Charlotte kept a safe distance between her and the lifeless body, as she inspected the bloody man lying flat on the ground. All she could think of was that something was not right about the situation.
“You can’t . . . he . . . what happened?”
“You wanna help me here?”
“How did you get him on top of Samson?” Cole was strong, but the bulk of a man had to be at least twice his size. Much too big for him to maneuver up that high.
“Come on, sis. Help me out here. I’ll tell you all about it when we get him into the back of the truck.”
Cole wrapped his arms around the underarms of the unconscious man and clasped his hands together across the broad chest. Charlotte watched, too stunned to move. There was so much blood all over his chest and shoulders. Charlotte wasn’t necessarily squeamish around blood. There was just so much. And if Cole hadn’t shot him, who had?
“Uh, sometime today?”
“What if he's dead?” she whispered.
“He will be if you don't help me. Grab his legs.”
With a cold shiver, she placed her arms over the top of his legs, grabbed from the bottom of his dirty jeans and heaved him up around his ankles. Together they half-dragged, half-pulled him to their old, rusty truck.
“Stop.” Charlotte sucked in a deep breath, wiping the sweat that cascaded down her face with her shoulder sleeve. “Just give me a second to breathe.”
He was brawny. His limp muscles showed that he’d done many a day of hard labor. His shoulder-length black hair was crisp with blood and other undetermined fluids. Cole’s shirt was wrapped haphazardly around his broad shoulder in a makeshift bandage. Blood seeped through, soaking it a bright crimson.
“Let's bring him inside.”
Cole looked at her, confusion in his eyes. “I thought we were going to get him in the truck. We have to take him to the hospital. He'll die if we don’t.”
“Hospital’s three hours away. He won’t make it. Call Doc Evans.”
“Doc Evans? Can he work on humans?”
“Can’t be much different than horses. Let’s get him inside and let him take a look. He can decide what to do next.”
Cole nodded, wiped the sweat from his brow and they carried the wounded man to the porch. Charlotte set his legs gently onto the hardwood flooring and opened the door. Cole struggled inside with the weight of the guy pushing his forearms to the limit. Charlotte took in another deep breath as she watched the lifeless feet drag across the living room floor. Inside, she grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over the cushions. Not that it would do much good. The blood was sure to soak through.
“Let’s lay him down here, and call Doc.”
Together, they hefted him one more time. Charlotte’s muscles stung as she lifted his legs as high as she could to get him onto the couch.
“He’s going to ask. What do I say?” Cole asked, breathing as heavily as she was.
“Tell ‘em the truth. He’ll come.”
Cole shook his head and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “This is going to be an interesting conversation.” He went out to the porch to make the call. Once Cole was outside, Charlotte watched the man. What had she gotten herself into? She should have just allowed Cole to take him to the hospital in the truck. It wasn’t her responsibility whether the man lived or died, but something inside her urged her to bring him into the house.
Lifting his wrist, she checked his pulse. He was alive. The slow, steady rise of his chest told her he was breathing as well. The dried blood on his shirt was a good indication that the bleeding had stopped. Or at least slowed considerably.
Charlotte headed for the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. She was parched, and he was certainly not going anywhere in his condition. Drinking down the entire bottle, much too fast, she wiped the sweat dripping from her forehead then went back to the couch where the stranger lay motionless.
He was completely unconscious. The blood that soaked his upper body and stuck his shirt to his chest was more than Charlotte had ever seen on any other human being.
The rancid odor of vomit wafted up to her nostrils, making her gag. She stood, went back to the kitchen, and grabbed a rag from the drawer. Filling a pot with warm, soapy water, she carried it back to the couch and wiped his chiseled cheeks and neck. Stroking the stiff hair that clung to his neck, the rag came back a dark crusted mess. She rinsed the cloth again and ran it back through his hair pulling it gently from where it stuck to his neck.
There was nothing she could do about the smell emitting from his shirt until the doctor got there and examined him. There was no way she would take off the makeshift bandage Cole had tied around his shoulder. Pulling it off could start the bleeding all over again.
Wrinkling her nose, she rinsed the rag out again and placed it over the offending odor. It was the best she could do.
Cole came back into the house and stood over the couch. “He’s on his way.”
“What happened? Where did you find him?”
“He was out in the brush just east of here. I thought he was dead. I was just about to call the police when he moved. There was a rattlesnake in the brush, and his rattle was shaking. I knew it was just about to strike him, so I shot it’s head off. He’s tied to the back of the horse.”
“East of here?” Charlotte asked as the information gave new meaning to her. “By Mr. Monroe’s place?”
“Only about a half a mile away. Maybe less. Think he came from there?”
The image of a dark-haired, tall teenage boy caught in her head. She looked back to the stranger. Was it him? She’d only been thirteen the one and only time she’d laid eyes on him. They’d met before. Only briefly, but they had met.
Her father’s coarse words rang in her head. Charlotte Renee, you stay away from that boy. He’s up to no good.
She’d never seen him again, but she dreamt about him from that day on. As much as her father wanted to protect her, Charlotte couldn’t help wondering what the young boy was doing living with the irritable man whose small farm never produced much of anything. Mr. Malone drove the finest of cars, wore expensive clothing, yet lived in a run-down shack of a home. Something hadn't been right about him. Her father had been right in protecting her.
Could it be him?
She touched his face. His bristly, weatherworn skin reminded her of a younger version of her father. Hard working and strong, yet he'd been so caring. She missed the days when he wrapped his arms around her, tickling her until she screamed. He taught her how to ride a horse, to care for them, to love them.
Treat them with care, and you'll have a friend for life, Charlie girl.
The edges of her eyes burned with unshed tears for all she'd lost.
A vehicle pulled into the dirt driveway setting off the outside light. Charlotte ripped herself away from the memory and stood.
She turned to Cole. “See if that’s Doc.”
Cole stared at her for a moment, confusion in his eyes at her display of emotion. She nodded for him to go. Without another word, he turned and went to the door.
Moments later, Doc Evans followed Cole in and came sidling up next to her. He was wearing his usual tan Stetson, black, button-down shirt with a horseshoe bolo tie, blue jeans, and carrying a black bag at his side. “What do we got here?”
“He’s been shot.” Charlotte’s face flushed. “I’m afraid if we don’t get him checked out, he won’t make it to the hospital.”
“I’m not exactly a people doctor,” Doc Evan's rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I’ve been known to bandage up a man or two. Let me take a look.”
Charlotte moved to the back of the couch as another memory strolled through her brain.
“Name’s Ezra.” The boy grinned as he tipped his way-too-big cowboy hat to her. “What’s your name?”
Completely enthralled in the boy's warm brown eyes, broad shoulders, and silly grin, she whispered back, “Charlotte.”
“You live around her
e?”
“Just past those trees.” She nodded in the direction of her home. “You live here, too?”
“Yup. Over there.” He pointed in the direction of Mr. Monroe's house.
“Charlotte Renee!” her father called. “You get back over here. You have no business with that boy.”
“See ya around.” He waved shyly.
“See ya.”
Something about the boy had moved her young heart that day she’d met him so long ago.
Ezra. She remembered his name as if he’d said it only moments before.
Forcing herself back to reality, she watched as Doc Evans snapped on a pair of latex gloves, gently pulled the knot from Cole's crimson-stained shirt, and lifted it from around his shoulder. Next, he cut the bloody shirt right up the middle, exposing his bare chest. Pushing it to the side, he inspected the wound. “Came in through the back and made a clear exit here.” He pointed to the clotted wound. “Bleeding has stopped. You did a good job of wrapping it,” he said to Cole, who beamed with pride.
“By the looks of it, he’s lost a lot of blood.” He examined the wound closer. “Looks like a clean shot straight through. I suggest you get him to the hospital as soon as he’s able, though. He’s going to need a good dose of antibiotics and painkillers. In the meantime, keep his wound elevated and clean. I’ll get him stitched up really quick.” He dabbed at the wound with gauze, placed several unopened ones on the coffee table. “I’ll leave these here for you.” He then pulled out what looked like a roll of fishing line and a needle from his bag and closed the wound. “Help me lean him on his side,” he said to Cole.
Cole leaned him forward, and the vet stitched the entrance wound. He placed a large square bandage over the top of each wound and taped it down.
“Okay. That's the best I can do.” He stood, pulling the gloves from his hands, and folded them inside of each other. “The rest'll be up to the hospital.”
Charlotte nodded, staring at the bloody man lying on her couch. She got the feeling that taking him to the hospital might raise more questions than she knew how to deal with. Rumor was, Mr. Monroe had brought him into his home as a young child and made to do his bidding. What kind of investigation would be conducted into something like that? Surely the police would be called for a gunshot wound.
She’d asked about him once after overhearing a conversation her parents were having over their suspicions. She was sent to her room for eavesdropping and never brought up the topic again.
Her father was a firm but fair man and had always kept her best interests at heart. Her mother, the obedient wife, never went against her father’s wishes. That was just the way it had always been. Right up until her father died and she’d had no choice but to drop out of her first semester of veterinary school to help her mother on the ranch.
“I wouldn't want to give him anything I have on hand. Horse tranquilizers will put him out good, and might just kill him.” He chuckled. “Once he wakes, give him over-the-counter painkillers until the hospital can prescribe something stronger. Keep his bandage clean, and watch for any sign of infection. He’ll be up and around in a couple of days.” The doctor stood to leave but then swiveled on his heels to face her. “The hospital is going to want to know how he got shot. If he’s who I think he is, you might want to have a good story for this one.”
Charlotte already knew that. Unless it was some kind of hunting accident, and she doubted it was, someone had it out for him. He might not last a day in the hospital before his life was snuffed out. A chill ran through her clear to her bones.
“What if we don’t take him?”
“It’s my full recommendation that he be seen by the hospital, but I understand the position this puts you in.” He glanced down at Ezra. “And him.” His eyes showed deep concern.
“I think we'll take our chances.”
She had no idea how she'd explain if he died on her couch, either. She was taking a huge chance by not following the law and reporting it. Something told her, he had a better chance of survival there in her house than anywhere else.
He nodded solemnly. “I’ll see what I can do about antibiotics to help him fight infection, and some stronger painkillers. Oh, and keep the wound elevated as best as you can.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Cole said. It was obvious he had no idea what was going on in their heads. He’d only been a toddler at the time Ezra had mysteriously shown up at the Monroe house, and no one had mentioned him much since.
As soon as the doctor left, he asked, “Why aren't we taking him to the hospital?”
“I’m not sure yet. Let’s talk to him when he wakes. If he is who I think he is, and even if he’s not, the police are going to want to know how he got shot and how we came to find him.”
“I’ll tell them the truth. I found him lying half-dead in the brush. I got the snake to prove it.”
It wasn’t every day a person found a man dying in the desert and Cole was a bit overzealous about his heroism. Charlotte knew better, though. Whatever had happened, was the work of Garrett Malone. If he found out his shot had not been fatal, trouble would surely follow. She was not wrong about it. Even without seeing his warm brown eyes, deep down in her soul, she knew the stranger was the same boy she’d met long ago. He had to be.
Charlotte said a word in prayer over him, asking God to heal his wound.
She’d been asking for help on her ranch ever since her father had passed away, and her mother shortly after. Could God have sent help in the form of the mysterious boy who had haunted her dreams? The boy who was now as clearly a man as she was a woman?
“Charlie?”
At the sound of her nickname, Charlotte realized she’d been staring at the man the entire time. “Get him one of Dad’s shirts.”
Without question, Cole headed from the room. Usually, her brother put up a fuss about being told what to do by his older sister, but after seeing a man almost die, she figured he was a little too shook up for back-talk.
Gently, she cut Ezra’s tee-shirt up each arm sleeve and to the collar. She stood as it flopped down onto the couch. She went back into the kitchen, filled the pan with fresh water, and brought that, along with a clean rag, back to the couch. She washed his chest gently, avoiding the wounded area.
Questions rolled through her head. What had happened to him? Had Garrett Malone finally lost his marbles and went off the deep end? Rinsing the rag, she set about one more time cleansing his chest, neck, and face with warm water. He smelled almost human again. She just had to get that shirt out from under him and out of the house.
Looking down to his faded blue jeans, she saw they were dirty, but not much of the vomit had gotten on them. She was thankful for that. There was no way she wanted to be wiping down his private parts. The thought alone made her face heat.
Cole came back with one of their father’s t-shirts and handed it over to her. “Help me get him up just enough to pull the old shirt from under him.”
Cole shifted on his feet. “Are you sure we should do that?”
“I don’t know, but that smell is taking over the house, and Doc Evans said to keep him clean. This must qualify, right?”
“I guess so. I still think . . . Charlie what if he dies right here on our couch? What are we gonna do? Bury him in the backyard?”
She didn't want to think about that happening. “Just lift him gently, and I’ll pull the shirt out.”
Cole shook his head, placed his hands on Ezra’s bareback, and pushed as Charlotte pulled the shirt from underneath him and tossed it into the water pan.
A moan broke out, startling them both. Cole let go and jumped back. Ezra’s head bobbed slightly, and he opened his eyes. He grabbed for his head instantly, but not before his eyes met hers. Charlotte's throat constricted. It was him. She hadn’t doubted it from the moment she’d seen him, but the eyes, they confirmed it.
“Have I died and gone to heaven?” He shook his head slightly. “No. Too much pain to be heaven.”
“Cole, g
rab the painkillers from the bathroom cabinet and get him a bottle of water.”
Her brother rushed off to the kitchen.
The second he was gone, Charlotte regretted being alone with him. Not that she was scared of him, but maybe she should be. A lot had transpired in the twelve years since she’d seen him last.
She’d heard the rumors about the old man and none of them were good. In her heart of hearts, she wanted to believe that Ezra had no part of the kind of underhanded business Mr. Monroe was conducting. But assuming that would be foolish. Charlotte was anything but. She’d learned hard and fast what it meant to protect her family. Still, she had compassion for him.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asked gently, wishing she could fall into those deep brown eyes and never return to the hardship she’d endured over the past couple of years.
Chapter 3—Ezra
Ezra squinted against the fog that shadowed his brain. Gradually, he brought the face that stared at him with concern, creasing her brows, into focus. His heart thudded in rhythm with the throbbing in his shoulder.
Without a word, he watched the woman sitting next to him on the edge of the couch. She was so close that if his pained body would allow him to move a muscle, he'd reach out and touch her sweet face.
He’d have recognized the girl anywhere. His first love. Charlotte. He’d been so enamored with the sweet beauty from the first moment he laid eyes on her. So much so that he’d run off to her ranch every chance he got to get a glimpse of the strawberry-blonde hair that always seemed to be a tousled mess. At fifteen, he’d wanted to run his fingers through it, to calm the wayward strands. Her thin body that had been just developing the curves of womanhood had intrigued him for days on end. And those deep green eyes were the stuff his dreams were made of.
He blinked several times to comprehend what had happened that led him to her home. Why he was lying stiffly on her couch. How he had ended up with her looking down at him. The last thing he remembered was being so weak, he couldn't move. That rattlesnake poised to strike, and a horse riding up from behind. Had she been the one who came upon him? He'd been so sure it was Garrett coming to finish him off. But that didn't make sense. Garret didn't own a horse.
The Cowboy's Forbidden Bride (The Blushing Brides Book 4) Page 2
