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flow from his wound, he’d bleed to death here on her kitchen floor. From what she’d seen when she’d first treated his injury, he’d been hit by an old-fashioned musket ball, rather than a bone-shattering minié ball. Nevertheless, the force of the gunshot had carried cloth and debris into his flesh. She didn’t know if she could stop the bleeding, but if she succeeded, the infection could still kill him.
    Taking off the arm at the shoulder would be the surest way to save his life. Shivering, she considered her options. Helping her father amputate a man’s legs was far different from doing the operation herself. She knew how to administer chloroform, but if she was busy doing the surgery, she’d be unable to increase the amount of anesthesia if her patient began to wake up.
    â€œLord help me,” she whispered. A kitchen rug was no place to perform an operation, and she was no surgeon. She quickly calculated her immediate needs: hot water, soap, clean sheets, towels, and bandages. And she’d have to gather them quickly if she wanted to have a live patient to treat.
    She considered going for help but decided that was senseless. Chance would be dead before she could return.“It’s me or nothing.” Rising to her feet, she rushed to assemble her surgical instruments and supplies.
    Scant minutes later she pressed a chloroform cone over his mouth and nose. Chance mumbled and tried to turn his face away, but she held the sponge-filled contraption there until he sunk into a deep sleep.
    â€œI hope you don’t wake up,” she murmured as she reached for her father’s old scalpel. Then she turned her eyes and mind to the task at hand and forgot everything but the living flesh beneath her knife.

Chapter 3
    Gunshots rang in Chance’s ears. He urged his own mount forward amid the frenzied charge of horses and riders galloping up the wooded slope toward the Union line.
    Minié balls flew past Chance’s head, and he strained to see through the clouds of smoke.
    Cannon boomed from the left, but his horse never missed a stride as he plunged up the steep incline. A riderless bay galloped past. Chance gripped the reins tightly in one hand, his cocked pistol in another. Branches whipped around his head, and he leaned low over Kentucky’s neck.
    The roar of muskets and the smell of powder and blood keyed his gelding to a fever pitch. Foam flew from the horse’s open mouth; his muscles were taut, and his ears laid flat against his neck. Kentucky’s long legs carried them over fallen logs and tangled underbrush.
    Suddenly, almost under the thoroughbred’s front hooves, Chance caught sight of a blue-jacketed figure lying facedown in front of them. To avoid trampling the body Chance yanked hard on the left rein. Kentucky reared and fought the bit, then pitched sideways as his left hind hoof plunged into the hollow of a rotting stump.
    The gelding struggled to maintain his balance and
lost. Chance heard the crack of bone and felt Kentucky falling.
    Kentucky’s weight came down on Chance’s right leg. The horse squealed in pain, then struggled up and stood with one hind leg drawn up and his eyes rolling in fright.
    â€œEasy, easy, boy.” Chance tried to rise and then gasped as his leg refused to hold his weight. Frantically he ran exploring fingers down his knee and calf.
    Just a bad sprain, he told himself. But his horse hadn’t come off as lightly.
    Kentucky’s hind leg dangled at an impossible angle. The animal’s sides heaved, and sweat streaked his chest and neck. Huge, hurting brown eyes stared at Chance.
    â€œDamn it,” Chance swore. “Damn it to hell.” His pistol lay against the trunk of a tree several yards away, and he crawled toward it. There was only one thing he could do for Kentucky now, and the thought of it sickened him worse than the agony in his own leg.
    He forced his hand to hold steady as he took