Doing No Harm by Carla Kelly

care in Edgar. “I cleaned it as best I could, and bandaged the two fingers together. Alas, they grew into one finger.” She couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I should have known better.”
    Edgar needs me , Douglas thought. I swear it does . He tried to wish the thought away, but it hung around his shoulder like a guardian angel wanting to perch there, but hesitant.
    “How were you supposed to know?” He turned over her hand, such a dainty one. “I can fix this.”
    Tears filled her eyes. “Really and truly?”
    “Really and truly. It will be painful, because I have to separate your fingers, stitch up the open sides, and wrap them independent of each other. And then when that heals, you’ll have to keep flexing your hand, because the muscles have surely atrophied. That part might not be successful, but at least your fingers will be separate again.”
    He gave her an inquiring look and she nodded, with no hesitation. “Do this for me, Mr. Bowden, and darling Olive will have cream whenever she wants it.”
    “Done, madam!”
    Her face fell. “I won’t be able to milk my cow, will I? Twice a day, without fail, Lucinda must be milked.”
    He smiled inwardly at Lucinda, remembering a sweet girl of the same name that he had mooned over when he was ten years old. “Probably not for a while.” He thought a moment and felt that guardian angel land and nestle near his ear. “I have a solution. Young Tommy Tavish is about ready for a half-splint. With that in place, there is no reason he cannot sit on a milking stool and do the honors.”
    “I doubt he knows how to milk,” Mrs. Aintree said, which told him everything he needed to know about her concern for—ahem—Lucinda. “I doubt the Tavishes have ever had a cow. They are from the poorest part of Scotland.”
    “You will teach him. When he is good enough for your satisfaction—and Lucinda’s, I don’t doubt—then I will perform this little surgery.”
    “It might be a week or more. Lucinda must be taken care of properly. And then I pray you will remain here to make certain my hand is properly healed.”
    “I fully expect this to take at least six weeks,” he replied. “I never leave my patients before I am confident all is well. We must be certain there is no infection, and that you can hopefully bend those fingers.”
    Mrs. Aintree nodded, satisfied at last, as Douglas wondered about the workings of fate. Man proposes, God disposes. He remembered one of his captains booming that from the quarterdeck after every reading of the Articles of War on Sunday, followed by a miniscule sermon more threat than encouragement. The captain also shouted that after a battle, and generally while facing a French or Spanish foe.
    He stood there contemplating his immediate future, while Mrs. Aintree took the jug into a back room. She returned with cream for the leek and fish soup, plus a small sack. “I made a nice soft cheese yesterday.”
    He took the items with his thanks and let her open the door for him. “I’ll tell Tommy of our arrangement for his future.”
    “I could pay him a visit,” Mrs. Aintree said.
    “Delightful. Every convalescent likes to be remembered.”

    Douglas was silent through the fish and leek soup, which had enough cream to please him. He sat in the little dining room and watched Olive Grant and little Maeve serve the pensioners. A few paying customers came in, but so few. He knew it wasn’t his business how she managed to keep the tearoom open, but it began to dawn on Douglas Bowden that he now found himself in the middle of life in Edgar. Nowhere was it written in any surgeon or physician’s oath that he was responsible for everything, but he knew himself well. He had his own credo, which had served him well aboard a ship: If it moved and breathed, and, in the case of sailors, swore a lot, he was accountable to God above that it kept moving, breathing, and swearing in good health.
    A visit upstairs and bowls of soup for Mrs. Campbell,