They were not the only ones to notice Bowen’s flask—the eyes of the injured man were fixed on it. ‘If you’ve anything in that flask, doc, I’d be grateful,’ he said.

Bowen looked at the object in his hand as if noticing it for the first time. ‘Just a drop to steady my nerves,’ he said before passing the American the flask.

The man took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Tastes like something you brewed yourself,’ he said.

‘I’ll have you know that is the best Irish whiskey,’ Bowen said.

The injured man’s mouth twitched in a smile. ‘If that’s the best, glad I’ve not had the pleasure of tasting the worst.’

‘Dr Bowen is here to see to your leg, not compare liquor,’ Adelaide said.

The man nodded. ‘I can tell you, doc, there’s nothing broken.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Bowen said stiffly.

‘Not sure you’re in a state to be much of a judge of anything,’ Adelaide said.

Bowen capped his flask and slid it back into his pocket. ‘I’d thank you to let me get on with my job. What’s your name?’

‘Hunt, Caleb Hunt.’ He closed his eyes and grimaced as the doctor prodded the injury.

Bowen straightened and took another swig from his flask. ‘You’re lucky.’

Hunt opened his eyes.

‘You’re right—the femur is not broken. There’s a nasty laceration, which I can stitch, and you’re going to have an almighty bruise. You won’t be going anywhere for a few days.’

‘I have things to do.’ Caleb Hunt had bitten his lip during Bowen’s less than gentle ministrations and Netty wiped away a trickle of blood.

‘They will have to wait. It’ll be a week at least before you can walk on that leg.’

‘Where’s he going to stay? He can hardly stay here,’ Adelaide said.

Bowen mopped his face and looked around Adelaide’s kitchen. ‘And where else do you think he is going to go, Mrs Greaves?’

‘I don’t want to be a bother to this good lady—’ the man began, attempting to pull himself up on his elbows, but Bowen quelled him with a look.

He turned to Adelaide. ‘We’ve no hospital and I would hardly trust this man to the ministrations of any of the publicans in town—or their good ladies. I know you for a good Christian lady, and as Mr Hunt is, by all accounts, responsible for saving the life of your son, I think a few days’ rest in your care is the least you can offer.’

‘I have work to do and nowhere to put him,’ she said, but even as she uttered the words she anticipated Netty’s response.

‘Don’t be silly, Adelaide, I can see to him and there’s Mick’s shed.’