Judith E French (9 page)

Unbelievably, Shane seized the bull’s horns. Goliath bucked wildly, but Shane clung on and slid under the animal’s neck. Through the rising dust, Caitlin saw Shane brace his boot heels against the ground. He twisted the bull’s head up and back. And then one horn slipped free and Goliath began to run, dragging Shane along with him.

As bull and man fought their way across the compound, Justice dashed into the shed. The boy snatched Derry around the middle and made a run for the gate.

Caitlin ran around the outside of the pound to the door, but before she could lift the heavy bar, the bull smashed against the gate. She cried out and jumped back, too frightened to breathe. When she pressed her face to a crack in the fence, she saw Shane sprawled in the center of the corral and the bull stamping into the open stable. One of Derry’s hair ribbons lay trampled in the dirt, but she couldn’t locate either child.

“Derry! Justice!” she screamed.

The bull slammed into something solid, and Caitlin heard wood splinter. Derry had stopped crying. “Don’t be dead,” Caitlin whispered hoarsely. “Please, don’t be dead, baby.” Crazed beyond fear, she raised the bar and swung the gate wide. Ripping off her apron, she waved it across the entrance and screamed at the bull.

Goliath turned and stared at the flapping apron. He was panting heavily, and blood trickled from one ear. The animal took a quick, running hop toward the gate, and Caitlin balled up the white cloth and threw it outside of the paddock on the grass. The bull took another step and peered suspiciously at the object. When he began to trot
toward the open gate, Caitlin ducked into the space behind the door and held her breath.

Her blood pounded in her ears. She knew that her skirts and shoes and stockings showed under the door, but there was no place else to hide. Seconds passed without a sound from the children. “Please,” Caitlin whispered again. “Please.”

The gate hinges groaned as the bull lumbered through the opening, brushing against the door with his shoulder. Caitlin smelled the heavy stench of the animal and saw one white hind leg and his dung-caked tail as he broke into a gallop and thundered through the barnyard.

Caitlin ran into the pound and her knees went weak. Shane still hadn’t moved. “Not you,” she murmured. “I can’t lose you.”

She ached to run to him, to cradle his head in her lap and kiss his bearded face, but she wouldn’t let herself. Instead, Caitlin straightened her back and walked into the shed. She prepared herself for the worst.

“Mama.” Derry’s dirty face peered from the space beneath a soapstone water trough.

“Derry? You’re all right?” Caitlin dropped to her knees and pulled the squirming child out of her hiding spot hugging her tightly to her breast.

Justice wiggled out right behind Derry. His shirt was shredded from shoulder to waist, and both knees in his trousers were split. A purple bruise bulged over one dark eye. “Whew! I thought he had us,” the boy said.

“You’re not hurt?” Caitlin demanded.

Justice shook his head. “I tease that ole bull all the time, but he never done that before.” The child’s eyes were still dilated with fright, but he tried to cover his fear with a forced smile.

“You saved Derry’s life.” Caitlin didn’t want to let go
of the little girl. The children were both safe. She was free to go to Shane, but it was hard to summon the courage. What if she’d lost him before they even knew each other again? What if she’d come all this way to have him die in front of her?

Steeling herself, Caitlin released Derry and turned back toward the dusty enclosure where her husband lay so still. “Keep Derry here,” she said. “Shane’s hurt.” She couldn’t say that Shane might be dead.

On weak knees, she crossed to Shane’s sprawled body, shivering despite the late morning heat.

“Son of a bitch,” Justice swore, and ran past Caitlin.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t—”

Just as the boy reached him, Shane groaned and rolled over. Caitlin dropped to her knees in the dirt beside him.

Justice looked as though he was about to burst into tears. “That ole bull stomped you, huh?”

“Shane …” Caitlin whispered. “Oh, Shane …”

He coughed and raised a hand to his bruised forehead. Just above his temple, a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg rose beneath his damp hair. And blood oozed from a jagged cut on his left cheek, soaking his beard and trickling down his neck.

“Lie still,” Caitlin warned. “Your head—”

“Feels like I’ve been trampled by twelve hundred pounds of bull.” Shane closed his eyes, then snapped them open. “Your girl? Derry? Is she—”

“Derry’s fine, thanks to you … and Justice.” Caitlin took hold of his hand and turned it over. Shane’s callused palms were raw, dirt and gravel ground into his flesh. In places the skin hung in shreds.

Tears clouded Caitlin’s vision. “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. You both saved Derry’s life.”

“Bravest? Or the most foolhardy.” Shane tried to sit
up, but he seemed to lack the strength. He let his eyes drift shut, then snapped them open again. “Where’s … where’s the bull?” he slurred.

“Derry shouldn’t have been in the bull pen,” Justice said.

“It’s all right,” Caitlin soothed as she put her hands on Shane’s shoulders and pressed him back. “Don’t move.”

Shane groaned and took in a ragged breath.

“Stay still,” Caitlin ordered, “You could be hurt worse than you realize. Let me get a wet cloth for—”

“Shit, that ain’t nothin’,” Justice said. “He won’t let a little bump like that slow him down.”

“I’m fine,” Shane mumbled. “Watch your mouth, boy. There are ladies—”

“Mind what you say or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap,” Caitlin threatened.

Justice glared at her.

Shane groaned and rolled over onto his hands and knees. “You heard … what your mother said.”

“She ain’t my mother.”

“Let me up, woman.” Shane pushed her hands away and rose unsteadily to his feet. He swayed drunkenly and looked around. “Where’s Goliath?”

“She turned him loose,” Justice answered. “Just opened the gate and let him run.”

“Smart.” Shane took another deep breath. “Shoulda thought of that … myself.” He put both hands over his face and struggled to remain upright. “Dizzy,” he muttered.

“What can you be thinking of?” Caitlin put an arm around Shane to steady him. “You must get into bed. That cut needs a physician’s attention. Someone must go for—”

“A long ride he’d have,” Gabriel said. He and Mary
had come up behind Caitlin so quietly that she hadn’t heard them. Handing a rifle to Mary, the wrangler took Shane’s other arm and supported his weight. “The nearest doctor is at Johnson’s Ferry.”

“I wouldn’t let Doc Phebe put a hand … on my dead dog—if I had a dog,” Shane said. “And I can walk, damn it. I don’t need … the two of you to carry me.”

“We see how good you walk.” Mary took her pipe from her mouth and spit in the dirt. “Missy-Wife right. You belong bed.”

Caitlin looked up into Shane’s face as they led him toward the gate. His eyes were dilated and glazed, and that frightened her. “Surely the physician could—” she began.

“I said I’ll not have him,” Shane argued.

“Why not?” Caitlin asked.

Shane sucked in a ragged breath, and she could see by his breathing that his ribs were probably injured as well. “Don’t trust him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Caitlin demanded.

“Stupid,” Justice said. “Dumb as cow pies.”

“The boy’s right,” Shane said. “Mary can sew me up.” He clenched his teeth, and his face took on the color of tallow.

Caitlin winced as she felt the grating of bone under his skin. “You’ve a broken rib.”

“More than one I’d guess.” Shane looked at Gabriel. “Where’s my two-hundred-dollar bull now?”

“Hightailin’ it across the west pasture. He busted down three rails and jumped the bottom one. I thought I might have to shoot him, until he caught the scent of those heifers.”

“That should hold him.” Shane nodded.

Caitlin glanced back at Justice. “Bring Derry for me, please.”

Derry ran to Mary and clasped her hand. “Ba-ad moo cow,” the little girl said. “Chasey my duck.”

“Mary’s duck,” Mary corrected sternly.

Derry went on chattering. “I chasey ba-ad moo-cow,” she said. “I firstey.”

“Mary find you something to drink,” Mary answered. Then she said something too low for Caitlin to hear, and Derry giggled.

The distance from the pound to the house seemed vast to Caitlin as they half led, half carried a semiconscious Shane inside and up to his bedchamber. Even with their assistance, he could barely manage the stairs. Once they had Shane on his bed, Caitlin instructed Gabriel to fetch soap and warm water.

The cowboy scowled, and for a moment Caitlin thought he was going to refuse to obey her orders, but then Shane opened his eyes and gestured toward the door.

“Best you do as she says,” he grated hoarsely. “She’ll give us no peace if you don’t.”

She waited until Gabe left the room, then tugged off one of Shane’s boots. Her hands were still trembling from shock, but if she kept moving, she could hold off the terror of what might have been. She couldn’t close her eyes for fear of seeing the bull, and she wouldn’t allow herself to think that she could easily have been washing Shane for his burial.

Caitlin wished that she had time to go off alone for a good cry, but there was none. For all Shane’s protests of being all right, he worried her. He was in more pain than he admitted, and his head wound might be serious. She couldn’t understand why he was unwilling to send for the doctor. Any physician would know more about an injury to the head than she did.

“Stop fussin’ over me,” Shane growled. “I don’t need fussing over.”

Ignoring his grumbling, she pulled off his other boot and both clean, crudely patched stockings. Shane’s high-arched feet were clean as well, his toenails trimmed neatly. Praise God, Caitlin thought, for she doubted if she could live with a pigsty of a husband.

“I don’t need you undressin’ me,” he said. “Mary can do what needs doin’.”

“I’m your wife, Shane. It’s my place to—”

“I’ve got a bump on my head. I’m no invalid.” He raised his head, grimaced, and sank back. “Can’t you make this room stop buckin’?” he said, trying to make light of his dizziness.

“Shhh. Don’t try to talk.” Caitlin pressed him back against the folded saddle blanket that substituted for a pillow. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

“You need to lie still, before you bleed all over your bed.”

His breathing came shallow but steady. She laid a palm on his forehead. His skin felt cool, but she didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one. His head was still bleeding, but it seemed to her as though the cut was clotting.

“Where is that Gabriel with the water?” she murmured nervously. “I need to wash the dirt out of this before it becomes infected.”

Shane muttered something unintelligible, and he seemed to drift off again.

A small sound of concern passed Caitlin’s lips as she glanced around the room. Shane’s bedchamber was as spartan as a monk’s cell, containing little more than a bed, a few articles of clothing hung on hand-whittled oak pegs, another pair of boots, and a single straight-backed chair fashioned of peeled branches. A saddle slung over a trunk, and a pair of deer antlers with a silver crucifix
dangling from it were the only other items of note in the room.

Well, Caitlin mused wryly, you’ve brought no sporting woman to this room. Of that much I can be certain.

She looked back at Shane and was relieved to see that his color seemed to be returning. He had a concussion, she reasoned, and a few cracked ribs. God willing, that was all.

Shyly she reached out to touch a curling lock of his dark hair. It was as soft as she remembered it. “Ah, Shane,” she whispered too low for him to hear. In some ways he was the same under that rough exterior. She wondered how his fair hair had turned so dark in the years since they’d last laid eyes on each other.

Shane seemed asleep, and the idea that she could gaze at him and even touch him without his knowledge made her bold. She skimmed her fingertips lightly over his cheek, marveling at the scratchy texture of his beard. His whiskers had tickled her when they’d kissed. It hadn’t been an unpleasant sensation, but different.

Not that beards were uncommon among men. To the contrary, most males old enough to lift a glass of spirits grew them. Her own father had worn a beard, and since she’d come to America, she’d seen few white men clean shaven. Still, the Shane she’d married had worn neither beard nor mustache.

Thoughtfully she studied the bloody gouge on Shane’s face. Cleaning that wound would be easier without whiskers in the way, and doubtless it would heal faster.

Her reverie was interrupted by the squeak of the door hinges. Caitlin gave a little start and turned to see Mary staring at her.

“Mary bring needle. Sew head.” The Indian woman carried an empty basin, a cloth that had known better
times, and a needle large enough to sew canvas. Curled in a loop over her thumb was a length of sticky yellow string.

“What is that?” Caitlin demanded suspiciously.

Gabriel followed Mary into the room. “That’s sinew, for stitching McKenna up.” He placed a pail of steaming water on the floor and beat a hasty retreat from the sickroom.

Caitlin glanced at Shane and then back at Mary. “No, I don’t think so,” she pronounced firmly. “If you will please look after the children, I’ll see to my husband’s injuries.”

Mary frowned with disapproval. “Mary do,” she insisted.

“No, Mary will not do.” Caitlin stepped between Shane and the housekeeper. “That needle is …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I assure you, I’m quite capable. I cared for both of my parents in their final illnesses.”

Mary grunted and shifted her pipe from one corner of her mouth to the other. “Mary good medicine woman. Much heal.”

“I’m sure you are. But I can do this.”

Mary shrugged and with a final sniff of contempt, she deposited her basin and rag beside Gabriel’s bucket and shuffled out of the room.

Caitlin’s feeling of triumph was short-lived. She knew she had her own sewing basket with silk thread and tiny needles, but where would she find a man’s razor? And what was she supposed to use for disinfectant and bandages?