He followed the younger brother at a more moderate pace, murmuring his approval as Simon hollered after he found each article of clothing and then the bar of soap. Soon, Simon raced past him toward the house, bellowing about Peter’s calamity.
“Your brother will have your mother in a state by the time you arrive,” Lance murmured to Peter.
“Head hurts,” Peter whispered as he rested against Lance’s shoulder.
“I know, boy. But you’ll recover,” he murmured. “You’ll be just fine.” As he rounded the side of the barn, he looked up at a screech reminiscent of Simon’s to see Eleanor racing down the porch steps toward them. Her arms were outstretched, and she nearly barreled into them. Lance took a step to the side to prevent her from hitting them and knocking Peter out of his arms.
“Steady, Miss Eleanor,” he murmured. “Your boy will be fine. He has a head wound and a headache, but he’ll be fine.” He waited as Eleanor ran shaking hands over her boy before she stepped back and nodded.
“Yes, please, follow me.” She marched back to the ranch house and held the door open for him, pointing him upstairs. “His room is to the right at the top,” she said as she followed him up.
When Lance entered the small room with a single bed and a miniscule table beside it and a chest of drawers, he stood to one side. “Perhaps you want to place a towel or blanket on the bed so as not to mar that fine quilt,” he murmured.
Eleanor’s arms were filled with sheets and towels, and she dropped them on the corner of the bed before pulling a sheet over the bed and then placing a towel on the pillow. “Please, set him down.” When Peter rested on his bed, she ran a hand with loving tenderness over his forehead. With a deep sigh, she stiffened her shoulders and pulled the towel off. Fresh blood poured from the head wound, and she hastily covered it again. “I fear this may need stitches,” she whispered.
“I can go for the doc in town, Miss Eleanor,” Lance said. At her decisive nod, he strode from the room and raced down the stairs. He paused when he saw Simon hiding near the foot of the stairs. “Peter’s fine, Simon. I have to get the doctor so he can stitch his head wound closed.”
“She,” Simon blurted out. “Our doc’s a lady.”
Lance smiled. “Seems your town is more unconventional than I realized.” He ruffled Simon’s hair. “Hold down the fort while I’m gone, all right?” He saw Simon’s chest puff out at the request, and he smiled at the boy. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
Lance ran to the barn, saddled Amaretto, and pushed him into a full gallop as he raced for town. He remembered the doctor’s office being next to the bank, and he was thankful he wouldn’t have to ride through town in his pursuit of the doctor. When he arrived, he tied Amaretto to the hitching post and barreled into the small office. He whipped off his hat and came to an abrupt halt as the petite woman behind the desk rose to stare at him in confusion.
“I beg your pardon, Doc,” he said as he nodded in deference to her status in town. He looked down at his splotchy clothes covered in blood, mud, and dust. “Are you the doc?”
She waved away his apology. “Yes, I’m Dr. Wright. What’s happened?”
“Peter Ferguson fell and hit his head. He’s at the ranch, but Miss…Mrs. Ferguson fears he’ll need stitches.” He paused as she pushed past him. “You’ll come?”
“Of course I will,” she said as she pulled on a light coat, a bonnet to cover her dark curly hair, and gloves. “I’m Gracie Wright, by the way.”
Lance nodded.
Her medicine bag sat on a table by the door, and he grabbed it for her as she reached for it. “Did you come in a wagon?”
Lance paled. “No, I rode to town as fast as I could.”
She sighed. “Come.” She led him through an examining room, out a back door, and into the area behind her office. A small lean-to barn stood with a horse sleeping inside. “It will take a few minutes for me to saddle my horse.”
He shook his head and handed her bag to her. “Let me,” he said as he moved into the stall. He spoke with her horse in a gentle tone and soon had the horse saddled. He helped the doctor up and handed her the bag. “My horse is out front.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she said as she urged her horse into motion.
Soon, they rode to Broken Pine Ranch, although not at as quick a pace as Lance had raced into town. She watched him clench and unclench his jaw. “Eleanor is smart. She knows what to do to prepare for my arrival. Peter will be fine,” she soothed.
Lance nodded. “I worry about infection.”
Gracie sighed. “It’s the greatest concern when there is a wound, but I hope you know I’ll do all I can to ensure he remains healthy.” She patted her horse and urged him a little faster.
They passed fallow fields, baked brown under the unrelenting summer sun. In the distance, a few scattered ranch houses that backed into the hillsides could be seen, although few cattle were visible. They turned down the drive to the Broken Pine Ranch, and Lance sighed with relief.
After he helped the doctor from her horse, he brought her horse into the barn. He curried him and ensured he had plenty of water and a pail full of oats. He then did the same for Amaretto, adding words of praise for his stalwart horse.
With his chores completed, he returned to the house, easing the door open. Simon sat on the second step of the stairs, tears coursing down his cheeks as Peter screamed upstairs. “Come, it can’t be as bad as you imagine,” Lance whispered as he sat next to Simon and slung an arm over the boy’s shoulders.
He leaned against Lance and cried into his side. “It should have been me,” he whispered. “I chickened out and wouldn’t do that jump, so Peter did.”
Lance gave a grunt of displeasure. “Then you showed more sense than your brother. He should never have been up on those rocks, and now he’s paying for his folly. But he’ll be all right. Anyone who can bellyache the way he is will be fine.”
Simon giggled but remained in Lance’s embrace. “Mama always told us never to go on those rocks. She never likes us to go swimming alone. She never wants us to do anything alone.”
Lance smiled at his grumbling. “You’re her boys. She wants to protect you.”
Simon’s blue eyes peered up at him. “Did your mama keep you tethered like that?”
“No, Simon, but I was working a farm by the time I was your age. Free time meant spending the day at church, listening to the reverend, rather than tilling a field.”
The boy frowned at him. “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
Lance laughed. “It was the life I knew. We all had to work hard so there was food on the table and so we wouldn’t lose our farm.”
Simon sighed, his shoulders stooping. “Mama has us do chores, and I’m no good at them.”
“Take pride in all your work, Simon. No matter how little or unimportant you believe it to be. You never know what it will teach you.”
Simon picked up Lance’s hand and stared at the scratches, scars, and calluses. “I want hands like yours.”
Lance’s hold on Simon tightened a moment as he was filled with a deep emotion for the boy. “I want yours to be not quite so rough. It will mean your life hasn’t been as tough as mine.”
Simon settled into his side, and they listened to the quiet murmurs and soft footsteps upstairs. Peter’s crying had abated, and a sniffle was heard now and then. “He’ll be all right, Mr. Lance?” Simon whispered.
Lance kissed his head. “I hope so. I know your mother and the doc will do everything they can to ensure Peter recovers.”
When footsteps sounded on the stairs, Lance looked over his shoulder and then urged Simon to stand. Dr. Wright walked downstairs, holding her medicine bag. “Doc?” he asked.
She smiled at Lance and then at Simon who clung to the ranch hand. “Peter should be fine. He didn’t like having stitches placed, but his wound does not appear serious as he is awake and lucid. Do you want to go see your brother, Simon?” The minute she asked those words, Simon raced
up the stairs to see his big brother.
“He’s a wonderful boy,” Gracie Wright said.
“They both are,” Lance said with a nod. “Thank you for coming to help Peter.” He flushed after he spoke as he realized he had no position on the ranch to thank the doctor for her service.
She watched him closely and nodded. “It was my pleasure.” She stood on the final step of the stairs and was closer to eye level with him. “Ensure Eleanor doesn’t fret. Her boys need to act like boys, not coddled and wrapped in cotton.” She waited until Lance nodded before she moved to the kitchen, calling out for Mrs. Wagner.
Lance remained at the foot of the stairs, uncertain if he should go upstairs. After arguing with himself for a few minutes, he walked upstairs and poked his head into Peter’s small room. It felt overcrowded with Simon and Eleanor inside. “Miss Eleanor,” he murmured as he saw her clinging to Peter’s hand as her free hand continued to flit over his shoulder and arm.
“Mr. Gallagher. Thank you for all you’ve done today.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing, ma’am.” He focused on Peter. “How are you feeling?”
Peter opened his pain-dulled eyes and looked at Lance. “Awful.”
Lance fought a smile as he lowered to his knees so he was at eye level with the boy. “That’s what happens when you hit your head and need stitches.”
“I don’t ever want stitches again,” he said in a small voice.
Lance gave a grunt of agreement. “Yes, they are no fun, but thankfully a good doc is in town to help care for you when you need her.” Lance looked at Eleanor. “Did she leave something for infection?”
Eleanor nodded and pointed to a small container. “An ointment that I should put on his wound twice daily. And we’ll give him willow bark tea for his pain.”
Lance squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “You’re in good hands, Peter. Follow your mother’s instructions, and you’ll be playing with your brother again soon.” He squeezed his shoulder again and rose. “Miss.” He nodded to her and slipped from the room.
He returned to the barn, organizing the tack room and mucking out stalls as he waited for the doctor to request her horse. Leaning against the wall, he fought panic at all that could have happened to Peter. Lance battled against his desire to be anything more than a hired ranch hand. For that was all he ever could be.
* * *
That evening, Eleanor sat beside Peter as he slept. She had dragged her comfortable chair in from her bedroom, and now his room felt even tinier. However, she was determined to keep vigil overnight in case he needed something. Her knitting needles clacked softly as she worked on a pair of socks. She frowned as she focused on forming the curve at the ankle, thankful for any distraction from her racing thoughts. When she had to pull out the yarn due to miscounting for the third time, she sighed and set down her needles.
Peter rested comfortably after drinking a large mug of willow bark tea and showed no sign of fever. Simon snored softly from the room across the hall, and Mrs. Wagner was in her room downstairs near the kitchen. Eleanor hated her desire to have a man in the house to feel more secure. She’d fought the inclination to have Zachariah live in the large ranch house after a family of skunks had infested the foreman’s cabin the previous year. Smiling, Eleanor remembered Simon’s joy at watching the skunk family roll down a hill as they played in the middle of the night, illuminated only by the bright moon. Her smile faded as she recalled his dismay when he learned they had been relocated. Eleanor huffed. “Relocated,” she muttered. “To a shallow grave.” Neither she nor Zachariah had had the heart to inform her youngest son that they had exterminated the intruders.
Eleanor rested her head against the top of her chair and sighed with pleasure as a gentle breeze ruffled the curtains covering the open window. An owl hooted, and a wolf howled in the distance. “Stay away from my cattle,” she muttered.
She opened her eyes and focused on Peter, rather than the roiling visions her imagination conjured when she closed her eyes. His peaceful expression. His face subtly changing from a boy’s to a man’s. Her throat thickened with tears she refused to shed as she saw glimpses of Alan. His strong chin, small button nose, and thin lips. Unlike Alan, her Peter was quick with a smile and a joke and was willing to work.
Her gaze moved to the window, and she pulled back the curtain, glancing toward the bunkhouse. A sliver of moon cast light upon the yard, and she failed to see any movement at the bunkhouse. Shaking her head, she marveled at all Lance had done for her and her boys that day. With Zachariah away, she did not like to consider what would have happened had she been alone on the ranch with one of her boys injured. She refused to consider her boys alone and helpless at the swimming hole.
She jumped as Mrs. Wagner bustled into the room on near silent feet. “I didn’t hear you,” she whispered.
“No, you were woolgathering about that new ranch hand,” Mrs. Wagner said with a severe stare. Her blue eyes shone with concern, although her customary disapproval of Mr. Gallagher was absent.
“I don’t know what we would have done had he not been here,” Eleanor whispered.
“We would have done what we’ve always done. Coped,” Mrs. Wagner said in her no-nonsense way. “It was nice to see he had more sense than your husband ever had.” She nodded as Eleanor flushed and did not contradict her.
Mrs. Wagner looked into the water pitcher to ensure it was full. “And he had the sense not to be upset that our doctor is a woman.”
Eleanor held her hand up and cut off Mrs. Wagner. “Unlike Alan.”
Mrs. Wagner gave a curt nod of her head. “Just so. There comes a time when all that matters is that the person doing the required task is competent. I’ve never seen a person less squeamish about the unsavory aspects of life than Dr. Wright.”
Eleanor shuddered. “I can’t imagine being a doctor, but I’m very thankful she chose to live here.”
“And her husband had the sense to marry her,” Mrs. Wagner said. She motioned for Eleanor to stand up and pushed her out of the way as she sat with a relieved sigh in the comfortable chair. “Go get some fresh air, Eleanor. You need a break.”
Eleanor flushed and pulled her shawl more tightly around her although the night was far from cool. “Your matchmaking won’t work, Mrs. Wagner. He’s not outside.” She blushed beet red at her frank words.
“Go, girl,” she said with an imperious nod of her head to the door. “Let an old woman rest as she keeps vigil.”
Eleanor kissed Mrs. Wagner on the forehead and spun to depart. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Of course. We all need a respite from duty, dear,” Mrs. Wagner said with a smile as she watched the woman she considered a daughter smooth her unbraided hair and ease from the room.
* * *
Lance sat on the rocking chair on the bunkhouse porch, watching as Eleanor emerged from the ranch house to lean against a post to stare out at the darkened landscape. The faint light from the ranch house illuminated her soft curves and her hair cascaded down her back, freed from its customary tight bun. He gripped his hands, closing his eyes as he imagined the silky soft feel of her hair slipping through his fingers. “She’s your boss,” he muttered to himself as he forced his muscle to relax.
“What did you say?” her gentle voice called out.
He fought an instinctive urge to reach for a pistol that no longer sat at his hip when startled, and forced a smile as she approached him with a lantern in hand. “I said, ‘What a mess.’” He rose and motioned for her to sit beside him in the spare rocking chair.
She nodded and sat, setting the lantern between them. “It is. I can’t imagine what the boys were doing playing in the creek with no supervision.” She shuddered. “If you hadn’t decided to join them…”
He made a soothing sound. “But I did. Peter was injured, but at least they don’t have to regret the loss of a brother.” After a moment he asked, “Who is sitting with Peter?”
“Mrs. Wagner. She wanted me to hav
e a break, but she understands that I don’t want to leave Peter alone tonight.” She covered her mouth as she yawned. “It’s a nice respite to be out of the house for a few minutes.” She grimaced, unable to fight a guilty expression from flashing across her face.
“There’s no reason to feel guilty that you need a few moments away. That doesn’t make you a bad mother, Miss Eleanor.”
She looked at him with luminous blue eyes and nodded. “A part of me knows that. Another part of me feels like, no matter what I do, I will never be an adequate mother.”
“Adequate?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Is that all you think you are?” He shook his head and smiled. “You are exemplary in your love and devotion to your boys, Miss Eleanor. Don’t ever doubt yourself.”
She shook her head. “I should have searched for them when I noticed they weren’t playing near the house…” Her voice broke.
He paused, and he spoke with hesitancy as he chose his words with care. “They need to run and play and work without you or Zachariah or anyone always around. They need to test their limits and learn what they can and cannot do.”
She made a derisive noise and glared at him, her blue eyes lit with fire. “How can you say such a thing when I almost lost Peter today?”
He pinched at the bridge of his nose. “The worst thing you can do is swaddle them up and keep them close like they were still babes. Give them wings, Miss Eleanor.” He jerked his hand back as he reached to grip hers.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she whispered. “You don’t know what it is to lose someone you…care about.”
He rose and leaned against the post holding up the roof covering the porch. “Don’t I?” he whispered. He looked out in the direction of the barn, but his gaze was distant. “I have a better idea than you might imagine.” He turned to face her. “I know what it is to lose someone I love, Miss Eleanor. Not someone I merely cared for.” His eyes glowed with pain and passion.
Drifting from Deadwood: The Pioneer Brides of Rattlesnake Ridge, Book 6 Page 7