When Frank helped her stand, Jacob slowed his pace. Then he stopped as her words became clear. Paiutes near the barn! That’s what unsettled the livestock! How had he not seen them? He turned at the sound of pounding hooves. Six good ponies gone.
At least Abigail was unharmed.
“Here.” He handed her the walking stick. He had carved it for her out of a sparse, old juniper tree, worked hard to smooth its surface so her palms wouldn’t blister. That she liked it he had no doubt. She used it constantly.
As his boss and Abigail headed for the ranch, Jacob picked up her mat, the book, and a pencil. Holding the book in his hand tempted him to let a few pages flop open. If he could get a peek at what mattered to her, he would know how to get her attention. He rebuked himself for the impulse and pinched the book tightly closed.
Outside the kitchen, he handed back her things.
“Thank you, Jacob.” She smiled at him.
Did she have any idea how heavenly blue her eyes were? How sweet her face? He meant to smile back, but instead uttered words of warning. “I wish you’d listen to your uncle…”
Her smile vanished in a blink. Her eyes lost their glow.
But she should listen to her uncle. This was dangerous territory. Jacob headed back to the barn. He caught up with his boss. “Sammy’s out collecting cow chips.”
Frank stared in the direction the Indians had gone. “He was supposed to fill the water trough first thing this morning. He didn’t do it. I want it done now.”
“I’ll fetch him.” Jacob picked up his pace. He would have offered to fill the trough himself, but he’d tried that before and only succeeded in further irritating his boss.
The boy had a bad case of wanderlust, and no amount of scolding was going to alter that, but Frank didn’t see it. In his view, a boy should do his chores. Do them right. And if he didn’t, there was always the switch. Life was all about work to Frank, and he had no patience for a boy struggling to find himself. Jacob could see the wedge building between father and son and prayed for wisdom about how to dispel it.
He topped a rise then descended into a gully where the cattle grazed on the little foliage that grew along a dry creek bed. What was that bundle off to the left? Jacob squinted his eyes to see better. Heat waves distorted the scene. A hurt calf? He jogged closer, realized it was Sammy, and raced to him. “Dear Lord,” he prayed aloud. “Not Sammy. Oh, Lord, help us.”
Chapter Three
With the weight of Sammy in his arms, Jacob stumbled across the barnyard.
From the corner of his eye he saw Abigail, then he heard her wail, “No!”
She led the way into the kitchen, then into her own room, and motioned for Jacob to follow. “Put him on my bed. He’ll be more comfortable.”
Jacob pushed a pillow to the side and settled the wounded boy flat on his back. All the while he repeated a silent prayer. Dear Father, let him live. Please let him live.
The arrow protruded upright between Sammy’s neck and shoulder. Blood soaked both of their shirts.
Frank’s voice sounded from the kitchen. “What happened?” he shouted. “Where’s my son?”
“We’re in my room,” Abigail answered.
In moments the big man’s frame filled the doorway. His eyes widened. He rushed to Sammy’s side and reached to grasp the arrow. “Get it out of him!”
Jacob shoved him away. “Don’t!” His breath came in huffs. “You want to kill him? Abby, get him out of here!”
“But my son…” Frank’s eyes met Jacob’s.
“I know what to do. I’ve done this before.”
“You can help him?”
“Yes.” Jacob forced a confidence he didn’t feel. He had dealt with arrow wounds…but the man he tried to help…Later the doctor said no one could have saved him. The arrow had lodged in the bone. Sepsis had been inevitable. Jacob’s gaze dropped to the floor. His lips moved soundlessly. “Thou Great Physician. Be Thou near. Be here.”
Abigail’s voice broke the silence. “Come with me, Uncle Frank. Let’s get out of Jacob’s way. The Express rider will be here soon. Have the horses been watered?”
“I’m supposed to think about the blasted horses when my son is bleeding and unconscious?” Frank’s words came more as an accusation than a question.
Jacob had no idea how Abigail kept calm, but her voice didn’t waver. “Yes, Uncle Frank. That’s your job right now. To make sure the next rider’s horse is ready. And it’s Jacob’s job to save Sammy. Let him do it.”
His boss shuffled out of the room, but Jacob called him back. “I could use some alcohol. For disinfecting the wound.”
Frank nodded and hurried away, but it was Abigail who returned with a dark bottle of whiskey. “Please don’t send me out. I want to help.” Her large eyes pled her case more effectively than her words.
How could any man refuse those eyes?
“Hold his shoulders down in case he wakes up.” Jacob poured whiskey over his knife and Sammy’s bare shoulder, then pierced Sammy’s skin first on one side of the arrow shaft, then the other, enlarging the wound.
Abigail took the whiskey bottle when Jacob handed it to her and set it on her writing table. When blood oozed from the knife’s slit, she gasped. She shivered, but pushed down an urge to vomit, and stood ready with clean rags.
When Jacob shoved his finger into the wound, down the shaft of the arrow, she gulped again, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. “Can’t you just pull it out?”
He looked up. “I could, but that would do more damage.” He relaxed his terse tone. “I’m checking to see if the arrowhead has lodged into a bone.”
Silence, then a look of relief. “No, it’s clear.”
“That’s good, right?” Abigail stepped closer. “It will be easier to remove, right?”
“Yes, but the more important thing is there’s less chance of festering if the bone isn’t involved. It’s the sepsis that kills, not the arrow.”
The word kill assaulted Abigail’s heart. She pursed her lips to keep her fear locked inside, but it emerged silently as tears spilling down her cheeks.
Jacob slowly withdrew his fingers, coated red, and brought out the arrow with it.
She desperately wanted to be brave, to be strong, but the sight of Jacob’s bloody hand and the gaping wound spewing blood and the smell of whiskey and blood brought on waves of nausea. Blood and more blood. Everywhere. She turned away and swallowed against the bile, once, twice, and again. When the nausea passed, she turned back. Sticky red cloths littered the bed.
“I need a needle and thread.”
It took a moment for his words to register. “Yes, of course.” Her limp hindered speed, and she chided herself for not moving faster. What must he think of her?
Why did she care what he thought? She shook her head. Why indeed? She brought back the needle and thread, confused by her compulsion to please the hired hand.
Sammy looked small and pale on the bed. Again Abigail’s eyes filled with tears.
Jacob took the items from her. He nodded toward the boy. “It’s good for him that he didn’t regain consciousness; the pain would have been extreme. But I don’t know why he hasn’t.” He threaded the needle and began stitching the wound closed. “I’m worried he has a head injury. I saw the arrow and didn’t look for anything else.”
Abigail touched his hand. “Should you check? I mean now?” She reached for the needle. “I can do this.”
Jacob moved to the other side of the bed.
Abigail sewed through the flesh. This she had done before, but she wished she had a finer needle. She used this thick one for stitching leather. It made a tiny popping sound each time it pierced his skin. Nausea threatened again, and again she held it back. She could do this for Sammy. She wanted to. And maybe Jacob would notice she was useful. Despite her limp, she was at least helpful.
Once more she chided herself for worrying about what he thought. Her worry over Sammy must have befuddled her thoughts and emotion
s. She glanced up. Jacob’s head was bent as he examined her cousin. A desire to understand more about this man overwhelmed her. He’d been around for, goodness, over two years, but they’d never talked much. She wondered why. “Jacob?”
“Yes?”
“How did you know what to do?”
“Saw it done before. Paid attention.” He wasn’t about to tell her the circumstances. He kept his attention on Sammy, searching for anything to explain the boy’s unconsciousness. “His breathing is fine. I can’t find a lump anywhere. I guess he might have a concussion, but I don’t know what to do about that, except keep him calm.” Jacob’s eyebrow rose. “And I guess he’s as calm as he can be.”
Abigail limped closer to him. She took his hand in both of hers. “I can’t thank you enough. You saved him.”
“You’re welcome, but the Lord saved him. He is our Great Healer, and any good I do is because of Him.” Abigail’s closeness unsettled Jacob. The words tumbled from his mouth like marbles spilling from a sack. His heart beat double-time. He wanted to take her into his arms and tell her he’d do anything for her, but he held back. Thoughts stampeded his brain.
She was finally aware of him!
She didn’t fit into his plans.
He didn’t have any plans. Then it all circled through again.
Abigail dropped his hand, stretched on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you anyway.” She moved away and lifted her gaze. “And thank You, Lord, for sending this man to us.”
As she left the room, Jacob put his hand on the spot her lips had touched. Could it be that God’s plan for him did include this wonderful woman? Dare he hope it?
He turned back to Sammy and used the remaining clean cloths to bandage the wound. He removed the boy’s boots and placed a pillow under his head, then gathered the soiled rags and empty whiskey bottle. Sammy’s coma bothered him. They should probably send for a doctor. He was pretty sure he’d done everything right regarding the arrow, but this lingering unconsciousness bothered him.
After covering Sammy with a light blanket, he stepped into the kitchen. Frank dished up the stew Abigail had prepared earlier, but the dining room contained only the two stagecoach drivers, four passengers, and a Pony Express rider.
Where was Abigail? Oh. In her corner in the dining room. Book in her lap. Pencil scrawling like a snake on hot sand. “Can I give you a hand?” he asked his boss.
“No, everybody’s been served.” Frank handed him a bowl of stew. “Can I see my son now? Abby said you fixed him right up.”
“He’s still unconscious, but there’s nothing more I can do.” Before Jacob finished his sentence, Frank was gone. He took his bowl to the dining room.
“I tell you, if not for the speed of my horse, I’d be dead and gone. Those renegades came out of nowhere, hollering and screaming like banshees.” The Pony Express rider stopped talking long enough to shovel a bite of food into his mouth.
“We didn’t see anything,” one of the passengers commented.
“Well, that’s the thing. By the time you see them, it’s too late. You’re like sitting ducks in that stagecoach.”
Jacob recognized Rocky, one of the Express riders who loved to entertain guests with tales of his exploits and bravery. He glanced in Abigail’s direction, wondering if the diners knew about Sammy and the ranch’s own Paiute attack. Probably not. Probably better left unsaid. Abigail was writing in her book. Taking down every word Rocky said? When she glanced up, it was to look at Rocky. Always Rocky.
Nothing had changed after all. Abigail had eyes only for the rider. What made him hope otherwise? It was fine. She didn’t fit in with his plans—or she wouldn’t fit in once he knew what the plans were. But he wished his heart agreed with his head.
Chapter Four
Abigail liked sitting in her dim corner, on her high stool, sketching the faces of the diners. She had mastered being invisible there. Unseen, she sketched the dusty, unkempt men and women wearied from their journey. Occasionally a fancy lady dined with them and, even more rarely, a child. And recently the young men riding for the Pony Express. They were lively, gulping down their food, calling for beer, although each had signed an oath not to imbibe. Her favorite rider was one everyone called Rocky, although she didn’t know if that was his real name. She’d never spoken to him but was drawn to his swagger and good looks.
The Express boys were interesting to sketch, something new from the usual fare. Anyway, that’s what she told Sammy when he had caught her staring at them. But tonight all of the drawings looked like him. Sammy as a stagecoach driver, as a passenger, as a Pony Express rider. Her heart swelled with thankfulness. Jacob had saved him.
Rocky was talking again. Abigail thought of how Sammy loved listening to the riders’ tales. The pencil paused in her fingers. Now the boy had an adventure of his own. She could hear him crowing about the ambush, him alone and surrounded. She didn’t know what actually happened, but she was sure there was a story to match anything a rider could offer.
Sammy’d been so close to death. An involuntary shiver coursed through her. But what did it matter? Jacob had fixed everything and he was fine. Would be fine. She looked back at the sketch she’d been working on and decided to make it of Sammy as an Express rider.
Her pencil flew across the page as she duplicated what she saw in the rider at the table. Chambray shirt, leather vest, hat cocked to one side, blond hair poking out every which way like a scarecrow. As if aware of what she needed, Rocky stood, and she captured the wrinkles in his trousers, the low-riding belt.
She looked up from her sketch and met her model’s eyes. He smiled. She blushed and looked away. Wow! That smile. Her heart hadn’t really stopped beating, had it? Was he still looking at her? She glanced up. He was walking her direction. Around another table and he’d be there. What should she do?
“Hello, miss. I’m Rocky.” He tipped his hat.
“It’s nice to meet you, Rocky.” She felt her face flush. “I’m Abigail.” He was even more handsome up close.
“Your pa runs this place, right?”
“No, I mean yes. I mean, he’s my uncle, not my father, but he does run the whole thing.” Why was she blabbering?
“Don’t he allow you to mingle with the customers? Every time I’m here, you’re back in this corner.”
He’d noticed her before? All this while she thought no one paid her any mind. “No, I can mingle, but—”
“Well, come on, then. Join us.” He grasped her arm and tugged.
She recoiled. “No, thank you.” Her throat constricted. If she got down from her stool and walked to the tables, he’d see her hobble. Right now he was smiling at her, and she liked it. That smile would fade at the first limp. She’d seen it happen too many times. Pity replaced cheer. She didn’t want Rocky’s pity.
His brow puckered. “You like this old dark corner? Better than joining the rest of us?”
Abigail gestured to the room. “Um, it looks like ‘the rest’ have finished their meals.” The dining room was vacant. “You’ve lost your audience.” Suddenly she felt awkward, alone with this man she barely knew. When did the room get so hot? She should leave. Go back and check on Sammy. Start washing the dishes. But she didn’t want to get off her stool in front of the Express rider.
“Well, I better hightail it out of here, too.” He backed away and tipped his hat again. “I wouldn’t want to soil your reputation.” He flashed another grin that warmed Abigail from head to toe. “But maybe we can talk again some time.”
“Maybe we can.” Abigail returned his smile and slid down from the stool. She waited until he left before she made her way to the kitchen. For all Rocky’s rough ways, there was no doubt that he was a gentleman. Leaving like that to spare her reputation—as if there was anyone around to see and gossip, but still.
Jacob appeared from nowhere. “Let me help.” He took a tray into the dining hall and stacked the bowls, cups, and flatware on it then brought it to her in the kitchen.
&nbs
p; “Thank you.” She had used that word a lot today. “How is Sammy?”
“I did my best. Your uncle is with him.”
“Come with me. I want to see him again.”
The bedroom door was closed. Jacob knocked lightly, waited a moment, then pushed in, Abigail right behind him. Sammy appeared to be in the same position as when Jacob had left. Frank was on his knees beside the bed. His hand clasped his son’s; his head was down, eyes closed. Abigail touched Jacob’s arm. The warmth of her fingers traveled through his shirtsleeve straight to his heart. He looked at her. She put a finger to her lips and backed out. He followed her into the kitchen again.
“I thought we shouldn’t interrupt his prayers.” Abigail dipped water from the reservoir on the back of the woodstove then poured it into a dishpan. “I think we should give him privacy.”
“I agree.” Jacob stood in front of the dishpan. “Abby, we have to talk.” This was hard. He hated diminishing himself in her eyes, but he needed her to understand that Sammy’s coma was not natural, not from an arrow wound, anyway. She had given him credit for saving Sammy, but the boy was not yet out of the woods.
“About Sammy?” Abigail set down the water dipper.
“I think he needs a doctor.” Jacob’s spirit sank at the look in Abigail’s eyes, but he continued. “He should be awake by now.”
“I know.” She wrung her hands and paced back and forth.
When she stopped and looked at him, her large eyes soft and watery, he fought the desire to embrace her, to carry some of the pain she felt.
“Will you go?”
“To fetch the doctor?” A second ago, Jacob felt he’d do anything for her. Then she asked this. He nodded slowly, because he couldn’t very well decline. He was the most logical one for the task, except for one very important fact. He was afraid of horses. Not to feed them, brush them, hitch them up to the stagecoach, or lead them to water. He could do all of that, but he couldn’t mount up. He’d been bucked off a quarter horse during a stampede when he was a boy, along with three other children. He was the only one to live. He could still hear his friends’ screams as the horses trampled them. His father prodded him to get over his fear, and he had to a degree, just not to the point of mounting up. The tragedy had happened fifteen years ago, but he’d never been back on a horse.
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 2