Moments later Lyla urged the sturdy mare into a trot, out of the shadowy stable and into a twilit snowscape that would’ve held her in awe had she not been on such an urgent journey. Already the posse’s tracks were blurring with new snow. She nudged Calico into a gallop, praying the footing was firm…praying she hadn’t made herself a target by lagging after the marshal and his men.
Once the lights of Cripple Creek were behind them, a deep, wintry stillness closed in. There were only the sounds of her mare’s muffled hoofbeats and steady breathing. Snowflakes whirled around them, borne by a wind that stung her eyes and cheeks. Lyla pressed on, thankful the horse knew the way after the numerous trips she’d made into town from the cabin in Phantom Canyon.
She would stay there tonight after she retrieved the silver shamrock; thoughts of a cheerful fire and the simple, cozy furnishings made her press on across the rugged white terrain. If she arrived in time, she could prove to Barry Thompson that she was a woman to be reckoned with, a woman who set her own terms. Once they’d captured the bandits, perhaps the burly lawman would send his men back to the jailhouse, prisoners in tow, and then explain the glittering aquamarine that he would pick out from among the other items in that flour sack. It would be a night to remember, a night to set things straight between them, away from wagging tongues and the glitter of Foxe’s monocle. Barry would understand why she’d called him such ugly names and forgive—
Calico’s nicker interrupted her thoughts, and when the mare’s ears pricked forward, Lyla listened, too. The whine of gunfire sliced the night silence, and then came answering shots and urgent voices. Somehow the miles had passed, and she was approaching the narrows that led into Phantom Canyon. She stared intently at the snowy trail ahead and discerned two sets of tracks: the posse had divided, some men taking the road between the rugged rock walls, and some clambering the higher, more treacherous trail that ran atop the side of the canyon.
Which way had Barry gone? Lyla reined in, allowing her horse to catch its breath, but another volley of gunfire convinced her to head for the cover of the trees. “Up the trail, girl. Just like we were going home,” she murmured, pressing her knees into the mare’s heaving sides. “Easy does it. One slip and we could end up on the canyon floor full of bullets.”
She let Calico pick her way among the pines, keeping to the shadows as she tried to figure out where the outlaws and posse were. Unarmed, Lyla knew she’d be a detriment to the marshal’s cause if she attracted attention. It was best to let the men do their jobs and then move in afterward to help, if they needed her.
A bullet whistled by and Lyla’s heart raced. She could hear the thieves trading threats with Thompson now, their shots punctuating the dialog, ricocheting through the night air with deadly urgency. Just as she eased to the edge of a clearing, two shots ended in muffled thuds and she saw the marshal slump in his saddle.
Terror seized her. The two bandits he’d challenged wheeled on their horses, one of them hollering, “Gotta go now, Thompson! Your men’ll be real sorry they came along!” Their wicked laughter echoed in the canyon below as they loped off through the trees.
Lyla trotted toward the marshal’s inert form, so scared she didn’t realize she was holding her breath. There was enough moonlight for her to see the gruesome, dark trickle running down his left thigh. His reins had dropped to the ground and he was clutching his mount’s muscled neck, gasping for breath as though he barely had the strength to stay in the saddle.
“Easy, boy. Stay still now,” Lyla crooned as she rode alongside the stallion. The horse stood several hands higher than Calico, a powerful animal who was sidestepping with his ears cocked back. “We’ve got to get Barry out of this wind, to tend his wounds. Help me out now, horse.”
“His name’s Buck. That’s what he’ll do if anybody besides me tries to ride him.”
The marshal’s pallor shocked her, but at least he was coherent. Very slowly, Lyla reached out until she had Buck’s reins in her hand. “My cabin’s not far from here,” she replied in a voice strangled with fear. “You hold on, love. God bless us both if you fall off, because I couldn’t budge you.”
Thompson grunted and made a feeble attempt to stay on his horse. Through a red haze of pain he recognized Lyla’s brogue…he had no choice but to ride behind her, because he could feel his strength ebbing at an alarming rate, blood flowing from the gash in his thigh and the hole in his shoulder. Must’ve struck some major veins…the awareness that his posse was in danger glimmered like a candle in the back of his mind, but the light was growing dimmer…dimmer…
Sensing that Barry would soon be unable to walk, Lyla urged Calico into the quickest pace she dared. The snow was deep enough to disguise irregular spots in the trail, and more than once the horses stumbled over hidden rocks and dips as they cut back toward the hollow that sheltered the cabin. She could see the tin top of its chimney gleaming dully a short distance ahead, and she prayed that she could somehow help the marshal inside and then revive him, enough that they could ride back to the Cripple hospital after she bound his wounds.
“Whoa, Calico. Let’s lead him as close to the cabin as we can. Good girl,” Lyla mumbled when the horses stood before her door. She dismounted carefully so she wouldn’t spook the stallion. He eyed her warily, but allowed her to stroke his neck before he whickered and shook his tawny head. “Good boy, Buck,” she said in a low voice. “We’re going to unload this fellow, and then you’re to follow my mare to the shed in back, understand? No horsing around or heading back to town. We’ll need you in a bit.”
A glance at Barry told her he was either unconscious or asleep. What if he fell and banged his head before she could stop him? Lyla opened the door and then returned to his left side, her heart pounding. “Barry? You’ve got to swing your other leg over,” she ordered above the gusting of the wind. “Let’s get inside so I can stop this nasty bleeding.”
Thompson groaned. God, he was tired, and his entire left side throbbed with an agony so sharp it dulled his perception. Somebody was talking…get inside…nasty bleeding…Gritting his teeth, he lifted his right leg over the saddle, which sent a burst of pain through the wounded leg in the stirrup. He was pretty sure the scream he heard was his own. Buck shifted nervously, but somehow both feet reached the ground and he held himself upright by clutching the saddle.
“Lean on me, love. We’ll get you to the bunk and patch you up,” Lyla said with forced bravery. She guided Barry’s arm around her shoulder and then gasped when he teetered, landing heavily against her back. Sheer fright propelled her toward the door, which was banging in the wind. “Walk, you big bull moose!” she cried out. “If you fall on me, we’ll both freeze to death!”
Thompson rallied weakly, realizing there was shelter ahead and a tiny body supporting him as they approached it. They were inside…shadows of furniture, and he was falling, helpless. “Christ!” he muttered when he landed on the mattress. And then, thank God, somebody snuffed out all his candles.
Gasping for breath, Lyla hurried to close the door against the swirling snow. “Go on to the shed, Calico!” she called outside. “I’ll tend to you as soon as I can.”
She fell against the door to close it, and then laid logs for a fire as quickly as her quaking hands would allow. When the flame was licking at the dry twigs, she rushed about the cabin gathering supplies. The earthy scent of all her plants and dry, hanging herbs soothed her; the familiarity of all she’d left behind wrapped itself around her, but there was no time to savor the joy of being home again. Barry’s breathing was shallow and irregular. The flickering firelight revealed a pant leg soaked with blood, and now his jacket sleeve, too, was dark and wet.
From the closet she fetched a pail and bandages and the herbs that would cleanse his wounds: lavender, yarrow, thyme, and others, some she’d grown herself, and some in square boxes and corked bottles from the druggist. She put a kettle on to boil, and as she glanced toward the inert form that hung over the end of the small bed, Lyla steeled
herself for the teeth-gritting task of getting Barry’s clothes off him. It would be like rolling a felled redwood: dead weight. She brought a bottle of laudanum and the last of Mick’s whiskey to the bedside, in case she hurt him enough to wake him up.
Lyla paused, thinking. She couldn’t cut his clothing off, because he needed its protection during the ride back. Starting with his good side, she wrestled him out of his coat sleeve and one side of his heavy plaid shirt. It took all her strength to stuff the garments beneath him and then turn him from the other side to pull them through. She blanched when she saw the dark, saturated top of his union suit sticking to his shoulder, but there was no time to waste. Thompson was moaning softly, grimacing as she tugged at his boots and peeled his pants down over the other wound.
She chuckled wryly. Barry would be kicking himself if he knew she was stripping him naked and he couldn’t return the favor. Lyla reached for his underwear buttons, her hands trembling with fright and awe. He was firmly muscled, far more powerfully built than the miners she’d treated for an occasional cut or wound. Again she started with his right sleeve, stretching the thick flannel over arms and shoulders that dwarfed her own, praying he wasn’t aware of the pain she was causing him.
She rolled him as before, gingerly lifting the sticky, bloodied fabric from the matted hair on his chest. Lyla dared not look at his face or at the gruesome hole that gaped above his left armpit. It was all she could do to tug steadily at his underwear, past his waist, where the down of his chest peaked below his navel; past the smooth flesh of his abdomen and a set of privates that lolled between his legs.
Lyla stopped to stare. She’d caught glimpses of Mick and his buddies skinny-dipping, but never had she beheld a man who was so unabashedly displayed…or so undeniably huge. Even in his unconscious state, Barry Thompson brought to mind a proud stallion—regally, majestically male. She let out the breath she’d been holding and eased his union suit over his other seeping wound, then down past his knees.
“Now that you’ve looked me over, am I worth saving, little lady?”
Lyla jerked to attention, her cheeks flooding with color. Barry’s eyes were only half open in a face the color of milk. He was watching her with a smile that was half grimace. “I—sorry if I pulled too hard, I—”
“Yanking the way you were, you could revive the dead. No joke intended,” he added weakly. Barry could feel the life oozing out of him and knew this was no time to be witty. “Get your sharpest knife. Cut the bullets out.”
The air rushed from her lungs. “But I can’t—we’re taking you to the hospital, as soon as I—”
“I’ll never make it. Can’t ride…probably be ambushed…”
Lyla’s heart was in her throat when she saw the ghostly pallor stealing over Thompson’s slack face. “Wait! Tell me how to—”
“Whiskey,” he mumbled, already dimming behind his eyes. “Lots of whiskey, honey. And work…fast. I’m drifting…drifting…”
A sob escaped her as she grabbed for the bottle beside the bed. After a few deep gulps, Barry seemed unable to swallow and the liquor ran in rivulets down his cheek. He let out a long sigh that sounded like air leaking from a tomb, and then went limp against her.
“Don’t you die, Thompson!” Lyla screamed. “Damn you, getting yourself shot, and now—”
Spurred on by her racing heartbeat, Lyla forced herself to look at the gaping wounds. Already the mattress was soaked with blood. Getting Barry to the hospital was impossible, and his life forces flickered even as she watched him slip away into numbness.
Lyla prayed to God and to every saint she could name, and then fetched the sharpest knife she could find
Chapter 6
While decoctions of lavender and thyme and eucalyptus brewed in large enamel pots, Lyla washed the marshal’s wounds. She had unflinching faith in the healing powers of her herbs and in her ability to administer them, but surgery? To her great relief, the bullet had passed cleanly through Barry’s shoulder, but when she washed his blood-covered thigh, the metal stub taunted her from deep inside his muscles.
Quickly she tied a tourniquet around his arm and disinfected the bullet hole with the hot lavender and eucalyptus. To stop the bleeding, she applied a pack of lady’s mantle, binding it tightly to let the pressure and the herbs work while she cut the bullet from his leg. Thompson’s breathing was so shallow he appeared lifeless on the bed. Clenching her jaw to keep from crying, Lyla went to the fire to sterilize the knife. What if she cut tendons and he lost the use of his leg? What if gangrene set in? What if—
“Quit stalling or he’ll bleed to death, you ninny,” she muttered to herself. Lyla returned to the bedside, and after a last prayerful stroking of his light brown hair, began her grisly task.
Instinct overcame her fear and revulsion. In a mercifully short time the bullet clattered to the floor and she was cleansing the wound, applying disinfectant oils and a packing soaked in the thyme decoction to staunch the bleeding. She would have to sew him up, another chore she felt unqualified for…another matter she had no choice about.
When Lyla had stitched and applied fresh bandages and covered her pale patient with quilts, she fell exhausted into the nearest chair. It was long past midnight. A day that had begun with eating and drinking for two had progressed through a heartrending wedding, a reception interrupted by robbers, a bone-chilling ride home, and doctoring that had drained her. She stirred chamomile leaves into a cup of steaming water, longing for the rest it would bring.
The wind woke her from a doze. Thinking it was Barry moaning for laudanum, Lyla jumped up to tend him, only to realize that the snowstorm had blown itself into a blizzard. Soon they would be hostages here—the windows would darken, covered over in opaque white, and the door might be drifted shut. The horses needed food and water, the fireplace and stove would consume more wood than the tinderbox could hold, Barry would require broth and fresh poultices…the list stretched on and on in her tired mind. With a weary sigh, Lyla bundled up to begin her night’s work.
She was grateful that Mick had set in a large supply of hay, and that she’d put up jars of garden vegetables and tins of dried fruits and jerky. And she was thankful that Frazier Foxe hadn’t taken in a new tenant before she could reclaim these efforts. Lyla trudged to the shed, through snow that was drifted past her knees, and set out feed and water for Buck and Calico. Countless armloads of wood got stacked beside the hearth and in the stove’s tinderbox. Was it enough to last out the storm?
Lyla’s only consolation was that she would be snowed in at home, and that the thugs who shot Thompson would be unable to pester them. They had left Barry for dead, and had no idea that she had given him sanctuary in the secluded little shack. It was a safe place to stay until she could get the marshal bade to Cripple for proper medical attention.
She dropped another armload of wood into the tinderbox and checked on him. He’d shifted. His jawline was shaded with stubble that made his cheeks pale by comparison; his face was haunted by pain even as he slept. Lyla placed a hand on his forehead. Cool…unnervingly so.
She judged it to be about four in the morning when she started dough for bread and put on a pot of jerky and water to simmer. Barry would need food to keep his strength up. She changed his dressings, pleased that the grievous bleeding had stopped, and then slumped into a chair beside the bed, her hand resting on his good shoulder in case he awoke. Exhaustion overtook her swiftly. Lyla drifted off, lulled by the wind’s low song and the yeasty warmth from the hearth.
She came awake with a start and found Barry watching her. He was conscious—alive! She slid forward on her chair, called by aromas of broth and bread that needed looking after, but Thompson grabbed her hand.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled.
Lyla gaped, speechless with joy. Not only had he survived her amateur doctoring, but he knew what day it was! “Does it hurt? I’ll get you some water—”
“Bring a pan. Can’t remember the last time I relieved myself.”
>
She blushed to the roots of her hair. Of course he would need to perform such basic functions, and he required her help. Lyla rushed to the kitchen, emptied a jar of carrots into the soup pot, and returned to the bedside. “I hope this’ll be—”
“It’s fine. Get these covers off me.”
Swallowing hard, Lyla did as he asked. It was one thing to tend this virile giant when he was unconscious, and another matter entirely when he was watching her flush and fumble. How was she supposed to aim—
“You hold the jar, and I’ll take care of everything else.” he said with a quiet chuckle. “Almost makes me wish both arms were wounded.”
“Right,” Lyla mumbled. She looked away until he was finished, and then carried the jar to the door. It was snowed shut. After placing the container in the far corner of the cabin, she returned to the kitchen and washed her hands. The broth needed stirring, and the bread dough had risen high above the rim of the crockery bowl.
“No need to be embarrassed, Miss O’Riley,” a soft voice wafted toward her. “I’d be buried in this blizzard if you’d listened to my orders to stay at the Rose. Instead of strumming a harp, I’m snowed in with a good-looking, good-cooking woman.”
The gratitude behind his playful words made her chin quiver. “You’d be playing with a pitchfork and you know it.”
“Come here and tell me that to my face.”
With a defiant glance toward the green eyes peeking out above his mound of quilts, she continued forming dough into loaves. “If you’re strong enough to boss me, you’re strong enough to wait, Mr. Thompson.”
His answering chuckle sent desire spiraling through her insides. “How long can you wait, honey?” he teased. “You’ll have to change that bandage, down there where I’ll be pointing at you. You’ll have to sponge off my entire body. You’ll have to—”
Colorado Moonfire Page 6