by Bonnie Leon
“I'll say,” Will tried to move his leg and winced.
“That leg hurting you?”
“It's my hip.”
The doctor pulled down the blanket and placed a stethoscope on Will's chest. He listened, then examined the head wound. “This'll need stitches but should heal fine. You'll probably have a doozie of a headache,” he added with a grin. He ran his hands over Will's shoulders. “Any pain here?”
“Nope.”
He felt Will's arms, then gently released the hand from its bindings. Turning it carefully, he studied the swollen, bloodied appendage. “We've got some real work to do here.” He continued to probe. Will gritted his teeth and groaned as the doctor manipulated the fingers. “This'll need more than setting. It'll take surgery. You have a compound fracture in that one finger. We'll have to take it off.”
Jean felt as if the floor had dropped out from under her. She gripped the table to steady herself.
“You mean amputate?” Will asked. The doctor nodded. “Why?”
“Danger of infection. You could lose your whole hand, or even your life. I don't want to take that risk.”
“All right. Do what you have to do.”
Gently placing the hand on Will's stomach, the doctor rolled him onto his side and palpated the hip joint. “Nothing feels broken here. More than likely it's just bruised with some muscle strain.” He examined Will's legs and feet, and finding no further injuries, he said, “My nurse will stitch that head wound, then I'll see you in surgery.”
“Doc … is it going to be all right? My hand, I mean. Will I be able to use it?”
“It's in bad shape, Will. I'll do my best.” He turned as if to go, then stopped. “I've seen worse.” He placed an arm around Jean's shoulders and guided her out of the room.
Out in the hall, Jean fought tears. “Do you have to amputate?”
“It's too risky. The bone is open to the air, and the chance of an infection is high.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
Dr. Donovan massaged his chin. “I wish I could tell you he's going to be good as new, but I just don't know. That hand's a mess.” He folded his arms over his chest. “My best guess is he'll get back function, but I can't promise the hand will be like it was. He'll learn to live with one less finger.” He smiled. “He'll have to lay off for a while. I expect he'll hate that. I know how he loves his work.”
“I'm not sure how we're going to pay you, doctor. Money's tight.”
“Now's not the time to be worrying about that. We'll work out something.” He rested a hand on Jean's back. “Well, I've got an appointment in surgery. I better get to it.”
Chapter 2
“ANYTHING I CAN GET YOU FROM TOWN?” WILL ASKED, CAREFULLY CRADLING his injured hand against his body.
Brian dumped an armload of kindling into a wood bin. “Can I go?”
“Not today,” Jean said, setting a coffeepot on the stove. “I need your help here.” She looked at Will. “I can't think of anything I need. Are you sure you're feeling up to going?”
“Yeah. I'm all right.” He glanced into the front room. “Where's that Luke? He knew we were leaving first thing.”
“I haven't seen him.”
“He's probably out in the barn.” Will kissed Jean, wincing when his injured hand touched her arm. He looked at the swathe of dressings. “I never would have believed I'd say this, but I'll be happy to get a cast on this thing.”
“Try to be patient. The doctor just wants to make sure there's no infection. And it's looking good; well, as good as it can look.” Jean grinned.
“I'd sure like to get back to work.”
Jean kissed Will's cheek. “I'm just thankful all you lost was a finger. It could have been worse.”
“True.” Will offered his wife a sidewise grin. “I'm not sure my hand knows how to function with only three fingers and a thumb, but I'll be glad to start using it again.”
Jean felt a flicker of apprehension. Will had been acting as if his hand would be good as new, except for the missing finger. “Remember, Dr. Donovan said your hand could be stiff and might not work the way it did.”
“I know, but he also said he did a pretty good job of fixing it. And he thinks it'll be functional.” He shook his head. “I hate that word functional—sounds like I'm talking about a piece of farm equipment.”
Jean smiled. “In a way it is. Where would we be without your two hands?”
He held out the bound appendage. The end of two fingers twitched and he grimaced. “I can't even move my fingers.”
“Will! Don't! You know you're not supposed to do anything yet.”
“I know. But I need to get back to work. As much as I appreciate Adam's help, he's got a lot to learn.” He chuckled. “I don't think he's cut out for farming.”
Luke walked into the room. “Can I drive you into town later? I was planning on going over to Alex's. He's actually going to test me on some of the native tracking techniques he's been teaching me. I'm getting pretty good.”
“It'll have to wait. We need to get some shoes for the wedding, and we might have to order them.”
“I don't see why I need new shoes.”
Jean eyed his tattered boots. “You can't very well wear those.”
“They clean up all right.”
“Luke, you're going to be the best man. You can't stand up in …” Jean searched for the right words. “Well, those awful things.” She studied her seventeen-year-old son. He'd shot up recently and now stood a good inch taller than his father. He hadn't yet filled out. It would be a while before his body adjusted to his six-foot-two-inch frame.
“I want some shoes,” Brian said.
Two-year-old Susie held out a foot. “Me too.”
“Brian, the ones you have are good enough,” Jean said. “We just bought them a couple of months ago.”
Brian frowned. “Yeah, but they're not new, and I want black ones like Adam's.”
“They'll do,” Will said. “Help your mama.” He looked at Jean. “We ought to be back before lunch.” Giving Luke a playful shove toward the door, Will followed him out.
Jean cleared away the breakfast dishes and stacked them in the sink. A cow's bawling came from the barn. “These will have to wait,” she said with a sigh. “The milking needs to be done.”
Laurel untied her apron, grabbed a coat off a hook on the back porch, and pushed her feet into rubber boots. Brian ran to get his coat and pulled it on.
Jean lifted Susie out of her high chair and carried her into the living room. “I'm thankful she's still content to stay in her playpen,” she said, settling the little girl in the wooden enclosure. Handing her a doll with blue eyes that closed when she was laid down, she said, “You stay put and play with your baby. We'll be back in a few minutes.”
Susie took the doll by the hair, chattered at it, then cradled it in her arms. “Baby.”
“Brian, keep an eye on your sister for me.”
Brian walked into the front room. “I want to help with the milking,” he whined. “You said I could. You told me eight was big enough.” He threw back his shoulders and pulled his four-foot-one-inch frame up as tall as he could.
Susie was happily playing with her doll. “All right. I s'pose she'll be fine for a few minutes.”
“We can leave the door open,” Brian said. “That way, if she cries, we can hear her.”
“I suppose. And with the weather so warm, it'll be good to air out the house.” Jean kissed Susie's golden curls, then returned to the kitchen. She filled a bucket with warm water, dropped a washcloth in it, then followed Laurel and Brian to the back porch. Each grabbed a clean, empty pail and headed for the barn. Jean left the door open.
Swinging his pail up and over his head then back down in a wide circle, Brian skipped ahead. A hen and brood of chicks pecked at the ground outside the barn door where oats had been spilled. Dropping his bucket, he headed for the chicks; they scattered. The hen bristled, making a low burring sound in her throa
t. Ignoring her warning, Brian grabbed for a chick. Golden feathers ruffling and wings flapping, the hen bustled toward him. Snatching up the chick, he easily stepped out of her way. Still complaining, the hen gathered the rest of her brood and led them away.
Brian held the chirping creature, careful not to crush it. “Mama, is this a rooster or a hen?” he asked, studying the golden ball of fluff.
“Don't know yet. We'll have to wait and see.”
“I hope it's a hen. Otherwise, it'll end up in the pot. And it's awful cute.” The chick's protests grew louder. The hen responded by squawking and fluffing her feathers.
“Put it back with its mother,” Laurel said.
Brian set it on the ground. Flapping stubby, down-covered wings, it scampered to its mother and siblings.
“Brian, would you get the goat into its stanchion?” Jean asked.
Picking up his pail, Brian protested, “I thought I got to do the cows.”
“I'm not sure you're ready for that just yet. You could get stepped on or worse.”
“I'm big enough, and I'll be careful.”
Jean knew it was time for Brian to take on more of the chores, but he seemed so young. With a sigh, she relented. “All right, but make sure you keep an eye on those two. Sometimes they're playful or get in a hurry for their grain and you're …” She was about to remind him of his size but thought better of it and said, “You just watch out for them.”
Brian disappeared through the doorway, the interior gloom swallowing him.
Jean and Laurel followed. After the bright outdoor sunlight, the inside of the barn seemed dark, but they knew the way and didn't slow their steps. The barn smelled of hay, oats, and manure. Jean pitched hay into the cribs while Laurel measured out small amounts of grain for each animal.
Brian appeared, towing the Guernsey. She balked, and he tugged on the lead. “Come on, get up there.” The cow didn't move. “Penny,” Brian said sternly, “come on.” He pulled harder. Finally she plodded forward and allowed Brian to guide her to the crib where she immediately licked up her portion of grain, then buried her nose in the hay.
“She was testing you,” Laurel said.
Brian patted the Guernsey's side. “I showed her who was boss.”
“That you did.” Laurel headed for the Jersey's stall. “I'll milk Molly.”
Jean hooked a lead on the nanny goat and led it to a small stanchion. She set a stool beside it and sat down, then washed the goat's udder. Keeping an eye on Brian, she started milking. He sat, then while reaching for the udder, he tipped his stool, bringing his hand down on the bucket. Jean smiled, remembering how frustrated he'd been when she'd first taught him how to milk. After several failures he'd finally managed to get the knack of it.
Bucket and stool back in place, Brian pressed his forehead against the Guernsey's soft hair and grabbed two teats. “Brian, are you forgetting something?” Jean asked.
He looked at her with a puzzled expression. “What?”
She lifted the washcloth from the bucket.
“Oh,” he said, retrieving the wet rag and cleaning the cow's udder. Again he sat, rested his head against the Guernsey's belly, and searched for her teats. His small arms barely reached, but he managed to grab hold of two and squeezed. At first the milk dribbled out, but finally narrow jets of white squirted and spattered into the bucket with a soft ring.
The animals munched, and the three Haspers settled into the rhythm of milking. Soon rich, frothy milk filled their pails. “Looks like they've been getting a good share of the early spring grasses,” Jean said.
The Guernsey blew air from her nostrils, flicked her tail, and let out an anxious bawl. She stamped the floor with her hind foot. Brian leaned back. “Hey! Hold still!” The cow paid no heed and stomped again, this time plunking her foot inside the bucket and knocking it over. “Rats!” Brian shouted. “Now look what you've done!”
The Jersey also seemed nervous. She swished her tail and moved her weight from foot to foot. “What is it, Molly?” Laurel asked, patting the cow's side and removing the bucket.
Jean stopped milking and listened. Setting her bucket out of harm's way, she walked to the Guernsey and ran her hand over the cow's neck. “You out of sorts today, Penny?” The cow blew air from her nostrils, her skin shuddering as she looked at the barn wall, the whites showing around her brown eyes.
Molly's gaze followed the Guernsey's. “Mama, what's wrong with them?” Laurel asked.
Jean heard snuffling along the barn wall. “Shh.” She walked toward the sound. Scratching joined the snuffling. Jean stepped back. “Something's out there,” she whispered. Peering through a space between boards, her stomach dropped and the hair prickled on her arms.
A cinnamon-colored grizzly dug at the ground along the barn wall. It was trying to dig underneath! He stopped and sniffed the air, then returned to digging. He wanted in! Fear spiked through Jean. They had heard a few reports of mauled livestock. She wondered if this was the offender.
The animal stopped digging and lumbered toward the front of the barn. “Get up in the loft!” Jean whispered fiercely and ran for the door. “Now!” Brian and Laurel obeyed, their faces questions. She reached the double doors just as the bear rounded the corner of the barn. Thankful they hadn't opened both doors, she grabbed the open one and swung it closed, quickly dropping a wooden bar in place to secure it.
“What is it, Mama? What's wrong?” Laurel asked.
Jean didn't answer but walked quietly to the bottom of the ladder. Looking up at her children, she whispered. “It's a bear. Be still.” Brian started down the ladder. “Get back up there.”
His face blanched. “Can it get in?”
“No, but I don't want to take any chances.”
The grizzly set to work, digging dirt out from under the door. After a few minutes he moved away, circling the barn and scratching at the ground and walls. With a snarl, his feet slammed against the south wall. He pushed, making the boards creak.
“He's going to get in!” Brian cried.
Every nerve on end, Jean watched the barn wall. The animal stopped battering at it and found his way back to the doors. Then he put his nose through the place where the two met and pushed. The doors moved and groaned. Jean stepped onto the first rung of the ladder.
The doors held, and the bear stopped its assault.
Jean looked up at her children and forced a smile. “Praise the Lord; Daddy does good work.”
“Mama, what are we going to do?” Brian asked, his voice quaking.
“We'll be real quiet and wait until he leaves.”
The cows continued to stomp their feet, swish their tails, and let out an occasional worried bawl. The goats seemed to have more sense and stood quietly. Jean walked to the cows and stroked their necks, talking softly. “It's all right, ladies. He can't get in. Shush now.”
For several seconds the bear made no sound. Maybe he's gone, she thought, holding her breath and listening. Then she heard something that sent terror pulsing through her. Susie was crying! “Oh, dear Lord!” Jean pressed a hand to her mouth. “Susie!”
She tried to remember if the door had been left open or if it was closed. She ran to the double doors and peered out. The bear lumbered toward the house, his cinnamon coat glistening in the sunlight and his huge paws padding the earth. Jean's eyes traveled to the door. It was open! The bear was already at the back of the house. He stopped and sniffed the ground. Stepping onto the porch, he swung his huge head back and forth, smelling the air.
Jean felt as if she were drowning in horror. Lord, protect my baby!
“Mama,” Laurel said from behind her.
Jean jumped.
“What's happening?”
“The bear's on the back porch, and the door's open.”
There was no time to think. Jean wrenched open the barn door, throwing it wide. “Hey! Bear! Over here!” she yelled, running out and waving her arms. The animal swung around and looked at her. Mouth slightly agape, he stared at Je
an, stepped off the porch, and ran toward her.
She stepped back inside, slammed the door shut, and bolted it. Near tears, she backed away. The grizzly rammed the barrier. The doors held. Father, what should I do? What can I do? She searched the barn, hoping to find something to use against the bear. The only weapon was a pitchfork, and it would be worthless against this beast. “I wish I had the rifle.”
“Mama, what are we going to do?” Laurel asked.
In a rage, the bear snarled and pushed against the door. A board popped and splintered.
“Someone's got to get to the house and close that door!” Jean almost screamed. “I shouldn't have left it open.”
“I'll do it,” Laurel said immediately. “I can run faster than either of you.”
“You can't outrun a bear. And it's too far.”
Laurel paced and thought. “What if you distract him? I can sneak out one of the stall doors and run for the house.”
Jean nodded. “That might work. But I'll go. I don't want you taking such a risk.”
“No. It has to be me.” Laurel stared at her mother. “Susie needs the one who can run the fastest.” She sat down and pulled off her boots. “I'm ready,” she said as she stood up.
Jean knew Laurel was right, but the idea of her daughter putting herself in the path of that animal was nearly unbearable. “All right.”
The bear's attack on the barn doors ended. There was no sound except for Susie's cries. Jean peered out. The bear was headed back to the house. “We've got to do it now!”
“I'm going,” Laurel said and ran to the back of the barn.
“I'll get his attention,” Jean called. She glanced at Brian who was peering down from the loft. “You stay put. I don't want to have to worry about you. Not a peep now. You hear me? No matter what happens, you stay right there and be still.”
His face white, Brian nodded.
Her stomach in knots, her heart thumping, Jean lifted the wooden bar and opened the door. “Laurel, are you ready?”