Dance With A Gunfighter

by JoMarie Lodge

  No other bullet wound showed along her back. His fingers raced over her arms and legs, feeling for broken bones. If there were breaks, none were obvious to him. He bent low, so as not to hurt her more than she was, and slid his arms around her, cradling her against his chest as he eased her onto her back. Her face and hands were scratched from the fall down the mountainside, and her clothes torn and frayed. They were heavy men’s clothes, a jacket, trousers and boots, made for range life and cactus, and had protected her well.

  He unbuttoned her jacket and again carefully ran his hands over her torso, arms and legs, feeling for breaks or bullet wounds he might have missed. Again, he found none.

  Glancing upward, his gaze climbed the steep mountain to the boulder where he’d first noticed the rockslide and his insides churned as he saw, from this perspective, how very far she’d fallen. He could well imagine that Murdock, seeing her fall and seeing the blood, had thought he’d killed her.

  He had to get the horses, give her some water, and bring her to a doctor. As quickly as he could, he climbed up to the horses, then carefully led them over a less steep route to where Gabe lay.

  Once back at her side, he lifted her head and tried to get her to drink some water from the canteen, but the water simply dribbled from her mouth. The thought of moving her scared him, but the sky was already crimson from the setting sun. She needed to be off the mountain, warm, and in a doctor’s care, if she were to have any chance at all.

  He tied her horse to his, then lifted her in his arms. He couldn’t believe how light she was, or how pale. Somehow, he managed to hold her and hoist himself onto his saddle. He tucked her against his lap, her head resting on his chest.

  He tried not to think of the foolish chance she’d taken.

  As he looked at her small, pale face, her soft mouth, the shadows her long eyelashes cast on her cheeks, his love for her filled him again, leaving him shaken.

  He softly kissed her forehead and they began the long, slow ride back to Tombstone.

  It was almost midnight when he arrived outside the doctor’s house. Cradling Gabe in his arms, he used his foot to pound hard at the door a few times.

  "Doc! Open up!" When there was no response, he kicked and yelled again.

  "Coming! Some people like to sleep, you know." The doctor sounded furious.

  "My...my wife needs help."

  The doctor, a big, blond man with a bulging stomach, wearing a dressing gown and nightcap, opened the door. "Wife? Why didn’t you say so, young man? I thought it was just another drunk who’d been in a fight. Bring her this way." He pulled off his nightcap and tossed it onto a small side table in the entry hall as he led McLowry to a room in the back of the house.

  "Put her on the bed," the doctor ordered.

  McLowry lay her down, then carefully brushed her hair from her face. "She’s been unconscious for hours."

  "What happened?" the doctor asked as he bent over her, lifting her eyelids and feeling for her pulse. McLowry watched anxiously.

  "She..." McLowry suddenly had a hard time finding his voice. "Someone shot at her. Grazed her head, best I can tell, but she fell down a rocky mountain slope. It was a long fall. I found her about four, five hours ago."

  A heavy-set woman, tying the sash of her robe close around her waist bustled into the room. "Do you need me, Fred?"

  "I’m afraid so." He glanced at McLowry. "This is my wife, Mrs. Andrews. Ellen, this is Mr. uh...?"

  "Bulfinch. Martin Bulfinch." McLowry didn’t take his eyes off Gabe’s face as he spoke.

  "Good evening," Mrs. Andrews said.

  "Ma’am," McLowry replied, inching closer to Gabe as the doctor lifted her shirt and began to press his fingers along her ribs and stomach. As he went lower, toward her abdomen, his wife helped loosen Gabe’s clothing.

  He paused, then felt again. Catching his wife’s eye, he motioned toward McLowry. She nodded.

  "Mr. Bulfinch," Mrs. Andrews placed her hand on McLowry’ back and escorted him out of the room. "Here’s the parlor. You rest and don’t fret too much. Doctor knows what he’s doing."

  Once in the parlor, McLowry leaned back on the sofa and put his arm over his eyes.

  If he’d tracked down Murdock and Tanner himself, Gabe wouldn’t be here now. She’d be home. Safe and unhurt.

  He had tried hard not to jostle her as they rode, but he’d expected some kind of movement from her, some sign that she would awaken and be all right. It never came. Thoughts of the bullet wound and the damage the fall might have done to her, how badly she might have hit her head or torn something internally kept playing in his mind. As a gunfighter, he had never known fear--not even when he looked point blank into another man’s gun. That was what had made him so deadly. His hand never wavered.

  But as he waited for the doctor to tell him how Gabe was doing, he learned what fear was all about.

  He heard the back room door open. Standing, he stepped to the hallway. Mrs. Andrews hurried out of a room and crossed the hall. In a little while he saw her reappear with an armful of towels. "What’s happening?" he asked.

  "Doctor will speak with you soon. Please rest, Mr. Bulfinch."

  As if he could, he wanted to say.

  Over an hour passed before he saw the wife come out of the room again. He followed her to the kitchen this time. "Can I see her?"

  Mrs. Andrews put on the coffeepot. "Doctor will let you see her when he’s ready."

  "What’s going on? Why can’t I see her?"

  The woman’s eyes were downcast. "She’s having a bit of a rough time. The doctor’s doing all he can. You’ll have to be patient."

  McLowry stared at her, stunned. As much as he knew there was some kind of a problem since the doctor was staying with Gabe so long, to actually hear the words was devastating.

  "I need to go back to help Doctor. I’ll bring you some coffee as soon as it’s ready. Now please go and rest." She hurried from the kitchen.

  He stumbled back to the parlor, sank into the sofa, and prayed. For the first time since he stood over his little sister’s gravesite, he prayed with all the fervor he could find within him.

  It was nearly morning before he heard the door to the back room open and the heavy footsteps of the doctor slowly walking down the hallway. Every nerve in McLowry’s body came alive. Why were the doctor’s steps so slow? If he had good news, wouldn’t he hurry?

  As the doctor stepped into the parlor, McLowry stood.

  The doctor drew in his breath. "The bullet, as you suspected, only grazed her. It did, however, cause her to lose a lot of blood. She has a serious concussion," he said. Then he shrugged helplessly. "There’s nothing we can do but wait."

  McLowry felt the room sway and the pink and green floral design on the dark green rug on the floor seemed to shift and change colors. "You’re saying she might not ever wake up again."

  The doctor took a step forward. "There’s no reason to expect she won’t. It may be that this is the way her body needs to heal."

  "Like hell!" McLowry had heard all that healing garbage before, and he’d seen enough people die while doctors said they were busy "healing" to pay it no credence. His eyes squeezed shut and he turned his back, raging at his inability to help, to do anything for her.

  The doctor coughed. "There were a couple of other problems."

  McLowry spun around. What could possibly matter after what the doctor just said? "What?"

  "She’s got a few cracked ribs--"

  McLowry snorted derisively, running his fingers through his hair. That was nothing. Who the hell didn’t crack a few ribs in this country?

  "And," the doctor continued, "the situation we were handling throughout the night...I’m sorry, but she lost her baby."

  McLowry stopped moving, stopped breathing. His eyes caught the doctor’s and held them, searching for some sign that the doctor hadn’t really said....

  "You knew she was pregnant, didn’t you?"

  "Yes," McLowry lied, his voice a whisper.

/>   The doctor drew in a deep breath. "The miscarriage started shortly after she arrived here. A fall like she took...in these early stages of pregnancy...it was almost to be expected." His eyes met McLowry’s startled ones. "When your wife wakes up...and you’ll have to believe that she will...it’s going to be a difficult time for her. You’ll have to be patient. Women feel these things much more deeply than we men do."

  McLowry nodded. His throat tightened, his gaze dropped and he slowly sat on the sofa, strangely numb.

  The doctor waited a bit, then placed his hand on McLowry’s shoulder. "Get some sleep, son. You’ll be no good to either of you if you don’t."

  McLowry picked up his hat and walked toward the door.

  "One minute," the doctor called.

  His head was so heavy he could scarcely lift it to look at the doctor.

  "In case she wakes up and you’re not here, what’s her name?" he asked.

  "Gabriella."

  The doctor smiled. "A pretty name."

  McLowry stared bleakly at him a moment, nodded, then walked out the door.

  He stepped onto the sidewalk. His fingertips shakily touched his mouth as the impact of what had happened hit him. Another innocent life had been lost, just like the child in Mesa Verde. He turned away from the town, and strode toward the desert, seeking the solitude he needed. Fresh, brisk air and the quiet away from town finally caused his steps to slow, then stop. His mind felt hazy, and the morning mist enveloped him.

  Gabriella. A pretty name...

  The doctor’s words, tornado-like, whirled in his head, buffeting him.

  "Her baby," the doctor had said...and McLowry knew the child had been his as well. His baby...his and Gabe’s. A weight pressed hard against his chest making it hard to breathe, and behind his eyes, a heavy pressure.

  He was supposed to be a hardened gunfighter, he wasn’t supposed to need such mundane things. He wasn’t supposed to want a family, or love. But he did.

  It seemed like only yesterday he’d danced with a charming young girl in Jackson, and now, her family, her youth, her innocence...she’d lost them all. Was it his fault? Had he wronged her, loving her as he did?

  Why didn’t she tell me?

  He shut his eyes, trying to block simple images from his mind. He’d never been one to pay much attention to kids, and yet he could imagine himself holding a son or daughter in his arms, touching the little hands, the tiny fingers, looking into the big, brown eyes--Gabe’s eyes. He was sure their child would have had Gabe’s eyes. He would have liked that.

  Now, he’d never know what color the baby’s eyes were.

  He ran his hands through his hair, struggling hard against his tears. He wondered how she’d felt when she’d realized she was carrying his baby. Did she care? Surely, she must not have cared much since she risked the child’s life to go after Tanner.

  Poor little baby, he thought. I would have wanted you. I would have loved you.

  He bowed his head and his tears fell.

  Chapter 29

  Slowly, Gabe’s eyes opened. Blinding pain seared her head, and her body felt as if it had a team of horses had trampled it. She blinked, trying to stop the spinning of the ceiling. Ceiling? But she’d been outside. Hadn’t she? Moving only her eyes, she could see a wall to her left. With effort, she turned her head to the right. Blue curtains covered a window, diffusing the sunlight. In the corner, a heavy-set woman sat, her chin resting on her chest as she slept, and a crochet hook and yarn in her lap. Gabe tried to think, but could find no explanation of where she was, or who that woman was with her.

  Slowly, memories came back to her...a cabin on a hillside...Luke Murdock lifting his rifle...her jump...and then endless tumbling and pain until all went black.

  She tried to sit up. Her muscles throbbed and convulsed with the movement, and it hurt to breathe. Defeated, she collapsed back onto the bed. Again, she stared at the ceiling. It was easier not to move. She touched her ribs, discovering the thick bandages around them.

  Where was she? How had she gotten off that hillside?

  Her hand moved lower, to her belly. A dull, burning pain, like fingers of fire, clawed at her, squeezing her insides.

  "Ah, you’re awake. Hello, Gabriella."

  Gabe slowly turned her head toward the voice. The woman stepped closer, smiling pleasantly. Brown hair streaked with gray was pulled back from a plump, rosy-cheeked face. "I’m Ellen Andrews, the doctor’s wife. Your husband brought you here four nights ago. You had quite a bump on the head."

  Husband?

  The woman crossed the room to the bed and patted Gabe’s hand. "Sometimes it seems this is the only way for a woman to get a good, long rest."

  Something flickered in the woman’s eyes and she bit her bottom lip, then straightened up and took a step back from the bed. "I chatter too much sometimes. Dr. Andrews will be right in. He’ll be so pleased you’re finally awake."

  Gabe stared after the woman as she walked out of the room. Nothing she said had made sense. Four nights? She’d lost four nights? Where was Murdock? What had happened on that mountain? And who brought her here? Gabe’s head pounded and the room began to swirl.

  Panic filled her. She remembered falling, tumbling down rocks, against the brush, but that was all. She tried to lift herself, only to once again fall back.

  Her eyes shut. A vague memory of someone talking to her seeped into her senses. The voice had been filled with heartbreak. She’d wanted to give comfort, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. Had she only been dreaming?

  Her thoughts spiraled then flew apart as all went black once more.

  The next time she opened her eyes, a large man with a great, bulbous stomach stood beside her, holding her wrist and eyeing his pocket watch. He wore glasses and had straight blond hair slicked back from a high forehead. "Good-day, Mrs. Bulfinch. Just checking your pulse rate. Good, very good."

  Gabe started at the name he’d called her.

  "You’re doing much better. Much better. We haven’t lost a bride here yet. Not that many are in Tombstone, of course."

  She gazed back at the doctor.

  "You had a concussion," he continued. "Some ribs cracked. Can you see me all right?"

  She nodded, then winced from the pain that slight movement caused her. Her mind still raced with why he called her "Mrs. Bulfinch," Jess’s made-up name. He must have found her. He must have been furious with her for leaving Jackson, but still he came for her. She had to see him. Was he still here, she wondered.

  "How many fingers?" Dr. Andrews stepped back and held up his forefinger and pinky.

  "Two." Her voice was a croaking whisper.

  "Good. No double vision. A good sign."

  He sat on the edge of the bed and his eyes took on a sad, cautious look very much as his wife’s had earlier. Gabe’s breath caught. What could be so wrong?

  "There was one difficulty," he began.

  She waited.

  He cleared his throat, obviously uneasy at what he had to say. "You’ve had a miscarriage."

  A dull roar filled her brain as she stared, unable to comprehend.

  "I’m sorry," he whispered.

  Her mind raced. Her monthly flow had stopped, but it was never regular. She’d once talked to Mrs. Beale about it, and the older woman explained that such irregularity was only to be expected after all she’d been through. Of course, Mrs. Beale didn’t know how far her relationship with Jess had...

  She couldn’t have lost his baby. Anything, anything but that. And yet, she felt a strange, burning pain, low and deep in her belly....

  "No," she said, and then louder. "No!" It wasn’t true. She had to get away from here, away from these awful people with their cruel joke.

  She tried to get up, but he placed his hand on her shoulder, holding her against the mattress. "Don’t over-excite yourself, Mrs. Bulfinch."

  "No, please, it can’t be."

  "I’m sorry."

  "Does...does my husband know?"

/>   "Yes. We told him."

  She had to leave here! She must--

  The doctor tried to hold her down, to calm her, but she pushed him away. She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear any of this. And Jess...how could she face him, doing what she’d done?

  "You must accept it, Gabriella," the doctor ordered.

  She turned her head to the wall, unable to bear listening to him, to anyone. Accept it, he’d said. How much more must she accept? How much more must she give, when she had nothing left?

  Dr. Andrews cleared his throat once more. "You took a terribly fall. Give thanks that you survived." The doctor stood. "I’ll leave you alone to rest. It’s small comfort now, but what happened should have no effect on your ability to bear other children in the future."

  The door closed with a loud finality.

  A silent scream filled her, shrieking through her ears, slamming against her head, her body...until the world fell into peaceful blackness once more.

  She lost all track of time. Later...she didn’t know or care how much later...she opened her eyes. No light shone through the window, and a lamp by the bedside was lit. She heard the door shut and turned her head toward it.

  Jess stood in the darkened doorway.

  "Jess," she cried, her voice little more than a choked whisper. "Oh, God!" She tried to sit up and reach out to him, but she hurt too much.

  He stayed rooted to the floor. The blue eyes she’d come to love beyond reason were red-streaked now, with weary lines at the outer edges. Dark shadows beneath his eyes were stark against the pallor of his cheekbones, and stubble from unshaved whiskers covered his cheeks and chin.

  She held out her arms, but he made no move toward her. She slowly lowered them.

  His eyes were stark. "I was afraid I’d lost you," he said.

  "I’m strong, Jess," she whispered.