Читать книгу The Prairie Doctor's Bride - Kathryn Albright - Страница 15

Chapter Six

This was a first for Nelson. Kidnapped by a bit of a woman no bigger than a broomstick. At first, he’d thought to wrestle the gun away from her, but then realizing the depth of her desperation, he’d decided, for the time being, to let her have her way and let things play out. If she kept waving that gun around, someone—likely he—was bound to get hurt. Besides, she hadn’t demanded money, so this wasn’t a robbery. The only thing she seemed to want was him. The idea of it tickled him a small degree. Kidnapped! He’d never been wanted so badly in his life. He only hoped he wasn’t going from a bad situation to worse. One tiny woman wouldn’t be a problem, but if she transported him to a den of outlaws, that would be another thing entirely.

In the dark, he hadn’t gotten a good look at her, but something about her was familiar—her voice, the way she pronounced certain words. He couldn’t place it, but he’d heard her speak somewhere before.

The wagon rumbled along and he felt every small rut and bump on his backside. He shivered against the chill in the air, smelling snow. Suddenly, his weight shifted as blood rushed to his head. The wagon traveled down a steep slope, then hooves clopped on wooden boards. The wagon leveled out and stopped.

There was the rustle of cloth and a few feminine grunts, then he felt a strange rocking sensation. At first, he was confused, but then the sound of water trickling over rocks came to him and he realized the wagon was floating. The only river nearby was south of town—the Smoky Hill River. And the only ferry crossing was southeast, about a mile from the train tracks. At least he had his bearings now.

When the wagon started moving over solid ground again, he knew they had reached the opposite bank. He popped his head out from under the tarp. Clouds obscured the moon. With so little light, how could the woman see the trail? All he could make out was the manly shape of her hat against the darkness. A snowflake landed on his eyelash. He swiped it away, feeling more confident that he could find his way back to town if need be. A light layer of spring snow would make it easy for him to follow tracks.

“Ma’am?”

“No talking,” she said curtly.

“But don’t you think this has gone far enough? Why do you feel the need to drag me out—”

“Shut your mouth, Doc.”

“If I can be of service, I am certainly willing.”

“I got no call to believe a word out of your mouth or any man’s. You’d only force me to turn around and take you back and I can’t do that. There’s only one thing I want from you and you ain’t leavin’ until it gets done.”

“Then you intend to release me after I do whatever it is you want?”

“Figure I’ve said enough. So have you,” she said stubbornly.

Another snowflake landed and then melted on his lip. He’d offered to help, but it seemed she wanted nothing of it. Fine by him. Let her handle things on her own. She was obviously strong. She’d managed to maneuver the pull-line across the river. He hunkered back down under the tarp. Cantankerous, stubborn woman!

After what seemed hours but was more likely fifteen or twenty minutes, the wagon stopped. He heard the squeak and jostle as his captor jumped from the small, rickety wagon.

“Doc? You awake?” She flung the tarp off, shaking out the light layer of snow on top, which ended up flying into his face.

If he had slept—which he hadn’t—he’d be awake now. He sat up.

The dark blanketed the woman’s face as surely as the tarp had blanketed him. “You can get out.”

For a moment, he thought about the gun in his medical bag. He’d thought about the derringer several times on the ride and whether to grab it or not. He kept the gun as protection against snakes and to warn off cougars. He’d never pointed it at a man, much less a woman. He knew instinctively that this entire affair was not about anyone getting hurt. The woman was desperate. That thought stayed his hand and kept the derringer stored away. He needed to find out what was going on.

“I said, get out,” she repeated.

Nelson climbed from the wagon, medical bag in hand. The snowfall was heavier. He doubted that it would stick—just a fitful spring snow destined to melt away once the sun came up. He hoped it stayed just long enough for him to find his way back to town.

“In the house. Be quick about it.”

He could barely make out the silhouette of a low-slung building a short distance away. Candlelight flickered in the window. He made his way there over lumpy ground, found the door and stepped inside.

A banked fire in the hearth emitted enough of a glow to cast the one room in a low reddish-gold light. A table stood in the center of the room. A tall cupboard stood against the far wall that was made of stacked bricks of sod. “Why did you—”

Then he heard a moan. The sound came from the floor. He walked around the table. A small boy lay on a straw pallet, his eyes open and feverish. Immediately, Nelson strode over to him.

He set aside his medical bag and dropped to his knees. “What happened?” Dried blood congealed on the boy’s matted hair and smeared the thin muslin cover behind his head.

“He’s awake! Oh, Lord be praised! Tommy! I’m here, son. Mama’s here. You just lie still now. I fetched the doctor.”

Nelson glanced up and for the first time recognized the woman he’d met in the mercantile two days earlier. She wore the same hat she’d worn then, a man’s old felt cowboy hat that had lost its shape from years of use. It had fallen back between her shoulder blades, held there by its chin ties. Her brown hair, loosely braided, fell over her shoulder to her belt buckle. She had tears in her large brown eyes.

“So...it’s you.”

She met his gaze with a stubborn one of her own. Then she swallowed before resolutely lifting her chin. “You’ll fix him.”

Nelson raised his brow. He wasn’t used to being ordered about. He was the one who usually did the ordering. “What happened?”

“He fell from the shed this afternoon. Hit his head good and hard. He wouldn’t wake up.”

“It’s a good thing he’s awake now.” Nelson took a moment to look down the boy’s body. The left leg had been tended to. It was now wrapped in a thick piece of wool material. “Looks like he did more than hit his head.”

She hovered over him, unmindful of the fact she still had that pistol in her hand. She waved it about. “Hurt his leg too. Happened when he went through the old roof. Foot got caught up and he lost his balance. Might be broken.” She pointed with the gun to his left foot.

“Put that gun down before you shoot somebody, woman! As upset as you are, that thing will go off before you know it.”

She pulled back.

“I don’t do well at gunpoint.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

She frowned at him. “How do I know you won’t shoot me once I let go?”

He huffed. “Because if I wanted to shoot you, I would have done so already with the pistol in my medical bag.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Slowly, she put the gun down on the table.

He turned back to the boy and crouched down again. He directed his words to her. “It sounds like a nasty fall. Where were you when this happened?”

She stiffened. “I was tending to chores.” Then her face crumpled. “You’ll fix him, won’t you?”

She truly was beside herself and not thinking straight. He guessed a lecture on keeping an eye on her son was unnecessary at this point, although he’d surely like to give her one. What kind of mother consented to letting her youngster climb something so high? “What were you doing up on top of the lean-to, young man?”

“He’s always climbing something, Doc,” Miss Marks answered for her son. “Never had a fear of heights like most people. It ain’t natural, but there you have it.”

He stared her down. “Does he know how to speak?”

She looked confused. “Why, yes.”

“Good. Then he can answer for himself.”

She clamped her mouth shut and glared at him.

“Bring that candle over,” he ordered. “Or, better yet, if you have a lamp...”

He continued examining the boy while the woman bustled about the room. He was barely aware that she’d lit a lamp and carried it close, holding it steadily to help him see her son better. Tommy followed his instructions—holding his head still and following the lamp with his eyes, his pupils constricting and then opening again with the distance of the light. That was a good sign.

“How old are you?”

The boy stared silently at him with a wary expression.

“He’s seven.”

He set his jaw. The woman was impossible to work with. “Then he’s old enough to answer my questions. I will have you step away, ma’am, if you don’t hold your tongue. I need to hear him talk, to make sure he is not slurring his words. It helps to determine the extent of his injury.”

He turned back to Tommy. “Now, young man, how old are you?”

The boy looked from him to his mother.

“Answer me.”

Tommy swallowed. His lips parted. “Seven.” The word was barely a whisper, croaked out between dry lips.

“Tell me where you hurt.”

Systematically, he examined the boy, questioning, peering and probing until he was satisfied that he understood the boy’s injuries. When he unwrapped the makeshift dressing from the injured leg, Tommy gave a swift gasp.

He’d been so quiet, and now to hear him, Nelson realized the boy had been hiding much of his pain. Nelson gentled his touch. “It is the air hitting the wound that hurts.” He leaned closer, surprised at the cleanliness he encountered. The raw wound had been scrubbed. “Did you clean this up?”

“Are you asking me? Or Tommy?” the woman asked.

He gritted his teeth. “You, of course.”

“I did the best I could. There was lots of dirt from the shed’s roof.”

He grunted. Surprised she’d done such a thorough job of taking care of the wound. As much as she was worried about her son being in pain, she hadn’t skimped on scrubbing it. He peeled back a small section of the skin flap. The wound was nearly to the bone.

Tommy cried out. Large tears filled his eyes. His breathing grew erratic.

The lamplight wavered. His mother, still holding the lamp close, knelt beside him. Tears filled her eyes too as she grasped her son’s hand with her free one.

Nelson replaced the flap of skin, approximating the edges as best he could. It would need stitching, but there was one more thing he had to do before he was completely satisfied with his exam. “I’m sorry to have to hurt you. I’ll go as quick as I can to lessen the pain. Ready?”

The boy set his jaw once more and then nodded bravely.

Nelson ran his fingers down the two long bones from the shin to the wound. Then, grasping above the wound with one hand, he took hold of Tommy’s foot with the other and moved it through all the proper positions.

“Very good.” He pulled his medical bag closer and rummaged through it for his needle and supply of catgut. “It needs to be stitched. Brace yourself, Tommy.”

“No.”

He let out another sigh. “Miss Marks.”

“So you do remember my name. Don’t matter. You’re not poking holes in my son.”

“It’s the only way to keep the skin together so that it will heal.”

She shook her head. “He’s hurting enough. Wrap it back up and let it heal on its own.”

He wasn’t used to having his directions contradicted. “I don’t think you understand how deep his wound is. If the tissue doesn’t bind correctly, your son could lose much of his ability to walk.”

She’d been so set to argue that it took a minute for his words to sink in. Then her shoulder slumped and her brown eyes clouded. “You’re sayin’ he...he might not walk again?”

“That’s right.”

She swallowed.

“I’ve seen this type of injury before when I worked for the railroad. I know what to do. You will have to trust me.”

The war going on inside her was evident on her face. She wanted to protect her son from further hurt—that was what her gut told her. And she didn’t know whether he was skilled or not. Her bottom lip trembled. “You’ll make it so he walks again?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes.

“Ma?”

She met her son’s gaze. “We got to trust the doc, Tommy. You hold on to my hand tight. I’m right here.” She looked up at Nelson and nodded, her expression resolute.

Nelson finished his preparations.

“Hold him,” he said to Miss Marks.

She set her jaw and then lay across her son, gripping his leg to hold him still.

He made the first stitch.

Tommy tensed and yelled out.

Nelson had done this procedure on grown men. Never on a young boy with his mother looking on. If he messed up, there was the chance he might sentence the boy to being a cripple the rest of his life. That thought made him extremely careful.

When he was done, he glanced up to see how Tommy had weathered the treatment and found Miss Marks watching him intently. Her face was pale, but no less determined than it had been earlier. “Get me another bandage.”

She scrambled to her feet.

“You did well,” he told the boy. “I’m all finished except for wrapping it up.”

Tommy didn’t answer, but he relaxed his jaw. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

“How are you feeling?” Nelson asked.

Tommy let out a shaky breath but still didn’t answer.

Of course, the boy still hurt. “You did well,” Nelson said again. “I’ve had grown men who didn’t handle stitches as bravely as you.”

Miss Marks returned with what appeared to be clean rags and a small jar of honey.

He took the rags and wrapped the ankle. “You can get him a blanket now. Keep him here by the fire for the next few days. He needs lots of rest. Nothing appears to be broken. It’s probably a bad sprain. I’ll know more in a few days, once the swelling has gone down and the wound has a chance to bind together.”

“Then...he’ll be all right?”

He nodded. “Young boys are resilient about such things.”

A ragged breath shuddered out of her. She sank to her knees beside her son. “Ya hear that? You’re going to be all right, Tommy.” A tear trickled down her cheek.

“What are you cryin’ for, Ma?”

She cupped the boy’s jaw with her palm. “I’m happy. That’s all. You heard what the doctor said. You rest now.”

Nelson squirmed. Such an outpouring of love was something he’d never experienced with his own mother. He turned away, clearing his throat.

At the sound, Miss Marks rose to her feet. “You look piqued, Doc. I’ll get you some water.”

He hadn’t realized he was thirsty until she said something. “Thank you.”

She also filled a glass for her son and handed it to Tommy first. Then she set a full glass on the table for Nelson.

“Now you know why I had to make you come.”

“At gunpoint,” he said, glancing pointedly at the gun still lying on the table.

“You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

“I had to know Tommy would be all right. I couldn’t get him to wake up.”

Something stirred inside Nelson. “You should have sent someone. It was dangerous for you to leave your son alone.”

Her expression crumpled. “Like you, I didn’t have a choice either.”

He looked away—anywhere but at her. Female sentiment shook him up more than he cared. Female hysteria unhinged him. Give him a man to doctor any day. A man who would keep his feelings in check.

He looked about the cabin. Two chairs, a table, a fireplace. A curtained-off doorway, likely one that led to a small bedroom for her. She had so few things. There was nothing he could see that was not essential—no pictures on the walls. How long had she lived here on her own with her son? He wanted to ask but held the question back. It was best that he not get involved with that part of her life. He should keep a professional distance, keep things objective.

As he pondered this, Miss Marks moved back to her son. She crouched down and lovingly swept the shock of dark blond hair from his forehead. The ministration, and the look that passed from her to her son, spoke volumes. As did the calm adoration in her son’s eyes for her. This woman might not have pictures on her walls or fancy clothes, but she had what was most important in life. It was something he had never had.

He measured the darkness visible at the edges of the oilcloth covering the window. Dawn wouldn’t arrive for several hours. The woman looked exhausted. He should offer to sit up with the boy and let her rest. He wouldn’t be fresh to call on Miss Vandersohn in the morning, but that seemed inconsequential now. That decision seemed like a year ago—the bright celebration at the town hall last evening a far cry from this dark, dank soddy.

She placed another chip of dried dung on the small fire, then stirred the ashes with a poker. A small, steady flame sputtered up and took hold. “I’ll take you back as soon as it’s light, Doc.”

“Then you’d better get some rest. I’ll sit up with your son.”

Tommy was already falling asleep. She stood and, with her fist to the small of her back, arched her body in a quick stretch. The firelight flared, the light revealing dark smudges beneath her eyes. “I’ll be taking care of my own.”

“After all this, you still don’t trust me? Not even a little?”

She raised her chin.

He let out a tired sigh and sat down on a chair, his back to the wall. “All right. Then we’ll both stay up with him.”

She plopped down in the only other chair available and stared at the fire in the hearth.

It came as a bit of a surprise that he was warm—warmer than he would be at his fancy two-story house in town, where the wind whistled and made the boards creak. Here, there were no cracks or knotholes for the breeze to pass through. Whoever had built this home had done a decent job with the materials at hand.

Before long, her breathing became deep and even. Her eyes drifted close as she slid slowly and surely to rest her head in the crook of her arm on the table.

He moved the gun out from under her elbow and took a moment to consider her. She must be somewhere around twenty-five by her unlined face and the lack of gray in her dark brown hair. Her skin was smooth and pale. He liked the slight upturn of her nose at the end. Considering the flash in her eyes when he mentioned the catgut, the shape of her nose went along well with her stubbornness. Unguarded like this, with her frown replaced by a peaceful expression, she was...attractive. Immediately, he looked away. She was just a young and determined mother. That was all. And, annoying as it had been to be kidnapped, he admired her spunk and her devotion to her son. To notice anything more about her was...unsettling. He pushed the thought away and settled back in his chair to keep watch the rest of the night.