Читать книгу The Prairie Doctor’s Bride - Kathryn Albright - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Sylvia threw the last of the wet clothes into her basket and traipsed back to the house from the creek. The day was uncommonly warm this early in spring, and she figured she’d better not misuse it. With her washing done, and soon to be spread on the line, she and Tommy might have time to hunt for mushrooms. Her mouth watered at the thought of them fried up in butter and piled high on a chunk of hearty bread.

“Tommy! Fetch a pail from the lean-to and let’s take a walk down the road,” she called out.

“Not till you find me!”

That boy! He was full of vinegar! She couldn’t blame him, not one bit. The warm sun shining down beckoned her to put work aside and have a day of fun. “Can you give me a hint?”

“Nope!”

He must be behind the shed. She set her basket down and ducked under the clothesline. She couldn’t believe the shed still stood after the winter they’d had, but Thomas had been good with his hands and smart when it came to making things.

“I’m coming!”

“Won’t get me!” her son cried out.

The happy sound filled her heart with gladness. She peeked behind the shed, ready to catch him if he raced by.

“You ain’t even warm yet!”

“Then where are you?” She tiptoed over to the stand of brush that edged the expanse of prairie and buffalo wallows beyond. The line of brush hid their place from prying eyes and made their small cabin feel cozy and protected. “I give up.”

A giggle escaped Tommy. “Right here!”

She spun around. Her son’s voice had come from above her. A flash of blue caught her eyes and she finally spied him. He’d managed to climb atop the shed and now lay sprawled across the slanted roof on his belly.

“How’d you climb way up there? Come on down now.”

He grinned. “All right, Ma.”

He stood and took a step, the old wood and tarp cracking and then giving beneath his foot. He flailed his arms out and his eyes widened.

“Tommy!” She moved closer. “Careful!”

But the fear in his big brown eyes clutched at her heart. “Ma... Ma!” Suddenly, he pitched forward, scraping against the edge of the roof and crying out in pain as he fell.

“No! Tommy!” she screamed and scrambled toward him.

He landed hard on a patch of weeds and lay still.

She knelt at his side, afraid at first to touch him. Hoping...hoping...that he would open his eyes or squirm or even jump up and laugh at her for being worried.

He didn’t.

“You all right?” she asked gently, her chest tight with worry. Of course, he wasn’t all right. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even hearing her. “Tommy! Wake up! I’m here! I’m here...” She barely got the words out before her sobs choked them off. Her gut coiled into a hard lump. She reached for him. He was her baby—the only thing she cared for in this life. Oh, why...why...had he been born with the overpowering urge to climb things?

Maybe he’d just had the wind knocked out of him. Maybe she just needed to give him a moment.

Trembling, she took hold of his small hand. His face was deathly pale.

“Tommy, please wake up...”

His chest moved and then he gasped, pulling in air in a short burst, and then in a longer, slower drag as his lungs started working again.

“Oh, my stars! Tommy, are you all right?”

He rolled farther onto his back and took another breath. A deep one this time. “I don’t feel right.”

“You fell from the shed, baby. Where does it hurt?”

“Everywheres.”

“I don’t doubt that. Can you move?”

At that, he clenched his hands into fists, then tried to use his arms to sit up. Immediately, he fell back to the ground, breathing hard. “My head. My leg.”

“Let me look at you.” Gently, she turned his head to the side and smoothed her fingers through his hair. She felt something sticky and wet. There—a lump the size of a black walnut swelled up. He winced.

She turned to his legs. The one closest to her moved just fine. When she tested his far leg—his left leg—Tommy yelled.

“All right, all right...” she said. She had barely moved the leg and he’d had pain. What was she to do?

“Ma...I hurt all over.”

She swallowed. She couldn’t leave him out in the weather like this. The ground hadn’t given up the cold of winter yet.

“I gotta git you warm, son. I’m gonna get the quilt from the house to cover you. Then I’ll figure this out. You just rest. I’ll be right back.” She squeezed his hand firmly and then scrambled to her feet.

She raced to the house. Yanking the quilt from her son’s straw pallet, she rushed back out to him. He was deathly pale. His eyes were half-closed.

“This ain’t going to feel good, son,” she said as she snugged the quilt over him and tucked it around his little body, especially tight around his legs. “But you be brave. I’ll get you fixed up.”

Sneaking her arm under his knees and her other behind his back, she lifted him up and carried him to the house. If it was possible, his face paled even more when she laid him on his pallet by the hearth. Beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip and forehead.

“All done moving.” She used her apron to wipe his forehead, then raked his long shock of dark blond hair away from his face. “You were as brave as brave could be.”

“I don’t feel so good.” His usually boisterous voice was thin and weak.

She took his hand. It was cold and moist. Fear as she’d never known it before gripped her. “You hang on. I’ll get you—” His brown eyes drifted closed and his hand fell limply from hers. “Tommy!”

His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

Grabbing the fire iron, she stirred up the ashes in the hearth and then tossed on a cow chip.

She had best look at that leg. Carefully, she unwrapped the quilt from Tommy, then took a knife from the cupboard drawer and cut away his trousers.

And sat back, staring at the ugly wound on his leg. Her gut tightened. It looked bad. Real bad. A flap of skin had been scraped back in a wide swath along the side near the ankle. The skin was swollen and purple. Could she fix it?

Then another thought took hold. Had he broken his ankle too? It had all happened so fast. Maybe she couldn’t fix either of his ailments.

She took a closer look at his head, wincing at the size of the lump that had formed. He’d bled through the coarse cotton covering of the pallet, but she’d heard that head wounds always bled a lot. The flow of blood seemed to be slowing, congealing now. She couldn’t do anything for a head injury. It would have to heal itself. She felt so helpless.

She got to her feet, grabbed the soap and the bowl and the pitcher from the table, and came back to him. “I sure hope you don’t wake up and feel this, son, ’cause it will break my heart if I’m a-hurtin’ you.”

With that, she set to work rinsing out the dirt and splinters of the old roof and cleaning out the wound. Then she slathered a layer of honey over it and wrapped it in a clean cloth.

She wished that someone at the DuBois farm was home. Adele would know what to do, but just yesterday the family had stopped by to tell her they were on their way to Salina to purchase a new ox.

Sylvia pulled Tommy’s pallet closer to the fire. Not knowing what else to do, she sat down in her rocking chair and watched him for signs of rousing.

She took comfort in the fact that he was breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest was sweeter to her than a meadowlark’s song. Surely he’d wake up soon. Surely the Lord wouldn’t take Tommy from her too.

But the next hour brought no change. Her confidence in Tommy’s recovery slowly eroded. It seemed that a child should bounce back quick and this wasn’t quick. She gave him a little jiggle, pushing on his shoulder. Then put a cold cloth to his face. He didn’t stir.

Pale sunlight streamed through a small window and slanted across the dirt floor. It would be dark in another hour.

She wasn’t used to sitting. Wasn’t used to letting life happen to her. She preferred to go out and meet it. For seven years, she’d worked hard to make a life for the two of them. She wasn’t about to see that stop, not if there was an ounce of strength left in her body.