“No. I want you to go home before the death of that ten-year-old boy becomes so
ordinary that one day you wake up and realize you no
longer have the ability to feel.”
She squared her shoulders and stepped toward him.
“Me own husband was a doctor, sir. I’ve birthed babies
and stitched wounds. I stood by William’s side during
surgeries and passed him instruments. I helped him
clean the intestines of a man gored by a bull, before
putting it all back inside that man’s belly. Me delicate
sensibilities did not send me into a swoon then nor will
they here. I thank ye for yer concern, Doctor Ellard, but ’tis who I am. And by the saints, as long as I have
breath in me body, I will feel, and I will care.”
Their gazes locked in that moment and something
flickered in his icy depths, overshadowing his usual
cynicism with what she suspected might be admiration.
The harsh lines of his face softened. “Saint Jude must indeed be watching over you,
“That he is, Doctor Ellard, that he is.”
He gave her a brisk nod and opened the door.
“You’re not going home then, are you?”
She turned. “Ye know us Irish, Doctor Ellard. We
don’t know what we want, but we’ll fight to the death
to get it.”