Chapter Four

A rum soak would be necessary.

A by-product of the sugar cane's molasses, there was always plenty of the dark fermented liquid collected and then stored in barrels on the plantation, waiting to be taken in sale or trade by incoming ships.

Having once been a passenger, albeit an unwilling one, on a ship herself, Tess had watched sailors add rum to several of the barrels of drinking water. It was done to disguise the water's foul taste, they had explained to her, as the water in the barrels quickly turned brackish in the heat of the tropical sun. What had caught her attention and had piqued her curiosity was the observation that in those particular rum-infused barrels, the appearance and growth of the floating layers of foul-smelling slime was much slower.

Wound pus or barrel slime.

The disgusting substances were, in her mind, close relatives. They both had a gut-wrenching stench to them. And on that sea journey, like here on this island, there had been no shortage of wounds wet with foul-smelling discharge. It had therefore seemed reasonable to her one day, that raw rum might also slow the occurrence of the purulent glop that often leaked out of the injuries she'd been forced to tend to.

It had been just a guess, born out of curiosity, but it seemed to work. Somewhat, at least. Nevertheless, and not for the first time, Tess cursed the island and the lack of civilized medications and tools with which she had to work.

Rum! How archaic....

And a ring, she reminded herself, and then half frowned, glancing down at the emerald spinner ring that nestled at the base of her fourth finger.

The spinner ring of Healing.

A healing tool that's even more ancient ... more ancient than what?

To Maria and the rest of the freed slaves, the green bejeweled ring was a tool of powerful magic. To Tess, it was a thing of beauty, but also a product of powerful superstition. However, she'd gotten enough real-life results that even to her medically trained mind it bordered on being a mysterious, even frightening talisman.

It was one of the five spinner rings that she wore. This one had a silver strip that could be spun around her finger through a channel shaped in a broad underlying band of gold. The silver band was inlaid with petite shards of emeralds held into place by tiny gold clasps fashioned like miniature oak leaves.

How many times had she spun that silver rim of emeralds, each time feeling a pulsing warmth creep across her hand, while she'd imagined a healthy outcome or even an outright cure, and sure enough, it had happened? Her physician father, a man of science, would have adamantly dismissed such results as mere superstitious coincidences.

The West Indies were full of superstitions, Tess realized, but coincidence or not, she'd seen with her own eyes, curative outcomes that often seemed just short of miraculous. Results inexplicable by any other account.

And so with each patient in her care, whether it was magic, coincidence, or maybe just hoping for a lucky outcome, she'd spun her emerald ring. Just in case. As she'd do for this man. Just as she'd done for another, the first time she'd used the ring.

Edward Graham had given the emerald spinner to her. Edward Graham – a man to whom she'd once been forcibly betrothed. A royal courtier. A man of power and wealth and, dangerously, a man with murderous plans for anyone standing in his way of his climb to power.

Even so, Tess had, under his instruction, once used the ring to save Edward's own life. The hostile memory of him caused a pain in her chest to smolder like a fire flaring back to life.

Stop it! Edward is dead and the dead are dead, Tess reminded herself. Let his memory die, too.

Fighting to steer her thoughts to the present, Tess focused on her patient's face. Dom was saying something. She struggled to concentrate on his words just as Maria returned with a deep bowl and several strips of clean cloth.

"No good hand. No good now!" His voice crackled with anguish. Unappreciative of his narrow escape from death by crushing, Dom seemed less than grateful.

And probably has a right to be.

His half a dozen words had left the real issue hinted at but unarticulated. Tess exhaled wearily. Dealing with such intense distress was exhausting.

"The fingers are gone, Dom. You're lucky that you haven't lost much blood. We need to keep your hand clean now." She locked eyes with the man sitting before her, willing herself to not break away from his distressed stare. His eyes pleaded with her for better news.

"There's nothing more that I can do."

Her voice had been sharper than she had intended for it to be. She doubted that Dom would ever consider his outcome to be at all lucky. The loss of an operational hand would make him virtually useless to do the fieldwork and there were few other ways in which to meaningfully contribute, stuck as they all were on this island.

Perhaps he can fish. Lord knows that without fish, we'd be starving by now.

She made a mental note to ask Brigs if he'd carve a rod for this fellow, and maybe make a filleting board on which the fish could be staked down so one hand would be enough to gut and fillet the catch.

Brigs is innovative. She was sure the old carpenter would be able to come up with something. His knack for invention was only one of the many traits that had attracted her Gram to him. And Brigs had adapted to the loss of his own leg. Yes, he would certainly come up with something for Dom.

Right now however, the extent of her patient's permanent loss was sinking in for him, his eyes at first widening and then crumpling shut as he threw his head back in despair. A keening cry burst from his chest. The misery of it cut through Tess's heart and an angry snarl of breath escaped from her own throat.

There had to be a solution, and it obviously was not to stay here in their present situation. As the man's distraught cries died down to a strangled whimper, Tess held his injured hand firmly in the bowl of rum. The man's hand trembled in hers, his palpable show of grief washing away her own fatigue.

Four fingers lost. And with each, a part of this man's soul has been ripped away. His entire future diminished.

Her jaw clenched.

Only four fingers lost, she corrected herself. Better than a life lost ... wasn't it?