The Cowboy Encounter

by Kristy Tate

  “Where are you?” She peered into the nearby, shadowy alleyway. She found him pressed against a wall and knew immediately that he could cause her no harm. She guessed him to be in his early thirties. His blondish-brown hair, damp with sweat, curled around his angular face. His light hazel eyes glazed with pain, but there was something else in his eyes—resolution. Becca had seen the look on the dying many times before. This man had something he had to do before he would allow himself to die.

  Blood soaked the front of his heavily starched white linen shirt. He held his wadded up coat against his side, in an obvious but futile attempt to slow the flow of blood. With great effort, the man reached for his shirt pocket. Bloody fingerprints stained the envelope he handed to her. His arm shook from the exertion.

  “I’m a doctor,” Becca told him. “Let me see your wound.”

  The man rolled his head back, so that he addressed the sky. “No, please. All I ask is that you post this letter.”

  Becca crouched beside him, knowing, if needed, that she could overpower him. She tried to remove the coat.

  “No!”

  He grabbed her wrist. The man had more energy than Becca would have imagined.

  “Take the letter, please. I beg you.”

  Becca pulled away from his grip. “I’ll post your letter only after you let me look at your wound.”

  The man gritted his teeth. “You are no doctor.”

  “I really am.” Becca stood, recalling the sexist attitude that existed in her own supposedly enlightened era. “But if you’re not comfortable with me—let me get someone you trust.” No point in arguing feminism when a man’s life hung in the balance.

  He caught and held her gaze. For a brief moment, she had a flash of the man’s true character—strength—even as his life-blood spilled from his body.

  “I promise I’ll see that your letter is delivered.” Although she didn’t know how she would keep that promise, but since that commitment wouldn’t mean anything once she woke, why not make vows? She tucked the letter into her bodice.

  The man’s gaze followed the letter and rested on her chest. A smile touched his lips.

  “But first, let me—or someone else—attend to your—” Becca took a guess—“gunshot wound?”

  “No. No one else. I’ll pay you handsomely.” He pulled a brown cloth bag out from inside his coat. It fell to the ground with a clatter.

  Becca ignored the sack, knelt beside him, and eased the wadded up coat from his feeble fingers. The shirt stuck to his bloody, ravaged skin, but Becca didn’t see any signs of arterial bleeding.

  “I don’t believe any vital organs were damaged,” she said as she rose to her feet. She raised her skirts and tore off her slip. With a mental apology to Celia and her grandmother, Becca used her teeth to shred the slip to thin strips. No sanitation, no antibiotics, no morphine to numb the pain—how was she to keep this man alive?

  He moaned in reply and closed his eyes.

  Becca dropped to her knees beside him and bandaged him the best she could. Once she got him to a bed, she could remove the bullet, if needed, and do her best to wash and sanitize the wound, but for the moment, she needed to stop the bleeding.

  He leaned against her as she worked, his head resting on her shoulder as she tied the strips securing the bandage around his waist. His warm breath fanned her neck.

  She pushed back his shoulders and tried to look him in the eye.

  His head lolled forward.

  “We need to get you someplace safe…and clean.”

  “The letter…” he muttered.

  “Can wait.”

  “Room…at the inn.”

  “Will you be safe? Or will whoever shot you come looking for you there?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Becca cradled him, wondering what to do next. Easing him away from her, she laid him back against the wall. She knew the real enemy was infection, but she also didn’t know who had shot him and why. That person could be lurking just outside the alley.

  A teenage kid with a wheelbarrow rounded the corner. With his freckled cheeks, straw hat, and cowboy boots, she thought he looked harmless, so she called him over.

  “We’re in dire need of aid!” Parroting the words of her patient, she thought fast. “My husband has been shot! Can you please help us return to the inn?”

  What inn, she didn’t know. Was there more than one in town? Who knew? Maybe the kid knew.

  “Should we get the doctor?” he asked.

  “No, no…just help me get him there.” Was it far? Was it out of town? Her gaze went to the bag of coins. “I’ll pay you handsomely.” Of course, she didn’t know what was in the bag. She assumed it held money, but what if it didn’t?

  The boy shrugged, abandoned his wheelbarrow, and put his arm around the man’s waist. Becca scooped up the bag and followed them to the end of the alley and through a back door.

  That was easy, she thought.

  “I think my ma said Mr. Warwick is staying in the third room,” the kid said over his shoulder while he semi-carried her patient into what was clearly a washroom of sorts. “She didn’t mention no wife, though.”

  “You work at the inn?”

  “My ma owns it.” He puffed out his chest. “It’s going to be mine soon.”

  “You’re very lucky, Mr.—”

  “Johansson,” he told her.

  “Mr. Johansson,” Becca repeated. “And Mr. Warwick and I are very lucky you came along.”

  Mr. Johansson headed for the stairs. “I’d be guessing that Mr. Warwick would not be thinking he’s very lucky right now.”

  “No, I guess not.” Becca trailed after the pair. When they reached the landing, young Johansson braced Mr. Warwick against the wall so he could retrieve a key from his pocket.

  “Mr. Johansson, would it be possible to have tray of food sent up?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Would you like me to add it to your tab?”

  “Perfect. And can you add a bottle of whiskey?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Becca stared at Warwick sprawled out on the bed for a few minutes before she let her gaze take in the rest of the room. A potbelly stove occupied one corner, a small table and a lone chair stood in another. A rag rug covered the wide-planked wooden floor.

  I guess that’s my bed, Becca thought, because she knew that if she left Warwick alone in the room overnight that he would die before morning.

  Her heart stirred as her gaze went back to his long and lean body. Knowing that she couldn’t possibly be attracted to someone who didn’t really exist, she went to check his bandages. His skin burned beneath her touch. Looking at the wound, she knew if she didn’t do something fever would set in. She longed for a bottle of antiseptic. Whiskey would have to do.

  After removing his shirt, she rolled him to his side. A careful examination told her that the bullet had gone straight through and, fortunately, had damaged only muscle.

  When the requested tray of food and bottle of whiskey arrived, Becca took it from the young Mr. Johansson at the door. She set the tray down, and after a quick glance at the bowl of soup, a bread roll and an apple, she picked up the bottle of whiskey.

  “You’re going to hate me,” she told Mr. Warwick as she poured whiskey over his side.

  His screams echoed through the room and probably out into the hall.

  #

  Warwick battled his memories.

  Katrick screamed even before the saw met his bone.

  “Now you will go home,” the doctor said.

  But Katrick couldn’t hear him, his cries were so loud.

  Warwick gripped Katick’s shoulders, pinning him to the bed as the blood-crusted saw tore into Katrick’s leg. He wanted to ask if Katrick would live through so much pain, but he suspected the doctor wouldn’t be able to answer that question. That was a question only Katrick could answer.

  The screaming stopped. The pain subsided, and Warwick found himself looking through the slits of the army tent at the
distant stars and moon. Thunder rumbled, despite the clear night. No. Not thunder, gun fire.

  Plucking at his sheets, he fought sleep, afraid that if it should take him, he’d never awake.

  A woman leaned over him. Mary Kate.

  But then he remembered that Mary Kate was dead.

  He decided to join her.

  #

  By the time the fever set in, the moon had risen. Becca sat up, braced herself on her elbow, and listened to Warwick’s moaning. At least he’s still alive, she thought, as she got up from her rug. Her body, not used to sleeping on a wooden floor, complained, with stiffness, but she tried to ignore her own small aches and pains.

  Warwick thrashed upon the bed. Taking a cloth, she dipped it in water from the basin and mopped his burning brow.

  He grabbed her hand and fixed her with wild eyes. “Where are the others?” he demanded.

  “There’s just us,” she told him, using her no-nonsense-I’m-the-doctor voice.

  “The prisoners! What have you done with them?”

  “I, um…” Becca wondered what he wanted to hear, “I saved them.”

  “Saved them?” He closed his eyes.

  “Or detained them.”

  “Detained them?” His voice neared hysteria, and he struggled to sit up.

  “No, saved them. I definitely saved them.” She placed her hand on his chest and pressed him back against the sheets. “They’re all safe.”

  He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

  Becca ran the cloth over his face, wondering about his prisoners.

  “General Grant?”

  “The president?”

  “He must be eating crow.” A smile tugged at his lips.

  “Or caviar,” Becca said, wondering about what presidents ate in the nineteenth century. She’d heard of a thousand pound wheel of cheese being delivered to Andrew Jackson, but what a president ate and when wasn’t nearly as interesting to her as her patient. He had a powerful enemy. And while she doubted the president of the United States would travel to Colorado just to shoot Warwick, she knew that someone had. She wondered why.

  “Why do you want General Grant to eat crow?” she asked.

  But Warwick only wanted to mumble. Minutes later his breath turned soft and slow. He slept.

  Becca went back to her rug.

  #

  She stayed with him for three days, leaving the room for only necessities. Mr. Johansson and his mom kept them fed with plain and yet delicious food. A few times, Warwick mumbled in his sleep, alowing Becca to glimpse at a few of his demons.

  On the afternoon of the third day, he woke. Becca stood beside him as his eyelids flickered open.

  “I’ve died then?” he asked through red-chapped lips.

  She shook her head, smiling. “I think you’re going to live.” She honestly hadn’t thought so the night before, but she decided not to share that with him.

  “You saved me. Why?”

  She shrugged, wondering what he remembered. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Do you still have my letter?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I would like it back.” He closed his eyes. “Then you can leave.”

  “Leave?” Becca sat down heavily in the one chair. “But everyone here thinks I’m your wife.”

  “And we both know that you are not.”

  Becca couldn’t remember ever feeling so easily dismissed. “I just saved your life.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “And you didn’t ask me to be your wife.”

  “No.”

  Becca took a deep breath. “Okay.” She swallowed. “I think you should at least say thank you.”

  He gave her a long and slow smile. “Do you know why I don’t want a wife?”

  “It’s none of my business,” Becca said stiffly.

  “There are people who want me dead. One of them nearly got his wish granted. If I had a wife, even one as pretty and spunky as you, my enemies would make both of our lives hell.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “If I’m going to be traveling to hell, I’d rather do it alone.”

  “Then I guess I’ll go.”

  “Wait.” Warwick struggled to an upright position. He glanced around, noticed the bag of coins sitting on the table. Since depositing it there, Becca hadn’t touched it. He pointed at it. “Here, you take it. I don’t need it where I’m going.”

  She thought about turning around and storming from the room, instead she said, “You’re not going to hell. You aren’t dying.” She paused. “At least not any time soon.”

  “Take the gold.”

  #

  Warwick watched her go, and fell back against the sheets. Staring up at the ceiling, he wondered why his heart continued to beat. He blamed the woman parading as his wife. What now? And what had happened to Chet Brownlow?

  He remembered gunshots.

  And then the woman.

  Who was she?

  #

  It hurt to leave. She supposed she could have argued to stay. Obviously, he couldn’t have overpowered her and thrown her out, but he also didn’t want her there.

  She slipped down the back stairs, wondering where to go from here. It seemed unlikely that Ned would still be at the tavern after three days, and, even if she did find him, she didn’t know how he or Earlene would feel about taking her back in.

  She padded down the stairs and out the door. Waving goodbye to the Johanssons, she decided to get a new dress, take a bath, and shampoo her hair. That should make her feel better. Maybe.

  Plunking down on the bench, she told herself that right now would be an excellent time to wake and leave this delusion behind.

  She hadn’t sat for very long, when a kid with holes in the knees of his pants came running up to her.

  “Are you the lady doctor, Mrs. Warwick?” His breaths came out in puffs.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Becca said.

  “Doc Jones told me to find you. Mister Fowler’s been done shot by and he’s in a bad way. The doc said he needs help, and reckons you’s the best to help him. Can you do it?”

  Becca stood. “Of course.”

  The kid motioned with his head, signaling her to follow him. Becca had to hitch up her skirts to keep up.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Benji Carter,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Don’t you have school, Benji?”

  He gave her a questioning look. “Not during the harvest, ma’am,” he said, as if that was something she should know.

  There was so much Becca didn’t know, but when she reached the Fowler farm, she knew three things pretty quickly. One, human anatomy in the nineteenth century was pretty much the same as it is in the twenty-first century. Two, Mister Fowler and Doc Jones both needed her help very badly. And three, she was glad she had held off on the bath.

  The doctor had Mr. Fowler laid out on a pile of straw. Blood covered the doctor’s bare hands, and had splattered over his once-white shirt. Mr. Fowler wreathed in pain. The doctor looked up at her, fatigue etched in the lines of his weather-beaten skin. He had an ageless quality, he could have been thirty or seventy years old—neither answer would have surprised her.

  “I’m sorry we ain’t got time for introductions,” he said. “You know how to make a poultice?” He threw a disgusted look at Mrs. Fowler, a frumpy woman in the corner, sniffling into her apron, and shaking like wet kitten.

  A poultice? “No, but I know how to apply a tourniquet.” Becca rolled up her sleeves. “Let me wash up.”

  The doctor gave her a wild-eyed look. “Whatever for?”

  “Trust me, washing is important.” She turned to Benji. “Where’s the pump?”

  Doc Jones grunted his dissatisfaction in her, and barked out instructions to Mrs. Fowler. “Woman! Stop your sniffling! Show Mrs. Warwick the pump, then get me a bulb of garlic, some witch hazel, boneset, and whiskey.”

  Mrs. Fowler drew herself up
and tried to compose her blotchy, tear-stained face. She nodded.

  Becca followed her out the door and into the weed-pocked yard. The pump stood beside a privy. Becca’s opinion of the Fowlers dropped another inch as she carefully washed. As she waved her arms and hands to air-dry, Mrs. Fowler returned with an apron full of garlic bulbs, packets of dried herbs, and a flask.

  “I’m very sorry about your husband.” Becca thought about hugging the poor woman to try and comfort her, but she didn’t want to have to rewash. “We’ll also need a kettle of boiling water,” she added, hoping that she didn’t sound cold. Holding her arms aloft, she headed back into the house.

  “Peel them cloves of garlic and throw them in a pot of boiling water with some of the witch hazel,” Doc Jones said over his shoulder. “And bring me the whiskey.”

  Mrs. Fowler uncorked the flask and handed it to him.

  Doc Jones surprised Becca by taking a long swallow before dousing strips of muslin with the whiskey.

  Becca nodded and drew closer. Gazing down at Fowler’s ashen face, she thought, I don’t know why or how I’m here, but I do know I’m a good doctor. So even if I don’t know where I’m going to stay, or even survive in this time and place, I know at least this: I can help people here.” And somehow, that seemed enough.

  “Benji,” the doctor barked after extracting the bullet. “Go and get Eli Stephens and his son. We’ll need help getting Fowler into the house.”

  After Mr. Fowler had fallen into a morphine induced sleep on his own bed, Doc Jones said, “Well, I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, we’re both a mess.”

  “Maybe after we wash up?”

  Doc Jones followed her gaze out the open door and ambled toward it. He pumped for her while Becca scrubbed her hands and arms, then she did the same for him.

  Doc Jones placed his hands on his hips. “I heard you got your training from your pa?”

  Becca lied with a nod.

  “Big city doctor, was he?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t need to lie to answer that one.

  “How’d a yankee like you end up with a rebel like Warwick?”

  Becca took a deep breath. “It happened really fast.”

  “And ended fast, did it? You seeking a divorce?”

  “No. Not…” her voice faltered, “unless he pursues it.”