Loving Bella. Renee Ryan
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the restlessness inside him also stopping, pausing. Listening to the beautiful song.
Torn between shock and admiration, Shane shook his head and returned to his work. With quick snips, he cut away the tattered material and pulled it aside to reveal a long, nasty gash running down the side of Ethan’s leg. Thankfully, there was no swelling or misshapen bump to indicate a break.
As if on cue, the woman turned her gaze toward the injury, as well. To her credit, her singing never faltered. Nor did she flinch.
Astounding.
Shane had seen trained doctors fail to maintain their reactions so well. Stunned once again by her remarkable behavior, Shane sucked in a lungful of cold mountain air. Who was this woman? He was certain he’d never met her. Then why did he experience recognition when he looked into her eyes?
The sound of approaching footsteps cut off his thoughts.
Stabbing a glance over his shoulder, Shane barked out a set of orders for Marc. “I’m going to move Ethan to the kitchen. I’ll need water, clean rags and Laney’s sewing kit.”
Having experienced his share of injuries, Marc pivoted on his heel and flicked his wrist in the air. “I’m already on it.”
“Ethan, before we move you I want to make sure you haven’t broken anything.”
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, sighed. “I’m ready.”
“This might hurt,” Shane warned.
At his words, the woman stopped singing. Shane silently willed her to resume her impromptu musical. Instead, she gently stroked the child’s hair along his forehead. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a braver boy than you, and I’ve been all over the world.”
Ethan cracked open one eye and then the other. “You have? Wh…where?”
Her expression never changed nor did her rhythmic stroking of his hair. “Lots of places.”
“Tell me. Tell me,” he demanded with little-boy earnestness.
“Let’s see.” She tapped her chin with a fingertip. “Paris. London. Ro—”
“London?” Ethan tried to sit up, but she gently pushed him back down.
“I’ve always wanted to go to London,” he declared. “To see the Tower and all.”
Both grinning, they began a lengthy discussion of the infamous prison.
While Ethan babbled, Shane took the opportunity to check for broken bones. “Tell me if it hurts when I press on your leg.”
“What’s your name?” Ethan asked once he wound down his list of reasons for seeing the Tower of London.
Eager to hear her response himself, Shane turned an ear in their direction and ran his hand across Ethan’s leg.
“I’m Bella,” she declared.
Italian for beautiful. The name suited her. Shane moved his fingers along the boy’s kneecap.
“Bella,” Ethan said, his face scrunched in confusion. “I’ve never heard that name before.”
She released a tinkling laugh, the sound as clear and musical as her singing. “It’s short for Isabella.”
Holding back a grin at the look of adoration in the young boy’s eyes, Shane moved to the calf.
“Actually,” she said. “My full name is Isabella Constance O’Toole, but you can call me Bella.”
Ethan jerked.
Shane froze. “Did I hurt you?”
Ethan ignored the question. “O’Toole? That’s Pastor Beau’s last name.”
Laughing again, she gave the boy a dazzling smile. “I know. He’s my brother.”
Shane took a quick pull of air into his lungs. Of course she was the reverend’s sister. The similarity was hard to miss, now that he looked. They had the same golden hair, same tawny eyes, same memorable, aristocratic features. Perhaps that explained the odd sense of recognition every time their eyes met.
Shane finished his exam by searching for any obstruction or object lodged in the wound. Satisfied at last, he hopped to his feet and lifted the boy in his arms. “Let’s get you inside.”
“Don’t leave me, Miss Bella.” Struggling, Ethan reached out his hands to her.
“Not to worry, Ethan.” She rose and closed her fingers over his. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re my priority right now.”
A burning throb knotted in Shane’s stomach. There was a time in his life when he would have given anything to hear those same words uttered directly at him.
Closing his mind to the unwelcome thought, Shane repositioned the boy in his arms. Without being told, Miss O’Toole grabbed his medical bag and stuffed the scissors inside.
The three of them entered the kitchen, Miss O’Toole leading the way. Shane shouldered the door shut behind them and then took a cursory look around.
The room was empty. Unusual for this time of day. But before Shane could speculate further, Marc entered with an armful of clean linens and set them on the center counter.
“Where’s your wife?” Shane asked.
Marc shot him an apologetic glance. “Laney and Mrs. Smythe went shopping for supplies. And Megan is upstairs organizing the children for naptime.” He began rolling up his sleeves. “That leaves me as your only helper at the moment.”
“And Miss Bella, too,” Ethan added.
“And Miss Bella, too,” Shane said without looking at the woman. He found looking at her distracted him.
Setting Ethan on the counter, he picked up a cloth off the pile Marc had set down.
Using the clean water out of the bucket, Shane washed the blood from Ethan’s wound, revealing good news and bad. The good news—the cut was indeed free of any debris. But the bad news was as disheartening as Shane had feared. The large gash would need stitching to close the wound.
A crash from upstairs had all three adults jumping. Marc shook his head in resignation. “I better check on that.” He turned to Miss O’Toole, who was standing slightly back but within eyeshot of Ethan. “Looks like you’ll have to assist Shane without me.”
She stepped forward, her gaze filled with fierce determination. “Of course. I’ll do whatever is needed.”
Marc smiled at her, a look of relief filling his features. “Thank you.” He leaned over Ethan, touched the boy’s arm. “Hang tough, little man. No doubt your parents will be here soon. In the meantime, Dr. Shane and Miss Bella are going to fix you up.”
Ethan’s lower lip quivered. “Okay.”
After sharing a quick look with Shane, Marc left the room.
Miss O’Toole smiled after him. “Nice man,” she muttered.
Shane swallowed back a surprising kick of jealousy and rummaged through Laney’s sewing kit for a needle and thread. “Can you sew, Miss O’Toole?”
His voice must have come out harder than he’d planned because she took a sharp step back, and eyed him with a healthy dose of wariness. “I’ve been sewing my own costumes since I was twelve.”
“Good. I’ll need you to stitch the wound for me.” He spoke over her shocked gasp. “You’ll make individual stitches, knotting and cutting them off one at a time before beginning the next.”
She slid a quick glance at the angry wound. Shivered. “Can’t you do it?”
If only he could. But he knew the procedure would be painful, painful enough that Ethan would need holding down. “I’ll have to…keep him still.”
Her