by Freda, Paula
She saw the bull. It was lying on its side. She might have missed it completely but for the tip of its horn sticking eerily out of the snow.
She led her horse toward the motionless creature and cupped her hand over her brow, squinting against the windswept snow-flakes, forcing her eyes to see better. Kneeling she brushed aside the snow from the animal’s frozen body. On its neck a grotesque red splotch had diffused to snowy pink. It had been shot in the throat. The bull was no longer a threat, and by now Seth and Perkins had probably reached home, while here she was, out in the storm, miles from the safety and warmth of the house. What would Seth think about her rash, foolhardy and unnecessary dash-ing to his aid? Once again she felt inadequate.
As she turned to her horse, to mount and head back, a lump of snow, unnaturally shaped, sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine. She hesitated a moment, not daring to suspect. Summoning her courage and praying to heaven that the terrible thought that crossed her mind was merely the play of her imagination, she drew near to the unnatural mound of snow and knelt on one knee to observe it closer. She began to brush away the white flakes, slowly at first, then as the mangled front of a lambskin coat stained with blood began to show, she brushed the snow away frantically. With relief mixed with horror, she recognized the pale rigid face of the body lying before her. It was Perkins.
The man looked dead, yet part of her mind would not accept him as dead. She removed her glove and touched his face. “Dear God!” was all she could utter as something screamed inside her and she recoiled in terror and revulsion before the gelid, freakish feel of death.
Immediately she thought of Seth. Fear clutched at her chest, a fear so full of impending despair and desolation, it was like a razor sharp rapier thrusting into her heart. Where was Seth? Was he also lying somewhere under the snow, his face as blank and bloodless and frozen as the one before her?
She stood up and cried out Driscoll’s name. Her voice mingled and was lost in the hiss and howling of the storm.
Over and over she cried out for Seth as she wandered, searching for him, unaware in her frenzy that she continued to lead Jasper. Nor did she realize that she had never replaced her glove; it was held tightly in her hand that was turning sickly reddish blue. Her eyelashes were brittle from the cold and her face under the knitted mask was beginning to freeze. Tears were crystallized about her eyelids, impairing her sight. She wiped the hand clutching the glove across her eyes and realized she had hardly any feeling left in her fingers. Automatically, she replaced her glove and continued to search, her direction aimless. All she cared about was finding Seth. She would die out here before going back without him.
Something hard bumped her shoulder. Turning, she discovered Jasper nudging her. She watched him as through a haze. He lifted his head and cocked his ears. Then he lowered his head and nudged her again.
Slowly the message he was attempting to impart penetrated the haze. Leatrice paid attention. At first all she could hear were the sounds of the storm, then suddenly she discerned a man’s moan, a deep, raspy moan.
“Where, Jasper, where?” she pleaded with her horse.
Jasper showed her where.
“Seth, oh my darling!” she cried, falling to her knees beside his body and thanking God he was not dead.
His left coat sleeve and denim leg were torn and bloody. It hit her as ludicrous that his Stetson remained on his head. He was partially covered in snow, but he must have been moving, because he was not buried under it. Gripped in his hand was the rifle with which he had shot the bull.
Seth’s eyes were shut tightly, his face contorted with pain. He moaned again. Leatrice slipped her arm under his head and brought his face close to hers. His skin was cold and pale, but life still throbbed beneath it. Her lips found his and she spoke his name. He gave no indication of hearing her, or feeling her touch. He was almost unconscious.
“Calm — be calm,” Leatrice admonished herself as panic threatened to overwhelm her. She must get Seth and herself back to the house and then go for help. But the storm still raged, the wind a dragon’s tail lashing mercilessly at anything in its path. And there was another factor to be faced. She was hopelessly lost. In her anxious search for Seth she had completely abandoned keeping track of her bearings.
Spruce and fir bent in the path of the dragon’s tail. At the same time, they beckoned Leatrice to find shelter under the roof their branches formed. She led Jasper to them and let them hold his reins. Returning to Seth, she half-dragged, half-hauled him toward the trees. She thanked God for her statuesque build, her long legs and arms, and the strength He had given her along with them.
As they had promised, the spruce and fir afforded the trio a measure of shelter. The dragon’s tail could not whip as hard through the barricade of pine needle and bark. Leatrice knelt beside Seth to examine the extent of his hurt. The bull’s horns had slashed through his thick winter clothing to tear into his flesh. Using Seth’s pocketknife she split apart his left coat and shirtsleeve and the leg denim and thermal underwear to find his forearm and thigh, both which had been badly punctured and torn. It was not difficult to deduce what had happened. The maddened bull had charged the two men. They must have been on foot, for Perkins had been gored in the stomach and bled to death. The bull had caught Seth in the arm and leg, but the wounds inflicted had not been as fatal as the ones sustained by Perkins. Fortunately for Seth, his bleeding had stopped.
She cleansed his wounds with the snow, but she needed bandages. She loosed her coat and again using the pocketknife managed to tear strips from her plaid shirt and wrapped them around his arm and leg. The horrifying thought that he might have bled to death as had his ranch-hand played before her mind’s eye and made her tremble. She quickly reminded herself that Seth was alive. There was the danger that in his immobile state he might freeze to death. There also might be wolves in the vicinity. A fire might offer a solution to both dangers.
Seth did not smoke but he always carried a lighter in his pocket in case he needed to build a fire to brew a pot of coffee. Leatrice cleared a space approximately two feet in diameter on the ground and, using the pocketknife, dug a hole in the ground. She partly broke, partly cut some of the small branches from the trees, and scraping them clean, piled them in the hole. She applied the lighter to the wood, and after some coaxing, the wood ignited. She cut more branches and added them to the fire. The protective shield that the walls of the hole and the density of the spruce and fir provided prevented the wind and snow from extinguishing the fire. Remembering the coffee thermos, she drank a little, saving the rest for when Seth woke and was able to swallow. Fitting her saddle under Seth’s head and shoulders, she lay down beside his uninjured side to keep him warm with her body heat. Between the warmth of the fire and Seth next to her, the facemask felt cumbersome and she removed it. Carefully, she drew Seth to herself. Periodically she rose to feed the fire and keep it burning, praying silently that someone on the ranch would soon discover they were missing. The hours passed slowly. Seth’s breathing remained steady, although he continued in a state of semi-consciousness. His occasional moans perforated the furious sounds of the storm. At these times Leatrice anguished that she could not lend herself to Seth to share his pain, halving it, and give him a part of her strength to replenish his. She hoped that he was merely sleeping off the trauma of the attack. But she was not a doctor. If he had suffered internal injuries, all she could do was continue to pray. Toward morning, she could no longer keep herself awake. The storm had finally subsided. Seth had not uttered a sound for the past two hours, but his pulse was strong and his breathing regular. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Leatrice permitted her thoughts to wander and her mind to rest. She did not realize how exhausted she truly was. But her body did, and at last she slept.
The sensation of something touching her cheek woke her. She opened her eyes sleepily. Seth’s fingers were resting gently over the side of her face. She snuggled closer, dreaming she and Seth were married, and snug and warm
inside a cocoon of blankets on their own bed. She reached for the covers to secure them tighter. Her hand encountered winter coats sprinkled generously with soft wet snow. Memory returned and she opened her eyes wide.
“Seth, darling!” she greeted. His face was pale, his grey-green eyes washed, his jaw covered in moist stubble, but he was smiling, albeit wearily, but smiling. Leatrice had saved his life. Lifting his head, he whispered her name, holding his smile to convey that he knew she had come after him and he was grateful. Leatrice said, “They’ll discover we’re missing and send help, I’m sure.” Seth nodded slowly, with effort. He tried to move his injured arm and leg and grimaced, cursing as torn flesh and abused bone protested. His head lolled against the saddle and he closed his eyes.
Leatrice felt him shudder with pain. “Seth!” There must be something she could do to alleviate his suffering. But what? Oh hurry, please, she called out with her mind to Binney, Linda, anyone. If Seth had suffered internal injures, he could be bleeding inside. He might lapse into a coma. She might lose him after all. “Darling, please tell me what to do,” she begged anxiously.
“Stop fretting, woman,” he rasped feebly. “I’m all right. Just need to rest. Can’t a man get some sleep?” he murmured, forcing a pain-ridden grin. “But you might be hemorrhaging inside,” she said. “Seth?” He didn’t answer. He had fallen asleep.
Leatrice gazed at him tenderly. Stubborn fool, how she loved him. “Don’t die on me, Seth ... I need you,” she whispered.
Binney found them later that afternoon. “I’d have discovered you both missing sooner, ‘cept I didn’t get back from town till three-thirty this morning, and slept clear through to twelve this afternoon. Didn’t suspect any-thing was wrong till I found the bay and poor Perkins’ roan, damn near frozen, and wandering down country.” Binney knelt beside Seth and unwound the makeshift bandages. The deep gashes on Seth’s arm and leg had turned an ugly dark red. “Nasty,” Binney said. He felt the bones in both limbs. “Anything feel broken?” he asked Seth.
“I don’t think so. Just awful sore and hurting.”
Seth gritted his teeth against the pain as the old foreman helped him to test first one, then the other limb.
Satisfied, Binney said, “Guess I’ll ride on back and get the pickup.” He looked up at Leatrice who stood by worrying. “We’ll take him right to the hospital. Doc Harris will fix up the boss fine.” Hooking a smile on his stubbly jaw, Binney added, “He’s sure lucky to have you, ma’am. He’d be frozen, picked meat, if you hadn’t come after him.” Leatrice glanced at Seth. At the moment he was too busy hurting to give the foreman’s words the careful consideration she felt they deserved.
Later that afternoon as he lay on the hospital bed in the Emergency Room, medicated and properly bandaged, Seth told Binney and Leatrice, “We’ll bury Perkins next to my parents. He was a loner, no family, and no ties. My mom and dad will be his family from now on.”
At last Leatrice felt free to ask, “What happened out there?” Seth seemed reluctant to think back, and then on a decisive note he began, “We’d been riding for hours with no sign of that crazy bull except for sections of gnarled barbed wire that looked as though a bulldozer had run up against them. We were cold, stiff and bone-weary, and decided to go it on foot for a while; give our horses a rest at the same time. The search was proving futile, the storm setting in strong, when that son of Beelzebub came out of Lord knows where, nose blowing hot air into the snow, hoofs pawing clear down to the dead grass under, and shaking that cursed horned head, readying to aim its horns at our innards. My luck, I suppose, Perkins’ misfortune that he was ahead of me, leading his horse. Gave me those precious seconds to slide my rifle out of its holster on my saddle before that son of a devil finished with Perkins and decided he’d skewer me next. I shot him in the throat, but he didn’t fold. He came anyway, like some unholy thing dredged up from the pits of hell. I moved; he caught me in the arm, then the leg.” Seth gazed at Leatrice. “Odd, but in that moment, I thought about you, and your crazy scheme.”
Seth shifted his gaze to Binney. “He never came back for me. His legs buckled under him, and he fell over and just died.” Seth paused as if to catch his breath. “Seeing Perkins and me downed, and the shot I’d fired, had spooked the horses into a fast gallop. I managed to get to Perkins, but he was already dead. I don’t know for how long or how far I dragged myself before I passed out.
Seth glanced at Leatrice. Her blue eyes were soft and glazed with worry. There it was again, that childlike, vulnerable look. That look had a way with him. It brought out the gentleness in him. Made him realize her concern for him was genuine. She had been silent and frightened for him during their ride to the hospital, holding his hand, watching over him, supporting him, hurting with him each time the pickup hit a bump in the road and lurched.
“Guess I would have frozen to death, like Binney said, if you hadn’t come searching for me.”
“I suppose so,” Leatrice whispered.
“I owe you my life.”
Was it admiration tinted with affection that flickered across his face, or only gratitude? Leatrice was not sure.
Later that week Doc Harris released Seth to Leatrice’s care, ordering him to stay in bed for a week, and not ride for at least two. Once again Seth mentioned the fact that Leatrice had saved his life, this time to the doctor and the attending nurse. Leatrice glowed with pride at his praise, hope sparking that he might at last have come to view her in a different light. But gratitude and admiration were a far cry from love and acceptance.
Seth healed quickly. “You were lucky,” Doc Harris advised him. The layers of clothing, the rifle, Leatrice’s timely arrival, and her worthy actions of using the trees as shelter and building a fire, all contributed toward your survival.” Seth agreed and Leatrice felt proud.
“There will be scars,” Doc Harris said. “Jagged notches on your left forearm and thigh. I’ll give you the name of a plastic surgeon in Billings.” Seth temporarily shelved the idea of the plastic surgeon, for soon after the heifers calved, bawling deep in their throats as their babies were born. The calves bleated not unlike newborn lambs, and finding their legs, followed by finding their mother’s teats and sucking hungrily.
Not all the births were simple. More than once in the weeks that followed, Seth called upon Leatrice to assist him in delivering a breech birth. Those particular births required a strong stomach and quick thinking and acting on the part of those aiding the bawling, contracting animal. And Leatrice did not consider herself as possessing any one of the qualities needed. Especially so, when Seth, helping a heifer having difficulty, first told her to watch him closely, as she might be called upon to help him. He sat on the ground, legs apart, speaking in a soothing, encouraging tone to the heifer as he reached into her. “Okay, girl, I’ve got a good grip on your baby’s legs, and as soon as that belly of yours contracts—" He braced a boot on either haunch of the heifer and waited. “Now!” he suddenly barked and pulled with all his strength. Two little hoofs appeared.
Seth took a deep breath. “Okay, one more time, mama, come on.” Another involuntary contraction and again Seth pulled with all his strength. This time the entire calf, a bundle of blood, flesh and bone, emerged.
Severing with a sterilized knife the umbilical cord that connected calf to heifer, he reassured the mother, “A good-sized bull calf, mama.” He dotted the calf’s navel with iodine. “Lee, make sure the calf’s mouth and nose are free of any obstructions, while I tend to his mother.”
With the bull calf breathing normally and on his own, Seth pushed him under his mother’s nose. The heifer sniffed the calf. The small critter felt her touch and his small legs and feet struggled to move. He bleated thinly. Suddenly mama knew. She clamored weakly to her feet and began to sniff and lick the small body of her calf. She became vividly aware of the man and the woman kneeling beside her and her baby. The look of pain in her large, dark bovine eyes altered to a ferocious glare. She bawled loudly, more like a gro
wl. Leatrice moved back instinctively. Seth laughed. “Okay, mama, he’s all yours,” he conceded, quietly moving away.
The heifers finished calving and then the cows began. The snow melted, the ground thawed, the awakening earth breathed yellow and white sweet clover, filling the air with the smell of sweet candy. The vast pastures sprouted lush, green grass. Seth had hired extra men in the fall to plow certain fertile areas on the Bar LB for farming in the spring. As April reintroduced itself, he took on extra help to disk the plowed areas and break up the clumps of sod, then level, seed and roll the sod. The rolling was necessary, he explained to Leatrice one night over supper, “to firm the soil and keep the seeds from easily blowing away. The rolling also packed the air bubbles out of the sod so water was not trapped inside which would drown the seeds.
“If you think we’ve been busy this far, wait’ll Spring Roundup in a couple of weeks,” Seth told her. “Get your stomach in gear, Lee. There’s at least four hundred new head that need castrating, dehorning, vaccinating and branding.” He dabbed a thick slice of bread into the gravy on his plate, oblivious to the squeamish expression blanching Leatrice’s face. “Damn, that Linda can bake,” he exclaimed, biting into the slice of gravy soaked bread.
“I baked the bread,” Leatrice startled him by saying.
“Hell, you didn’t?” Seth replied, looking at her.
“Yes, I did. I found the recipe on the back of a yeast packet, and it worked,” she said. “And when you’re finished staring at me with gravy dripping down your chin, and eat the roast beef I cooked in our oven, I’ll serve you the apple pie I baked. I’ll get the coffee,” she said, rising from the table to busy herself with the pot and cups and saucers. Seth eyed her quaintly.
So the woman was finally learning to cook. Seth didn’t know how many more of these surprises he could stand. Going out after him in the storm, risking her life saving his life — he owed her for that — certainly not what he expected from a rich, spoiled easterner. He had to admit Leatrice was fulfilling her part of the bargain admirably.