“Sweet Jesus,” Angus rasped.
Rafe, for his part, was struck dumb, momentarily at least. The whole thing was over in a few seconds, but it was like watching an avalanche, or a dam breaking. He shook off his paralysis and ran toward the site. “Anybody hurt?”
“That Cavanagh fella’s pinned!” one of the men yelled.
Sure enough, there was the Texan, his face as white as bleached linen, his right leg wedged under a log as big around as a man’s middle. There probably weren’t enough men on the whole ranch to move that thing off him—not without doing a lot more damage to Cavanagh’s leg in the process. Worse, if they weren’t careful, and lucky as all hell, they’d set it rolling again, and it would crush the man to death before they could get him clear.
“Bring the mules,” Angus said, crouching beside the fallen man. “You’re going to be all right,” he added. “You need a swallow of whiskey?”
Cavanagh was sweating with pain, and fear, too, if he had any sense, but he turned down the whiskey with a shake of his head. “I could do with some water,” he said, “and a prayer or two.”
Rafe and another man brought the mules, then fastened the chains around the ends of the log, making sure they were secure. Cavanagh took a few sips from Angus’s canteen and raised himself onto his elbows. Kade and Jeb were behind him, ready to take him by the shoulders and drag him out when the time came.
Rafe crouched next to the log and peered beneath it. “You feel any rocks or anything like that under your leg?” he asked Cavanagh.
The Texan shook his head. His hair was wet with perspiration, and his jaw was clenched tight. A lot of good men would have been screaming by then, if they hadn’t passed out, but he hadn’t so much as groaned. “I don’t feel anything but pain,” he said.“There’s a good bit of that.”
Rafe exchanged glances with Angus. Then he waved his arm, and the men driving the mules shouted and slapped down the reins for all they were worth. The chains rattled, clanked, sprang taut. The log didn’t budge at first, then it gave a creaking lurch, and Cavanagh bit clean through his lower lip at the pain, drawing blood. Kade and Jeb yanked him free and dragged him to safety a second before one of the chains snapped like a length of frayed string, sending one end of the log into a long, lethal sweep, leaving a deep gash in the earth to mark its passing. Fortunately, men and beasts were clear of its path, and it finally ground to a stop.
Angus got down on one knee beside Cavanagh and cut away the leg of his pants to reveal the twisted, bloody flesh beneath. The bone was sticking right out, and for a moment Rafe felt light-headed.
“I need a tourniquet,” Angus said, all business. “And a flask.” He looked down at Cavanagh’s contorted face. “This time, you don’t get a choice. You’re going to need whiskey, and plenty of it, to get down that mountain without dying from the pain.”
Rafe squatted down beside his father. “I’ll send a man for the doc,” he said to Angus. Then he turned to Cavanagh and spoke with frankness, which was all he knew to do. “You’ll never stand the ride into Indian Rock—just getting back to the house is going to be rough enough.”
Cavanagh nodded. Damned if he didn’t try to smile, too, and him with his leg in such bad shape that it might have to be sawed off.“Where’s that whiskey?” he asked.
They put a blanket under him, a man at each corner, and lifted him carefully into the back of the supply wagon. The mules were harnessed and hitched up. While Kade rode for town, Jeb took the reins of the rig, with Denver Jack riding in back, to hold Cavanagh’s leg steady, and loosen or tighten the tourniquet as need be. Angus rode alongside, keeping a close watch.
Rafe stood watching the rescue party move away, hoping to God Kade would find Doc sober, hoping, indeed, that he’d find him at all. Boylen was a skilled physician—as he’d proven, caring for Mrs. Pelton—unless he’d been overtaken by a melancholy state of mind, which was most of the time. When he was cheerful, he could handle just about anything. When he commenced to sorrowing, though, he drank, and when he drank, he was just plain worthless. It was probably a mercy to the general population of Indian Rock and the surrounding countryside that he tended to hide out at those times.
After a few moments, Rafe turned to face the remaining men, all of them quiet, all of them watching him, waiting for him to tell them whether to keep on working or head back to the ranch. He’d been champing at the bit to run the Triple M for years, but now that he was actually in charge, he was beginning to see the gray cloud behind that silver lining. He had a new respect, and a new sympathy, for his pa, and all the decisions he’d had to make over the years. It all boiled down to one thing, it seemed to Rafe—whatever else might be happening, he had to get on with the task at hand.
“We’ve still got a few hours of daylight,” he said, “and there’s a house to put up. Let’s get back to work.”
Kade found Doc Boylen in the Bloody Basin Saloon, stone sober and winning at faro. Boylen was a small man, with wild red hair and a beak the size of a potato. He always smelled faintly of carbolic acid, and he had the personality of a porcupine with its quills bristled.
“That poor Pelton woman having trouble again?” he asked when Kade approached the faro table.
“A man’s been hurt,” Kade said quietly. “Got himself pinned under a log, up at Rafe’s new place. Jeb and Pa took him to the ranch.”
“How bad?” Doc Boylen barked, throwing in his cards.
“Real bad,” Kade said.“His right leg was crushed.”
Doc swore. “Reckon I’ll need my surgical kit then, and some ether. Laudanum, too. I’ll stop by my office, and meet you at the livery stable. If they haven’t got a fast horse for hire, I’d better take yours.”
Kade nodded and turned to go.
As it happened, the livery stable didn’t have any horses on hand at all, except for an old swayback that would never make it as far as the Triple M, let alone get there fast. Kade surrendered his chestnut gelding, Raindance, with resigned reluctance. He’d pass the night at the Territorial Hotel, if there was a room available, and wait for someone from the ranch to bring back his horse. Doc might be out there for several days.
He saw Boylen off in front of the livery stable, then returned to the Bloody Basin for a few drinks and a round or two of faro. Doc had been enjoying good luck when he broke up the last game; maybe it was still floating around there somewhere, waiting for somebody else to smile on.
It was early evening, and his pockets were considerably lighter, when Kade headed for the hotel. Apparently, Doc had taken his run of luck right along with him; Kade hoped it would rub off on Cavanagh, the poor bastard. Just thinking about the shape that fella’s leg was in made Kade want to turn around and go back for another drink.
He thought he was seeing things when he stepped into the lobby of the Territorial Hotel, and blinked a couple of times. That didn’t clear his head; the nun was still standing behind the registration desk, big as life. She smiled at him.
“I need a room,” he said, feeling downright befuddled. What was in that whiskey?
She handed him the hefty registration book. “Sign here,” she said. “It’s a dollar a night, if you want supper included. Chicken and dumplings.”
He scrawled his name, leaving a few blotches of ink on the page in the process, and noted the signatures of Hester and Esther Milldown, entered above his own. He’d known a no-account claim jumper by that same name, a couple of years back. The rascal had up and disappeared one day, and not a soul went looking for him, either, even though he owed money to half the men in the territory.
Kade took out his wallet, extracted a silver dollar, and laid it on the counter. He definitely wanted supper; the pickled eggs he’d eaten at the Bloody Basin while playing cards were already wearing off. He narrowed his eyes, gazing at the nun, and pushed his hat to the back of his head in consternation. He was pretty sure that under all that heavy black cloth, there was a good-looking woman. “Are you—?”
“Yes,” sai
d the girl, raising her chin.“I’m a nun.”
Damn the luck, Kade thought, and scooped up the key to room 4.
Chapter 11
“IDON’TLIKE THE LOOKS OF THIS,” Concepcion said as she and Emmeline stood in the side yard, watching the team and wagon toil across the creek. Angus rode alongside, his horse up to its knees in the rushing water. Even from a distance, the grim expression on his face was plain to see.
Emmeline felt a chill of fear. Rafe, she thought, forgetting all their differences, and started toward the wagon, her heart pulsing in her throat. Where was Rafe?
Concepcion caught hold of her arm and stopped her flight. “We’ll know what’s happened soon enough,” she said quietly. “There’s no sense rushing out to meet bad news—it will always find its own way.”
“Rafe,” Emmeline whispered, in anguish.
“Hush, now,” Concepcion scolded kindly, giving Emmeline a hasty squeeze. “If it is Rafe, you can’t afford to fall apart. He’ll need you to be strong.”
Emmeline stood watching through tears of terror and frustration as the wagon lurched and rumbled toward them. Angus rode ahead, and swung down off his horse, leaving the reins to dangle.
“That new man, Cavanagh, got himself rolled on by a log,” he said, addressing his words to Concepcion and finding some strength, it seemed to Emmeline, in just looking at her.“He’s hurt real bad.”
Emmeline was wildly grateful that it wasn’t Rafe who’d been injured.
“Bring him inside,” Concepcion ordered, as the wagon drew up alongside the house. “He can stay in the spare room, and we’ll move Phoebe Anne in with me.”
It struck Emmeline then, what it might mean, having Holt Cavanagh in such close proximity, stshe was ashamed to catch herself wishing they’d taken him somewhere else. Suppose he said something, either intentionally or in delirium, about the night they’d spent together?
She couldn’t think about that now. She turned and hurried into the house.
Phoebe Anne sat by the stove, rocking and reading over the old letters Emmeline had brought from the cabin, the day of Seth and the baby’s funeral. “What’s happened?” she asked, her eyes going wide. By then, Phoebe Anne knew the cabin had been burned, and she’d taken the news with a strange calmness. It was encouraging to see her register any emotion, even alarm.
“It’s the new hand—Mr. Cavanagh,” Emmeline said hastily. “He’s been injured in an accident.” There were voices at the back door; no time to explain further. She hurried upstairs to the spare room to put fresh linens on the bed.
Cavanagh was unconscious when they brought him in, using an old door to support his weight, and he was so covered in blood and dirt that he was barely recognizable. Emmeline wished she’d waited to change the sheets, and then was stricken with guilt because she’d entertained such a petty thought.
“He’s going to need a lot of tending,” Angus said quietly, standing next to the bed. He was a strong man, Angus was, but he looked brittle to Emmeline in that moment, and somehow fragile. “He might not make it, anyhow. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
Emmeline stepped back, hands clasped together so hard that her knuckles hurt, and watched as Concepcion moved to the side of the bed to examine the broken man lying so still on the mattress.
If Emmeline could have been granted a single wish, by some passing fairy godmother, even an hour before, she probably would have asked for Holt Cavanagh to disappear as suddenly as he’d arrived, never to be seen or heard from again. That way, her secret would be safe. Now, though, seeing him mangled and broken, perilously near death, she felt nothing but compassion.
Concepcion rolled up her sleeves.“Jeb, Emmeline,” she said crisply, without looking back, “I’ll need hot water and all the clean rags you can find. Angus, if you aren’t going to help, kindly get out of the way.”
Emmeline rushed to obey, racing down the stairs to the kitchen, snatching up a basin, ladling steaming water from the stove reservoir to fill it. Jeb started pumping water into kettles and setting them on the stove to heat, and even in her agitation, Emmeline noticed that he kept glancing up at the ceiling, a look of solemn reflection on his face.
Phoebe Anne fetched the rag bag in from the back porch without being asked, and started sorting, setting the larger scraps aside to be used in cleaning Holt’s wounds.
Emmeline, meanwhile, scalded her thumbs, carrying that first basin up the stairs.
Concepcion had already commandeered all the clean handkerchiefs to be had, and when Emmeline arrived with the water, she soaked one and began cleaning Cavanagh’s wounds, in an attempt to assess the damage. The water in the basin soon turned crimson, and Emmeline went back to the kitchen to replace it with a fresh supply. Jeb accompanied her when she returned, having filled a couple of tin buckets from the stove reservoir.
“Is Mr. Cavanagh going to die?” Emmeline asked her brother-in-law, when they paused in the hallway outside the spare room.
Jeb’s face, boyishly handsome and usually full of mischief, was grave. “He left a trail of blood down the mountainside,” he said, shaking his head at the memory. “We tried to control it, but by the time we got to the creek, the stuff was seeping through the floorboards of the wagon.” He sighed. “I don’t reckon his chances are all that good.”
Emmeline lifted her chin.“Was anyone else hurt?”
Jeb knew she was asking about Rafe, and he smiled a little, though his azure-blue eyes were still sad. “No,” he said. “Nobody. Kade went for the doc, and Rafe and the rest of them are still up there, working on the house.”
They descended to the kitchen again, and Jeb worked at refilling the reservoir and heating more kettles while Emmeline built up the fire. Phoebe Anne had delivered the rags Concepcion wanted and was busy scouting out more. Angus remained upstairs, helping Concepcion clean Mr. Cavanagh’s shattered limb. The bleeding had stopped by then, or at least slowed to a trickle, but the poor man was deathly pale, and still unconscious, which was a mercy, Emmeline supposed. He would suffer dreadfully when, and if, he awakened.
“We need blankets, Emmeline!” Concepcion called from upstairs, and that command was just the tonic she needed. Jeb had taken over the hot water detail, and he was handling it so efficiently that any efforts on her part would be more hindrance than help.
She and Phoebe Anne raided the blanket chest, at the far end of the upstairs corridor, and carried armloads into the spare room. Concepcion and Angus wrapped Mr. Cavanagh as best they could, while leaving his injured leg bare.
After that, for Emmeline time seemed to run together and blur, like a palette of watercolors left behind in a hard rain. The sunlight at the windows changed, first glaring, then fading its way through a series of colors, before disappearing entirely, and Emmeline fetched lanterns from the shelf on the back porch, filled them with oil at the kitchen table, trimmed the wicks, and scrubbed the glass chimneys. Soon, the spare room glowed softly.
There was no sign of Rafe.
Working steadily, Concepcion had loosely bandaged Mr. Cavanagh’s leg, and she sat beside him, holding a cold cloth to his forehead, whispering soothing words, now in Spanish, now in English. Angus, even more pensive than usual, had dragged in a couple of chairs.
Emmeline remembered that Concepcion’s husband had died violently, and felt certain that her friend must be reliving that experience as she tended Mr. Cavanagh. Maybe she’d looked after her Manuel in the same quiet, desperately efficient way, only to lose him in the end.
She went to Concepcion’s side, took her arm gently. “You need to rest,” she said softly, but in a firm tone. She glanced at Angus. “You, too. I’ll look after Mr. Cavanagh for a while.”
Just then, there was a commotion downstairs. Emmeline strained to hear Rafe’s voice, and heard the doctor’s instead. Jeb must have pointed him toward the stairs.“Up there, in the spare room,” she heard him say.
“Tarnation,” fretted the doc, as he made his entrance moments later, “it seems like I spend h
alf my time on the Triple M these days.”
Concepcion and Angus moved aside so he could approach the bed, and he stood looking down at the patient, shaking his head.
“Sweet heaven,” he muttered, “what happened to this man?” “He got in the way of some runaway logs,” Angus said. “Hello, Boylen.”
The doctor didn’t even spare him a look. His attention was all for Mr. Cavanagh and his mangled limb. He made a harrumph sound and barked,“I need to wash up before I do anything. And somebody might want to put Kade’s horse away for the night—he worked up quite a lather getting out here.”
“The kitchen is this way,” Emmeline said. “You can wash there.”
“I’ll see to the horse,” Jeb said from the doorway. “I take it you and Kade didn’t ride double on the way out, so he must have stayed in town.”
“He’ll be there until I get back, I reckon,” said the physician.“My guess is, he’ll find plenty of ways to amuse himself in the meantime.”
Jeb looked thoughtful at that, but he left the house to put Kade’s gelding up for the night.
In the kitchen, Emmeline provided the doctor with a bar of yellow soap, a towel, and a basin of hot water, and watched as he scrubbed his hands. Phoebe Anne had started a supper of fried ham, potatoes, and onions; she greeted the new arrival with quiet friendliness, then set another place at the table.
“I won’t have time to eat for a while,” Boylen said, watching her with a paternal interest as she moved about the kitchen. “You been feeling all right, Mrs. Pelton? When I saw you last, you were in pretty bad shape.”
Phoebe Anne smiled slightly. “I’m gettin’ stronger by the day,” she said. “The McKettricks have been real good to me.”
Except for burning your home to the ground, Emmeline thought, and felt a fresh spurt of irritation at Rafe, even though she was wishing he’d ride in, so she’d know he was safe.
“Well,” said the doctor,“you just get your rest, and take in all the fresh air and good food you can. You still look a mite bony to me.”
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