“Thank God,” she whispered as tears stung her eyes. “Thank God.”
Her medical training had been extensive, but she’d never had to deal with a gunshot wound. She trembled, mentally reviewing emergency procedures.
The bullet had entered Jack’s shoulder, and when she tore aside his shirt, she saw that the wound still bled profusely. She also realized he was close to going into shock. Getting to her feet, she went below and grabbed a pillow, blankets, clean towels.
She settled the pillow beneath his shoulders, wrapped him snugly from stomach to feet in the blankets, then pressed a towel to the wound, holding it firmly in place. Once the bleeding had slowed, she was able to examine the wound more carefully. Fortunately the bullet hadn’t struck his chest, so she didn’t have to worry about his lungs. Nor had it severed an artery.
One step at a time, she reminded herself. One tiny step at a time. You can do this. You can do this. She repeated the words like a mantra, hoping they’d bolster her confidence. The last thing Jack needed now was for her to panic.
“Oh, Jack,” she sobbed, brushing the unruly hair from his forehead. She blamed herself; if she’d gotten the right gun, none of this would’ve happened. She could have saved Jack. Instead, he might die and it would be all her fault.
She refused to dwell on her own fears and regrets. What she had to concentrate on now was helping Jack, following the right procedures…not failing him again. Blessedly he was unconscious; at least now she could do whatever was necessary. She forced herself to think. Closing her eyes, she sat back on her heels and continued to stroke his face while she considered her options. She decided to start by probing the wound to determine exactly where the bullet was and how deep it lay. She hated to use something as crude as a filleting knife, but what else was there? That was when she remembered the compact sewing kit she carried in her purse.
She lingered for a moment, not wanting to leave him, then hurried belowdecks.
After setting a pan of water on the stove to boil, she dumped the contents of her purse on the mattress. Her wallet, passport, a pen and her cosmetic bag tumbled out, together with the miniature sewing kit. She yanked it open and extracted the small scissors. What she really needed was tweezers.
She had a pair, she remembered, experiencing a sense of exhilaration. Her cosmetic bag. She kept one there, or had in years past. She pulled open the zippered bag and emptied it onto the bed. A wrapped tampon, her compact, lipstick and blush bounced on the mattress and scattered among her other things. When she shook the bag, her eyebrow pencil, lip liner and something round and gold followed, along with the tweezers.
She took the tweezers and the small scissors, and put them both in the pan of boiling water, leaving them there for several minutes to sterilize. While she waited, she rummaged through the cupboards, certain she’d seen a bottle of scotch in an earlier search.
“Yes!” she cried in triumph when she found it.
Tucking it under one arm, she carried the pan of boiling water in both hands and returned to Jack.
Feeling relatively confident that no one was chasing them—it seemed unlikely, since she’d towed every boat in town—Lorraine shut off the engines. She stared in dismay at the bobbing dock and the string of boats. Actually, her lack of forethought had been a godsend. She’d inadvertently deprived their pursuers of any way to follow them. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she leaned over the side and untied Scotch on Water, leaving the dock and its attached boats to drift away of their own accord.
When she’d finished, she readied Jack as much as possible and prepared herself for the coming ordeal.
“I’m going to check to see where the bullet is,” she told him, then explained that it might be necessary to leave it inside if she couldn’t remove it easily. Again she touched his face. For whatever reason, touching him comforted her and calmed her frazzled nerves. Her mouth was dry and her throat thick with fear.
As gently as possible, she lifted the blood-soaked towel from his left shoulder and poured a liberal dose of alcohol on the wound. Then, feeling she needed a bit of fortification herself, she took a deep swig. The scotch burned through her, but the jolt was exactly what she needed. She secured the top and set the bottle aside.
Inhaling a shaky breath, she studied Jack’s pale expressionless face. She tried to imagine what he’d say if he could speak to her. No doubt there’d be a few curses, an insult or two—and gruff reassurance. Biting her lower lip, Lorraine prayed for guidance and a sure hand.
The hot tweezers scalded her skin, but she forced herself to grip them tightly, afraid they might slip. She dug carefully into the open wound. Blood gushed from his shoulder the instant she did. She dabbed it away with a folded towel. As she wiped the injury clean, she noted once more how raw and red the torn flesh looked. If he lived through this—and he would!—Jack was going to have an ugly scar.
The tweezers scraped against the bullet, and just as she’d feared, it was buried deep in the flesh. Blood flowed more rapidly from the wound as soon as she pulled the tweezers away. Sweat beaded her brow. It soon became apparent that any attempt to extract the bullet would do more harm than good. He’d already lost a lot of blood.
“It’s going to be all right, Jack. I’m going to leave the bullet and pack the wound with a tampon because that’s the best I have in the way of medical supplies. I’m not going to let you die. Understand?”
Unexpectedly Jack moaned and rolled his head to one side. It seemed that, even unconscious, the man was going to argue with her.
“Don’t worry, you won’t get PMS.” Her laugh was mildly hysterical. He’d never know what she’d done, and that was just as well or she wouldn’t hear the end of it. From now on, she’d need to boil gauze and pack the wound with it until healing had begun.