Unbridled Dreams

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  When conversation lapsed, George asked Belle a question about her horse, which he called a “dappered gray.”

  “My goodness.” Belle smiled. “You really did pay attention.”

  “I liked the way the flag waved out,” George said, gesturing as he spoke. “Did you have to teach your horse not to be afraid of that?”

  Belle shook her head. “Not Diamond,” she said. “He’s very gentle.”

  George pulled a wad of peppermint candy out of his pocket.

  “Does he like candy? I could give him a piece.”

  “He likes sugar cubes,” Belle said. “But he only gets a treat after he’s worked hard. And Diamond is resting for a few days.”

  “Does that mean we won’t have the pleasure of seeing Liberty Belle perform this evening?” Dr. Carter asked.

  “I only have the one horse,” Belle said. She glanced down at George. “So tell me, Master Carter, who else did you like watching in the Wild West?”

  “The King,” George said. “And the lady that shot the targets. And Hi-dalgo. And—”

  “And as you can see,” Dr. Carter said, “George and I will likely have to return many more times before he gets his fill.” He looked at Momma. “Tell me, Mrs. Friedrich, do citizens of the West find Mr. Cody’s production as fascinating as do we New Yorkers?”

  “Some do,” Belle interrupted. “But Momma doesn’t care for it at all.”

  Momma spoke up. “I’ve voiced very strong objections to my daughter’s involvement.” She gave a nervous little laugh and shrugged. “A mother’s concern over the inherent dangers to the participants.”

  “Understandable.” Dr. Carter nodded. “Although I understand the Wild West travels with a very well-equipped medical department. Still, if it were George being tossed through the air by a wild horse, I’d probably be much less than enthusiastic about the whole thing myself.”

  “I wouldn’t get tossed,” George protested. “I’d ride ’em right into the ground!” He mimicked holding reins even as he slapped his back side with an open palm. All that was missing was the stick horse. The train pulled into the station at Erastina and as the crowd dispersed, Dr. Carter wished Belle and her mother a good day and headed off toward the stables, George in tow.

  Things were going fine until the clouds rolled in.

  “If it rains. . . then what?” Momma asked.

  “Then everyone is even more careful than usual,” Belle replied. She wasn’t about to tell Momma about Helen Keen getting thrown because of lightning.

  “Will people stay?”

  Belle pointed to the canvas above them. “No reason not to. We won’t get wet. And remember what Orrin said that day at my luncheon? They performed in New Orleans for a crowd of nine.”

  “Speaking of Orrin,” Momma turned around and looked toward the stairs. “I would have expected him to join us by now.”

  Just a few minutes later, Orrin slid into a seat. He nodded toward the sky. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

  The cowboy band filed into place. “There’s Jonathan and Jason,” Belle said, and pointed out the boys from Nebraska. She leaned over and spoke to Orrin. “Did you remember to put them on your list?”

  Orrin nodded. “Have a meeting scheduled with them for eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Well,” Momma said. “I thought at least through Tuesday. I’d like you to show me the grounds, and we’ll have Monte to dinner, of course. And as long as I’m here, I might as well see what the Wild West church services are like.” She glanced at Orrin with a smile. “I promised Orrin I wouldn’t get in the way of his taking all the time he needs for his interviews. It’s up to him, really.”

  Today is Friday. Four days, Belle thought. Surely they could keep a truce for four days.

  Beneath the covered stands, the crowd stayed put, their enthusiasm undampened by the gentle rain that had begun to fall as the Grand Entry concluded. From time to time Belle glanced at Momma, whose expression remained polite but disengaged. She applauded at all the right places and even stood and clapped with the crowd. She sat up straighter when the cowgirls were in the arena and watched more intently, but overall Momma seemed distracted.

  Disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm, Belle hopped up at intermission and, without waiting for Momma to react, said something about making sure Monte could find them after the Final Salute. Skittering down the stairs, she slipped in the mud. Lifting her skirt, she headed for the dressing tent and found Helen Keen and Dora— but no Monte—laughing with Shep about something.

  “How’s your mother enjoying the Wild West?” Ma Clemmons asked.

  “Better yet, how was supper?” Shep added.

  “She’s doing her best. And she offered a truce.”

  Ma Clemmons chuckled. “I told you we’d pray one up.”

  Shep smiled. “How’s the Rubens Suite?”

  “That was you?”

  He shrugged. “I made a phone call and asked if it was possible.”

  “Well, it was. The Queen of England would like that suite. To tell the truth, I think Momma’s a little overwhelmed by it.”

  “I hope she’s staying long enough to see a performance on a sunny day.”

  “They’ll be here at least through Tuesday.”

  “That’s great,” Shep said, then frowned as he looked at Belle. “Isn’t it?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” She sighed. “It’s so . . . awkward.”

  Dora spoke up. “She l-looks sad. You should b-be nice.”

  Belle mumbled a response, left a message for Monte, and ducked back out into the rain. In the grandstand, Orrin and Momma were drinking lemonade and talking to Dr. Carter while George leaned over the railing, his hand held out to catch raindrops.

  “And here she is now,” Dr. Carter said, looking up with a smile. “I’ve just convinced your mother to join me for a late supper at Delmonico’s after the performance. I’ll need to drop George at home, of course. I hope we can convince you to join us?”

  “I-I thought you wanted to have Monte to supper,” Belle looked at Momma. “I left word for him to meet us up here. Shep and the others are going to tend to his horse for him so he can come.”

  “I take it Monte is a cowboy,” Dr. Carter said, and when Belle nodded, he glanced down at George. “We’d be happy to have his company. In fact”—he patted George on the head—“perhaps I could make an exception and let George stay up.”

  George let out a “yee-haw” fit for any cowboy.

  Rain continued to fall during the second half. As the mud in the arena got deeper, horses and broncs began to slip. Belle was thankful Blaze wasn’t being used tonight and that Diamond was safe in his stall. The entire crowd gasped when, in one of the races, a mustang slipped and fell, throwing his rider and then rolling over him. Apparently cushioned by the mud, the Indian got back up, caught up with the pony, leaped on his back, and with a high-pitched war whoop, tore around the arena to the applause of the delighted and relieved crowd. Momma watched the entire thing with her hand at her throat and sat back with an audible sigh when the warrior and his pony finally left the arena.

  “He was showing off,” Belle said, “and he should have known better than to try that in this mud.” She glanced at Momma. “I don’t take stupid chances.”

  Momma blinked away tears. “I hope not,” she said and squeezed Belle’s hand. “I sincerely hope not.”

  “She looks sad. You should be nice.” Dora’s words sounded in Belle’s head and she began to watch her mother’s reaction to the performance with new eyes. Dora was right. Momma did look unhappy, but there was more than unhappiness in her expression. She was afraid. She flinched at the sound of the guns in the sharpshooting scenes and started when a pony slipped or a bronc rider got thrown. None of Belle’s reassurances seemed to help.

  Lightning flashed. The next clap of thunder terrified the horses in the area. One reared up, slipped, and toppled backward. Its rider lay mot
ionless in the mud, his bright blue shirt turning indigo as the heavens opened and sheets of rain poured down.

  “Dear God—no.” Momma’s hand went to her mouth.

  “Stay with her,” Belle said to Orrin even as she gathered up her skirts and climbed the railing. Lowering herself into the arena, she ran toward Monte.

  Oblivious to the rain, the mud, and the crowd, Belle trotted alongside Monte’s stretcher. He was still unconscious. Someone had put a folded kerchief over a cut at his hairline. It was already soaked with blood. His left arm curved at an unnatural angle alongside his body. What else might be wrong? She felt sick, almost faint as the stretcher bearers—Ned Bishop, two other wranglers, and one of the cowboy clowns—carried Monte into Dr. Miller’s hospital tent and laid him atop one of the tables. No one seemed to know where Dr. Miller was.

  “There was a doctor sitting next to me up in the stands,” Belle said. “I’ll try to get him to c—”

  At that very moment David Carter stepped into the tent. Glancing around at the shelves of supplies, he said quietly, “I’ll help until someone finds your surgeon,” he said. “With your permission?”

  He was directing the question to Irma, but Momma spoke up. “Please, doctor,” she said.

  With a quick nod Carter ordered the lamps be lit. “And I’ll need people to hold them up for me so I can see.” He felt for a pulse, then lifted the handkerchief and looked beneath it. “I need scissors,” he said. Rummaging in Dr. Miller’s drawers, Carter found scissors and cut away Monte’s bright blue shirt.

  “Daddy?”

  The doctor glanced over to where George stood, looking frightened.

  “It’s all right, little man,” Carter said. “Daddy has to help this cowboy. You be brave, all right?” He turned back to Monte.

  Ned Bishop crouched beside the boy. “We’re tough hombres, pardner.” He nodded to where Monte lay. “He’ll come around. You’ll see.”

  When he looked up at Belle and nodded, she forced a smile. Maybe things would be all right between them again.

  After a few more moments the doctor looked up and spoke to Belle and Momma. “He’s going to be fine,” he said. “He’s likely got a concussion, and he needs some stitches and a bone set, but I don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong. His pulse is regular and strong, and to be quite honest, it’s probably better if he doesn’t remember what I’m going to have to do in the next few minutes.” He looked around him as he said, “I’m going to need to splint this arm. I need boards about like so.” He held up his hands to show them. “And bandages.”

  Momma stepped forward. “You find the doctor’s splints,” she said to Belle. “And I’ll find bandages.” She began to look through the supply cabinet. “Are you certain he’s going to be all right?” she asked.

  Dr. Carter spoke as he worked. “I’ve got some stitching and some bonesetting to do, but I’m reasonably certain this cowboy will be good as new in a few weeks.”

  Momma closed her eyes briefly. “Thank God,” she said.

  “Will these work?” Belle held up the boards she’d selected from a variety of narrow boards leaning in one corner.

  Dr. Carter nodded.

  Momma set three rolls of bandages out. “Let’s see,” she said, “you’ll want sutures. A needle. Antiseptic.” She glanced at the doctor. “A curved needle, I presume?”

  He smiled approval. “Indeed. If we can find one.” He glanced at Irma. “You didn’t tell me your mother had been a nurse.”

  Before Irma could say anything, Momma forced a laugh. “I’m not, doctor. But we were on the frontier for many years before there was a doctor to call.” She shrugged. “We made do.”

  The rain had let up, and about a dozen wranglers were gathered just outside the tent flap to wait for word of Monte’s condition. Ned backed out of the tent and joined them. Momma followed him and addressed the men. “I can’t seem to find Dr. Miller’s antiseptic,” she said. “I’ve been told Mr. Cody has a rule against alcohol, but I’m guessing someone has some whiskey they’ve kept about—strictly for medicinal purposes, of course. It would be helpful if we had some to clean the wound before Dr. Carter stitches it up.”

  “Helpful to my patient when I set his arm, as well,” Carter said with a faint smile.

  Ned said he’d be back directly.

  Belle hadn’t realized the performance had ended, but suddenly Shep and Helen and Dora arrived. “He’s all right,” Belle said. “He needs stitches. And a splint. His arm’s broken. But the doctor said he’s going to be all right.”

  Just then Monte groaned. “My head. What . . . what happened?”

  “You have a headache because you likely have a concussion,” Dr. Carter explained.

  “Huh?” Monte frowned. He blinked up at Dr. Carter. “Who’re you? Where’s Doc Miller?”

  Someone muttered, “Ain’t that the million-dollar question?”

  “We don’t know where Dr. Miller is,” Momma said. “But Dr. Carter was in the audience, and he’s taken very good care of you.”

  “Thank you,” Carter smiled, then turned to Monte, explaining, “You’ve a nasty cut along your hairline, and your arm is broken. A clean break I think—which is better than what we call a compound fracture.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with me,” Monte said. “What happened?”

  Chuckles rose from the onlookers, and Monte grimaced as he looked around. “Aren’t you all supposed to be someplace else?” More chuckles.

  Shep drawled, “We’re just keeping watch so this sawbones here don’t mess up. Nobody knows if he’s really a bona fide MD or not.” Shep winked at Carter.

  He looked down at Monte. “We could haul you onto the ferry and up to the hospital in Manhattan.”

  “Hospital?” Monte mumbled. “What for? You just said you know how to fix me.”

  “I do,” Carter said.

  “Then have at it.” Monte paused. “Belle?”

  “Right here,” Belle said.

  He lowered his voice. “Could . . . could you see if Dora might come over?”

  The onlookers tittered again and Monte added, in a louder voice, “And would you tell the audience this show is over and they can skedaddle.”

  “You heard him,” Shep said, and began to shoo people away from the tent. Ned returned, slipping Shep a flask. Shep nodded, stuck the flask in his back pocket, and closed the tent flap.

  “I could use more light,” Dr. Carter said.

  “You got it,” Shep replied. He handed Momma the flask, then he and Dora and Belle all grabbed lamps and moved in.

  “I believe the cowboy asked for you,” Momma said to Dora, and got up. “I can hold the lamp.”

  “Dora?” Monte said.

  “I’m h-here,” she replied, handing Momma the oil lamp and sitting down in her place.

  Monte turned his head so he could see her. He smiled and held up his good hand. “I’d be mighty grateful if you would hold that, ma’am,” he said.

  Blushing, Dora took his hand and kissed it.

  Dr. Carter gave Monte a drink from the flask and began to sew. A few minutes later he snipped the thread and stood up. “Fifteen stitches,” he said. “That probably equals one pounding headache tomorrow.”

  When it came time to set the broken bone and the doctor asked Shep to hold Monte down, Dora stood up. “I’ll help,” she said. “Hold him down, I mean.”

  “Are you sure?” Dr. Carter seemed doubtful.

  Dora nodded. “I d-done it before.”

  Dr. Carter put a cloth “sausage” in Monte’s mouth, directing him to “Bite on that and yell as loud as you want.” Before he finished the last word of his instructions, he grabbed Monte’s arm and pulled it into place.

  Monte yelled, then apologized to Dora. “I guess I’m not as brave as I thought.”

  Dora kissed his cheek and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, it brought the color back to Monte’s pale face. When he tried to sit up, Dora put her hand on his chest and ordered
him to stay put.

  Bill Cody strode into the tent complaining. “People seem to think a cowboy nearly killing himself is just part of the show,” he grumbled. “I had to wade through a sea of people before I could get in here. I was almost rude to more than one.” His gaze landed on Momma.

  “Mrs. Friedrich.” He nodded and tipped his hat.

  “Bill,” Momma said.

  Cody looked around after being introduced to Dr. Carter. “It looks as though you all have everything well in hand.” He looked down at Monte. “And I’m especially glad to see you’re all right, m’boy.”

  “I’m fine, sir,” Monte called, and once again tried to get up.

  Dora stood up, put a hand on Monte’s shoulder, and pushed him back down. “He h-has a c-conc-cussion,” Dora said. She pointed to Monte’s scalp. “Fifteen stitches. A b-broken arm.” She began to cry softly. “B-but he’s going to be all right.”

  Cody turned to the doctor. “Doc Miller was in the city earlier today. He must have been waylaid by the storm. I imagine he’ll be back yet before the night’s over, but I’d be grateful if you’d keep an eye on the patient tonight. As a precaution.”

  Dr. Carter glanced toward his son.

  “George,” Shep said. “What would you think of bunking with a cowboy tonight?”

  George’s face lit up. “Y-you mean with you?!”

  “I’d have to get word to my Aunt Mae,” Dr. Carter said, “so she doesn’t worry.”

  “Miss Keen and Irmagard could stay with me at the hotel,” Momma said, looking at Bill for approval. “That would free up their quarters for Dr. Carter and his patient.”

  Cody nodded. “Excellent.” He looked to Dr. Carter. “If you can agree to this rather unorthodox arrangement, I’ll see that you’re well rewarded,” he said. “And I’ll send you a messenger to take word to your aunt.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THEREFORE DO NOT WORR Y ABOUT TOMORROW;

  FOR TOMORR OW WILL CARE FOR ITSELF.

  EACH DAY HAS ENOUGH TROUBLE OF ITS OWN.