Tangled Past (10 page)

Despite Jackson’s attentions in the bedroom, she’d often worried about that herself. “Have you known Jackson long?”

“Since he was born. His mama and daddy used to own a farm a few miles away from our place. Then after his mama died, his daddy came to work for the Campbells, so Jackson came with him.” The kettle on the stove to heat, Martha joined her at the kitchen table.

“So his father was a ranch hand?”

“Lars was sort of a jack-of-all-trades. He helped out with distributing the hay, doing odd jobs, repairing any leatherwork, mucking out the barns. Nothing that required him to be on horseback.”

Sarah blinked. “Jackson’s father didn’t ride?”

Martha’s earthy chuckle filled the kitchen. “Oh, heavens no. Lars Kellar was downright afraid of horses.”

“Jackson’s so at home in the saddle, I assumed he was taught by his father.”

“Oh, Lars talked a good game when he arrived in town, bless his heart. You’d think he’d been riding all his life, according to his stories. Of course, that lie was soon disproved. Apart from not being able to ride, he was uncoordinated as all get-out. He couldn’t lasso a tree stump to save his life, and the man would clean faint to the ground at the first sight of blood when they castrated the calves.”

Which wouldn’t earn him a lot of respect from hardly anyone, man or woman. She’d seen that happen to a lot of the newcomers from out east. They all had big dreams of creating a legacy, of taming the land and coming out a land baron. Until they discovered how much hard work, sweat and sometimes just plain good luck was involved in making a ranch successful.

“But Lars was a good man. He treated Jackson and his mama right.”

“Jackson’s never spoken about his mother.” With a father named Lars, Jackson must have gotten his Indian blood from her side. “What was she like?”

Was she like me?
She slipped her hand into her pocket and sought the turquoise hatband she’d retrieved from its hiding spot and now carried like a talisman.

“Ruth was a lovely girl. Full of mischief when she was little.” Martha took a deep breath, blinking rapidly before she turned away. “She was stubborn, just like Jackson, bless her heart. Headstrong. She wore the pants in that family. She had to because she knew more about ranching than her husband. Even so, Lars worshipped her.”

“It didn’t bother him that she was part Indian?”

“No, honey. It wasn’t her fault who her daddy was, and Lars didn’t care one way or another. He was head-over-heels in love with Ruth.”

“Not all men are so understanding.”

“No, the good Lord knows they’re not.” She squeezed Sarah’s hand again before standing up.

Sarah had to wait until the coffee had been brewed and poured before Martha continued. “When Ruth died giving birth to Jackson’s sister…well, Lars pretty much gave up his dreams of his own ranch at that point. Mr. Campbell had a big heart and he knew Lars didn’t have enough money to put food on the table for Jackson, so he offered Lars a job. Turned out the one thing Lars was good at was cooking, so he’d man one of the chuck wagons during the cattle drives. From what I gather, there wasn’t a man amongst them who wasn’t happy when Lars Kellar rang the dinner bell. He taught Jackson to cook too. He was a fair hand at it too. He makes the best omelette I’ve ever tasted, as well as griddle cakes so light they practically fly off the skillet.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “But don’t drink his coffee. I swear it could melt a hole in a plate glass window.”

“How old was Jackson when Lars died?”

“He’d just had his twelfth birthday. He was tryin’ hard to be a man, but it’s tough at that age.”

“What happened?”

“They were on a cattle drive. Something spooked the herd, and they started a stampede. Lars was badly crushed when the steers turned over his wagon then ran right over it. He might have survived the broken bones, but he got an infection. It took the poor man over two weeks to die.” Martha frowned at her own cup of coffee. “Maybe that’s why Jackson doesn’t cook anymore. Because it brings back too many memories for him.”

The two women fell silent as they sipped their coffee, aware of the wind howling through the trees outside.

Outside, Jackson shouted for her with an urgency that had her putting her cup down with a thump. They hurried to the front porch as a half dozen horses rode into the yard, Jackson’s gelding pulling a travois with a still figure lying on it.

“Martha, get your doctorin’ kit ready. Nate’s been hurt real bad.” Jackson called. He pulled up Thunder and swung out of the saddle as the other men gathered around him. They worked with little speech, unhooking the litter from its traces. Jackson grabbed the poles by Nate’s head and Martha’s son Charles grabbed the bottom. Together they lifted it, carrying their burden onto the porch in total silence.

Sarah held open the door and let them pass, using the opportunity to quickly assess Nate’s wounds. They bound sticks on either side of his left leg to act as splints. A rip in the fabric and the dark stain on his thigh told her the skin had been punctured, most likely by bone. Though she knew head wounds bled more than most, she dug her fingernails into her palm at the blood matting his hair and coating his face. She trailed them into the bedroom, where Martha pulled back the covers on Nate’s bed.

The two men lifted Nate as carefully as they might a child and set him on the mattress. Nate was almost as white as the sheets, and more frightening to Sarah, unmoving.

Martha fussed over him, but wasted no time in setting Sarah’s shears to his shirt, choosing to cut it from him rather than hurt Nate more by moving him. Sarah chose linens from the trunk at the edge of Nate’s bed and set some clean ones aside to use as bandages. She hurried to the kitchen, where she filled a bowl with the water they’d heated earlier. After a second’s thought, she filled the kettle again and set it to boil as well.

When she returned, Jackson was talking to Martha, his words clipped and tight. “I think we got his leg set all right, but I think he’s got some busted ribs too.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Nate. His body was rigid, except for his fists which were clenching and unclenching. She knew that he’d freely change places with his friend, probably even blamed himself for whatever had happened. “I’m real worried about that wound on his head.”

Martha touched Jackson’s arm, a soothing gesture Sarah could tell did nothing to ease his tension. “Has he come around at all since it happened?”

His lips compressed so tight they were white, Jackson shook his head.

Martha had stripped Nate down, though she’d draped a towel over his groin to preserve his modesty. Blood slowly dripped from the gash on his thigh, though whether it had just started again from them moving Nate or had never stopped she couldn’t tell. Bruises and welts covered the rest of his body like he’d been punched by a giant’s fist. Only his face escaped unscathed.

If she hadn’t seen his injuries, Sarah might have sworn he was simply sleeping, he looked so peaceful.

She touched Jackson’s hand, surprised when he laced his fingers with hers in an iron-tight grip. “What happened?”

When he met her gaze, the look on his face was both vicious and bleak. “He’d ridden on ahead and was over the ridge, so I didn’t see. All I can figure is that Belle lost her footing. They were down at the bottom of the ridge by the time I got to him. She landed on top of him and…” He gestured helplessly to the bed. “They were on pure rock. There weren’t nothing soft in that gulley to cushion him.”

With a fifteen-hundred pound horse on top of him, it was a wonder Nate was alive at all. Even if he woke up, his wounds could still fester, and his leg might have to be chopped off, and then he’d have to survive that too. Or he could be crippled if his leg didn’t set right. Either way, he might never be able to ride a horse again, which he’d probably see as a fate worse than death.

“Shouldn’t we send for a doctor?” Sarah asked quietly.

“We’ve already done so, but Mama here is as good as Doc Shaw,” Charles said from the doorway, where he and the other two hands stood watching.

“Miss Martha learned some tricks from her time with the Indians. Shaman magic,” another hand murmured.

“No, it’s not magic, Russ.” Martha shook her head. “Most of my knowledge comes from sixty years of dealing with tragedies like this.”

“He ain’t dead, so it ain’t a tragedy,” Jackson growled. “Not yet.”

By the time Doc Shaw arrived, Nate’s wounds had been cleaned and poultices applied. The doctor poked and prodded using his bare fingers, then stitched up the wound and declared Nate in God’s hands. Just like when her mother had lost control of the buckboard and was injured. At least Nate would be surrounded by friends and family. By love.

Martha shooed her son and the other hands out of the house and sat in the chair beside Nate’s bed. Jackson stood guard on the opposite side, though he refused to sit down.

Worried she was intruding, Sarah busied herself by making coffee and greeting the crowd of friends and neighbors, who assembled in the front yard as the news of Nate’s accident spread. The kitchen table practically groaned from the plates, casseroles and jars of preserves brought by the wives, while the men divvied up the chores that had to be done. Sarah shut out the more graphic descriptions of other injuries some had faced, taking heart in the tale of the survivors while attempting to ignore those predicting Nate’s death.

The mantel clock had long since struck the last chime of midnight before Sarah settled into a chair in the parlor. She’d lost track of time before Martha roused her. “Sarah? Nate’s awake.”

Sarah closed her eyes and uttered a prayer of thanks. “Does that mean he’ll live?”

“Only the good Lord above knows when any of us will be called to His side.” Martha picked her way across the dark room and held her hand out. “Go sit with them. It’s not just Nate who needs you right now. I can’t say I’ve ever seen Jackson so shook up. I tried to get him to lie down, but the stubborn man refuses. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Chapter Six

“I’m right here, Nate.” Jackson slid his hand into Nate’s limp one and squeezed.

“Hurts.”

The pain and weakness in Nate’s voice shattered Jackson’s composure. “I know, but it means you’re alive.”
Thank God.
“Doc Shaw wants us to keep you awake for a while before we give you any laudanum.”

Nate grimaced, though whether from pain or at having to stay awake unmedicated, Jackson wasn’t sure.

“What happened, Nate? Belle lose her footing?”

“Cougar. Spooked her. She okay?”

Jackson shook his head. “She broke her leg real bad.” He’d hated racking that bullet into his gun. The mare had been a good little filly, real responsive. Until she’d damned near killed her owner fighting to get up despite the fracture. A cougar would explain her panic. Still, he couldn’t have saved her, not with the way the bone had shattered.

“Hard to breathe.”

He debated minimizing the damage, but realized Nate already knew from the pain he was in how bad it was. “Doc Shaw figures you busted at least six ribs.” And bruised at least that number front and back. “Bet you got a whopper of a headache too. You’ve got the biggest damned goose egg I’ve ever seen.” With a possible busted skull, for all they knew.

“Leg…how bad?”

“You busted your thigh bone pretty damned good. Came out clear through your skin. Both the bones in your lower leg too.”

The sound and feeling of bone grating on bone when he’d reset it would stay in his memories for the rest of his life. Though the doc had said he’d done a good job setting it, they both knew the break hadn’t been clean, and Nate’s ability to walk without a limp was still questionable.

Jackson struggled to draw a breath against the lump growing in his throat. “We cleaned it as best we could before we moved you, and Sarah and Miss Martha cleaned it again once we got you back home.”

Nate made a half-hearted effort at a grimace. “If it festers…” He dragged in a breath then groaned as his ribs reminded him of the impossibility of that feat. “Remember…your promise.”

He tightened his grip on Nate’s hand. “I remember.”

If it came to that, would he be able to follow through on handing Nate a pistol with a bullet in the chamber? Or have the strength to hold it against Nate’s temple and help him fire, if it got to that point? Promises made at age twelve were different when faced with the reality of doing the deed.

Nate’s whole body relaxed at Jackson’s response. His glance flitted to the doorway, and his lips lifted in the weakest excuse for a smile Jackson had ever seen, though he knew it had probably taken almost all of Nate’s energy to manage. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know who had just walked into the room. Nate never smiled like that at Martha. Or any other woman.

Jackson stared at their still-joined hands. Sarah knew about them already so there was no need to let go. “Look who woke up, Sarah.”

“I see.” She glided into the room and rested her hand on Jackson’s shoulder, her thumb stroking over his shoulder blade. For such a simple gesture, it damned near undid Jackson almost as much as Nate’s smile had. Not many people in his life had had his back. Except maybe Martha. And Nate.

And now Sarah.

He reached up with his free hand and covered hers. “Doc says he should be kept awake as long as possible.”

“Not what Martha said,” Nate rasped. “Trust Martha more.”

“I think for now we’ll listen to the doc.” Sarah squeezed Jackson’s shoulder one last time before walking to the far side of the bed. She stroked Nate’s hair off his forehead in an unsubtle attempt to check his temperature. “You gave us all quite a scare.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t do it again, you hear?” Her smile wasn’t much stronger than Nate’s so when her gaze lifted to meet Jackson’s, its intensity startled him. “I don’t think either of us could take losing you.”

She pulled up the chair Martha had used and settled into it. The two of them sat with Nate, keeping him awake until the night sky changed from indigo to slate grey. Sarah’s eyes drooped then closed for longer and longer moments. They’d been closed a good ten minutes by the time Martha glided back into the room.