s wearing my socks because Capone locked us in a meat locker, and she had cold, wet feet.”
“You’re right. I can’t come in during the middle and figure out what’s going on. So, start at the top and tell me everything.”
While Charlotte continued the debridement, Remy started at the beginning of the story, his voice a low thrum that filled the room.