© 2016 by Mary Connealy
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6956-0
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Author is represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency
No Way Up is about parents trying to make their children love each other, take pride in the family ranch, and be devoted to each other. Because of this, I dedicate this book to my mom, Dorothy. No, she doesn’t own a vast ranch and insist we all live under her roof. Quite the contrary. I think she was FINE with us growing up and moving out of her small farmhouse.
But she’s the mother of eight children who have found faith and good lives of our own. We are all accomplished people—perhaps the author, me, least of all. And we all love her because . . . how could we not?
She is the sweetest lady on earth. She’s unfailingly generous. She now has eight sons- and daughters-in-law, twenty-eight grandchildren, ten grandchildren-in-law, and thirteen great-grandchildren (I think I counted right, but who knows?).
Mom, along with Dad, raised us with the beautiful legacy of faith, simply by living it themselves and loving us all through the ups and downs.
She’ll protest when she reads this, give any credit for how we all came out to us, and speak with wonder of how she could be so lucky to have such wonderful children, as if she had nothing to do with it. That sweet modesty is part of what we all love so much about her.
Thank you, Mom, for the legacy of love.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
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29
About the Author
Books by Mary Connealy
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
SKULL GULCH, NEW MEXICO TERRITORY
NOVEMBER 1880
The steep sides of the pass into the canyon pressed down on Heath Kincaid until he could hardly breathe. Though it was a blustery November day, a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. It surprised him because Heath knew mountains, and he knew tight places.
He rode behind Chance Boden, the owner of this vast land grant, and John Hightree, the foreman of the Cimarron Ranch, and two other men brought up the rear riding single file, their aim to fetch the cattle that had gone in here. They passed the busted-down gate Chance had put up to keep cattle out of the rugged, grassless canyon.
“That fence was stronger than the backbone of the Rockies.” Chance looked in disgust at the gateposts that just yesterday blocked the entrance. “That cantankerous bull shouldn’t’ve been able to knock it down.”
He led his men around the splintered lumber. “Let’s make short work of getting ’em out.”
Heath was just passing the ruins of the gate when he heard the rumble. Right overhead. Only one thing made that sound.
“Avalanche! Run!” Heath reined in his stallion so hard it reared. In horror he glanced up as he whirled his horse. He saw tumbling rocks knock debris loose.
The rockslide grew, picked up speed. Those ugly rolling stones, raining down the side of the narrow neck of the entrance to the canyon, were heading right for them. Heath’s horse neighed in fear and jerked at the reins.
The first rocks pelted them. A sharp stone slashed Heath’s temple. The roar grew louder, promising more were coming. As one, the men charged back the way they’d come—out of the bottleneck canyon and away from the vicious hail.
Heath was third in line. Chance Boden and John were now behind him. Bent low over his stallion’s neck, Heath looked back to see the rocks pounding down around their heads.
A big one slammed into John’s shoulder and nearly unseated him. Chance was barely visible in the dense cloud of dirt just behind John.
Heath burst out of the canyon neck and wheeled his buckskin. The other two cowpokes were just ahead of him. A second later, John charged out of a cloud, blood coursing down the side of his face and from one arm. He reached Heath’s side and pivoted. They both watched, gasping for breath in the grainy air.
Nothing.
The biggest rocks were down, but silt and gravel still rained and the passageway was choked with dust.
“Chance didn’t make it out!” Heath hurled himself off his stallion. He plunged into the blinding grit. A rock knocked at him and stung, but the worst of the avalanche was over. It didn’t matter anyway; he’d be switched if he stood safely back while Chance might be dying. Chance’s horse suddenly appeared out of the dust. Riderless.
The horse nearly trampled Heath. Once he’d dodged the poor critter, he stormed on, stumbling over rubble. The rocks were deeper as he got farther into the pass. He fell over a chunk of granite and landed, tearing his knees and hands. Down low he could see better, and just ahead of him he spotted the sleeve of a blue shirt. Its color stood out against the chalky stone. Extending from that sleeve was a limp, bleeding hand.
“I found him!” He crawled forward and tossed a stone just as John Hightree nearly tripped over him. Heath and John went to work clearing the debris.
The two other cowhands were only a pace behind. It heartened Heath to know he worked with men who’d risk an avalanche to save one of their own.
The four of them heaved rocks, uncovering Chance as fast as they could.
The boss’s face was slick with crimson, peeking through the gravel and dirt that coated him. A goose egg rose up on his forehead.
They were all bleeding somewhere. Heath couldn’t see if Chance was dangerously hurt or just knocked cold.
Then Heath tossed aside a slab of rock almost too big to lift and saw the brutal wound on the boss’s leg. One of the men uttered a harsh oath. Heath spoke silently to the Lord.
Gushing blood. Worse yet, a jagged bone stuck out of Chance’s pant leg, just below his knee.
A wound that always crippled—and often killed.
“Mike,” John said, taking charge, “get Chance’s horse in here. Windy, gather up the rest of the horses. Mike and I will get Chance in the saddle. Heath, you run for town.”
The two men vanished into the grit.
“No!” Heath had never disobeyed an order from John in his life, but this time he had to. “I need to see if he’s got an artery bleeding. I
’ve worked with some wounds like this while scouting for the Army at a fort in Montana.”
Chance would for sure lose his lower leg. But it was so close to the knee, Heath didn’t see how he could tie a tourniquet anywhere but above the knee. But if it didn’t get a tourniquet, and skilled medical hands took over, Chance might keep the knee joint, and that made a big difference in a man’s life.
Heath whipped his knife out of its scabbard at his waist and cut Chance’s right pant leg away. He took precious moments, when he should be tightening a cinch around Chance’s thigh, to see if the bleeding had a pulse. If it did, it was life-threatening and a tourniquet couldn’t be avoided.
“I don’t feel an artery bleeding,” Heath said with relief. “I might be able to patch him up, but we’ve got to clean the wound first. To do that, we have to get him out of this gritty air.”
Muttering, not concealing his doubts worth a lick, John picked up Chance’s shoulders while Heath got his legs, flinching at the rough handling. They carried him across the stone-cluttered ground into clean air just as Windy came up with all the horses except for Chance’s, which Mike had caught and was leading back.
“Lay him down, and then I can clean him up.” He and John positioned him. “Get the canteens off the horses. We’ve got to wash the dirt out of the wound.”
Windy, Mike, and John rushed to do as Heath ordered.
Heath prayed for God to guide his hands, because these men were putting their trust in him and he didn’t want to fail anyone.
“There’s a spring back a couple hundred yards.” John handed over the first canteen. “We can get all the water you want.”
“Get ready to run for more as soon as one empties. Washing it out could head off infection and that might make the difference between life and death for the boss. And I need something to use for splints. Even a couple of heavy sticks are better than nothing.”
Heath hunched over the cruel wound. Dirt and gravel were all through it, even beneath the broken bone. Not a speck of that dirt could stay or Chance would be in a world of trouble.
Ignoring the other men, Heath worked tirelessly on Chance’s leg. He didn’t know how much water he used or how many times the men ran for more. They had five canteens, and all Heath knew was that when he reached up for more water, it was always there.
Time stretched on. Whether minutes or hours, Heath didn’t know. Chance’s leg bled until Heath was scared for his boss’s life, but he went on cleaning. He remembered the doctor at the fort had carbolic acid on hand to treat open injuries, to stave off suppuration. Heath wished he had some now. Hopefully the doctor in Skull Gulch was a good one who kept up with modern methods.
Finally, Heath couldn’t see a single speck of dirt, nor the tiniest piece of gravel. Now he had to deal with the jagged protruding bone. “John, hold down his thigh.”
John gave Heath a hard look before he settled both hands above Chance’s knee. When John had a firm grip, Heath, his hands coated in blood, caught Chance’s ankle and made a ruthless move to straighten the leg. The bone snapped back under the skin.
Chance shouted in pain, the first sign of life.
The cry was horrible, but he was alive.
Having ripped his shirt off his back, Heath turned it clean-side out, folded it with lightning moves, then wrapped the shirt tight around Chance’s roughly reset upper shin.
“Did anyone find something to splint this with?”
Two flat pieces of board were thrust into his line of sight. “Perfect.”
So perfect he was stunned.
“I found them on the broken fence, Heath,” Windy said.
“All of you—give me your shirts.” They were handed to Heath one by one, leaving the men dressed in their woolen undershirts. Heath twisted them into ropes of cloth and bound the splints so they wouldn’t slip.
“This is tight enough I hope it stops the bleeding, but without cutting off circulation. It’s the only chance we have of saving his knee. There just isn’t room below the knee and above the break for a tourniquet.”
Heath hoped he hadn’t missed any filth and was now binding it inside Chance’s leg. If he was, infection was guaranteed. It was probably guaranteed anyway.
“Are you done?” Mike asked through clenched teeth.
“Yep.”
“Is there more you can do for him, Heath?” John sounded hopeful and skeptical at the same time.
“That doctor in the Army taught me to look for a severed artery, and if none are cut, to clean the wound and use a bandage, because a tourniquet cuts off circulation and everything below the tourniquet will have to be amputated. If an artery is bleeding, you’ve got no choice. But Chance’s break didn’t cut through one. On the battlefield I’d do this, then get the man to the doctor. Someone smarter than me has to take over now.” Heath was mighty sorry to admit that.
“Go fetch Doc Garner in Skull Gulch. You might be able to tell him things the rest of us can’t. Have the doc meet us at the house. And tell Cole and Sadie to get home,” John said.
Heath hated the second part of the order. He was to be the one to tell Sadie and Cole the terrible news. They’d always remember him for that. If they decided to kill the messenger, it’d be him they’d kill. But John was not to be disobeyed, not ever, unless a man had a mighty good reason and talked fast.
Heath turned and raced for his horse, glad to the depths of his soul that he’d found the money to buy the fleet-footed, high-endurance quarter horse. The powerful stallion leapt into a gallop from the first pace. Heath jumped over rocks and dodged boulders with one goal in mind—to get to the doctor and bring him to the Cimarron Ranch in time to save Chance Boden, one of the finest men he’d ever known.
It didn’t slow him down, but Heath’s stomach twisted with regret as he thought of Sadie. Her father might be dying. The very best they could hope for was an amputated leg.
If the broken leg didn’t kill Chance, the surgery to save his life or the infection that resulted from it very well might.
And he was the one who had to tell Sadie all of that.
2
The door to her classroom slammed open.
“Sadie, you’ve got to come fast.” Heath Kincaid, one of Pa’s cowhands, rushed forward past the rows of suddenly frightened children at the orphanage.
The urgency made Sadie leap to her feet. Her desk chair rolled back and crashed against the blackboard.
“Your pa’s been hurt bad.”
Without a single question to Heath, who was filthy and bleeding, Sadie looked at the most dependable of her twenty-four students. “Stephanie, find Sister Margaret and tell her I’ve gone home.”
The twelve-year-old dashed out of the room. Another child, almost as steady, was next. “Jeremiah, you’re in charge until Sister Margaret gets here.”
Heath caught her by the arm. He’d have dragged her out if she hadn’t been running as fast as he was. He said, “I hollered at someone to tell Cole to come. They said he’d ridden off to the mines, so they’re chasing him down to get him home. No time to saddle your horse; you’ll ride with me.”
He tossed her onto the horse’s back before she could protest—not that she intended to. He was behind her in an instant. His horse was breathing hard, but it was a big, strong stallion. Sadie had noticed the buckskin last Sunday when Heath had ridden home with the family from services. She’d gone home for dinner and had mentioned what a fine horse Heath rode.
The animal looked to have endurance. Pa had spoken of breeding mares to him.
“Pa.” The single word escaped her lips.
Heath put the horse to the test. Soon they were away from the Safe Haven Orphanage and leaving behind the little town of Skull Gulch. He leaned forward, pressing her low over the horse’s neck, and got every ounce of speed out of the stallion.
“What happened?” Sadie’s imagination was running wild.
Close to her ear, Heath answered, “A rockslide came down on your pa. We were out in that canyon past Skul
l Mesa.” Heath mentioned the vast, forbidding mesa with no way up that had given the town its name. Sadie knew well that the pass was a narrow, treacherous spot that led into a rocky land.
“I thought Pa fenced it off to keep the cattle out.”
“Big Red knocked the fence down and led some of the cows in. We went in after them and there was an avalanche.”
Sadie looked over her shoulder and reached one finger up to touch Heath’s face. “You’re bleeding.”
“We were all in that pass. This is how we all look, your pa the worst of all. John is getting him home. He sent me for the doctor and to get you and Cole home as quick as I can.”
John had been working with Pa since before Sadie was born. He went all the way back to when the ranch was owned by Sadie’s Grandfather Chastain, her mother’s father. John was part of the family. Nearly as much a father to Sadie as Pa.
Over the drumming hoofbeats, Heath went on. “Chance is all busted up.” There was a long pause. “I sent Doc Garner running for the CR before I came for you. John wants you and Cole home. Justin too.”
“Was Justin with him when he got hurt?” Her middle brother lived on the ranch, the only one of the three of them still at home.
“Nope. Your brother went in a different direction this morning. John ordered me to fetch you and Cole both. He’ll send someone for Justin or go himself.”
“Pa will be all right.” Sadie heard the desperation in her voice. “He’s too tough to let a hard trail get the best of him.”
Heath didn’t respond, and somehow the silence was worse than if he’d agreed . . . or disagreed. But she thought maybe the arms he had around her, guiding the horse, tightened a bit as if he were trying to protect her from what lay ahead.
They were setting a scorching pace. The ranch was ten miles from town, and Sadie often made the ride in about an hour.
They were going to make it in less than half that.
Racing past scrub brush and the towering mesa to the west, Sadie prayed. Working at the orphanage had drawn her closer to God. But to her shame, with fear pounding at her and the urgency of the desperate ride, it had taken until now to pray.
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