He’d doctored many animals in his youth and once considered going into veterinary medicine. He soon learned, however, that working with animals took a great deal of guesswork. He much preferred working with patients able to voice complaints and describe symptoms.
He flexed each leg and examined each hoof, watching Baxter’s reaction. Nothing.
He checked the horse from one end to the other. None of the animals he worked with in the past had anything seriously wrong with them, and he hoped the same was true for Baxter. It wouldn’t look good if the first patient he treated upon arriving in Cactus Patch should die.
Miss Walker watched him with observant gray eyes, measuring his every move and no doubt comparing him to Dr. Masterson.
One by one Caleb dismissed the possible diseases that came to mind. The best he could do was make an educated guess based on a slight, almost imperceptible swelling of the lymph nodes around the neck and a watery discharge from the nose.
“I think your horse has the early stages of strangles,” he said.
“That’s not possible,” Miss Walker exclaimed. “None of the other horses are infected.”
“What about the new horses?” Caleb asked. He’d passed a corral of wild mustangs.
“We keep the new horses isolated from our regular ones,” Ruckus said.
“Then I don’t know what to tell you.” Caleb snapped the lid of his black case shut and straightened. “We’ll know for sure in a couple of days.” If he was right, abscesses would probably form and rupture, after which the horse would feel immeasurably better.
“Meanwhile, I suggest you keep him away from the others. Keep buckets and any equipment isolated. The bacteria can be carried from one stall to another on boots or clothing. I suggest you assign one person as his caretaker until we know for sure what we’re dealing with.”
“If indeed it is strangles, how serious is it?” Miss Walker asked, her voice edged with skepticism.
“With care, most horses recover. As long as he doesn’t develop a secondary infection like pneumonia, he should be fine. Meanwhile, watch your other horses for early signs of infection. The sooner you isolate them, the better your chances of keeping the disease from spreading.”
Ruckus pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Well, I’ll be. Never considered strangles.”
Caleb picked up his black case. “It’s not the first thing that comes to mind.”
Miss Walker ran her hand along her horse’s side. “We’re still not sure that’s the correct diagnosis.”
“We’ll know soon enough. I’ll stop by in a day or two and check on him,” Caleb said.
“That’s good of you,” Miss Walker said. It was the first thawing Caleb had heard in the woman’s voice, but her suspicious regard of him was still evident in her gray eyes.
Caleb recalled the shotgun-bearing woman he’d met en route. He was used to dealing with strong and opinionated women like his sister, Lucy, back in Texas, but these Arizona ladies were a whole different breed.
“We’re mighty obliged to you, Doctor,” Ruckus said.
“Glad to be of service. Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?”
“There’s a barrel outside,” Ruckus said. He closed the stall door and led Caleb to a barrel of water outside.
Caleb scrubbed his hands, bid the man good-bye, and strolled to his car. He glanced around but didn’t see any sign of Miss Hatfield’s buckboard. That meant she was still on the way to the ranch and he was bound to pass her on the way back to town. He smiled at the thought.
He just hoped the fetching woman in purple wouldn’t come at him with that confounded shotgun again.
He gave the L-shaped crank on the front bumper a good turn. Bertha coughed and wheezed and snorted like an angry bull before finally spluttering to life. Caleb then mounted the high leather seat behind the steering column. Magic greeted him with wagging tail and Caleb scratched him behind an ear before pulling away from the ranch house.
The blare of his brass bulb horn sent chickens scattering to the sides of the road. A cattle dog barked and ran the length of the fence that contained him. Magic barked back.
“It’s all right, boy.”
To the right a mustang circled a corral, mane flying and tail held high.
Caleb steered the chugging car around a rough patch in the road. So that was Miss Walker. Her message had urged the doctor to drop everything and hurry to the ranch. No wonder Doc Masterson was so eager for Caleb to respond. He should have suspected something was amiss. If she was an example of the type of patient to expect in Cactus Patch, who could blame the old doctor for retiring?
Still, Caleb liked the area, liked the mountains and canyons and ever-changing colors of the desert. He even liked the weather. It was every bit as hot as Texas but without the humidity, though he heard that would change during the monsoon rains.
A herd of broad-beamed Herefords blocked the road ahead and Caleb pulled out the clutch and applied the brake, stopping in plenty of time. The cattle mooed as they ambled along, guided by mounted cowboys. A steer gave the auto an anxious glance and one calf stopped to stare but his mother pushed him along.
It took several moments before the last straggler cleared the road to join the large milling herd that seemed to stretch for miles. Resisting the urge to honk his horn, Caleb thanked the men with a wave of his hand.
Caleb drove slowly so as not to startle the cattle. Bertha gurgled, then backfired, not once but twice.
Magic gave a playful bark and Caleb glanced over his shoulder. The cattle that moments ago appeared so placid now stomped around in confusion, heads thrown back, mouths open, their loud bellows heard even over the rumbling motor.
Drat! Heart thumping, Caleb slammed his foot against the gas pedal and took off ahead of the stampeding cattle.
Chapter 4
Molly stopped the wagon and set the brake, more out of habit than need. The horse didn’t go fast enough to need a brake. She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and mopped her face before handing the near-empty canteen to Donny.
The sign clearly read Last Chance, but where was the ranch? The desolate, inhospitable terrain hadn’t changed one iota since she’d left the town.
She moistened her parched lips. Even the plume on her stylish hat drooped and she batted it away from her face. She wished she’d been able to save a more practical hat from the fire, but her panicky state at the time had not allowed for discernment. It seemed more important to grab Donny’s medicine and belongings. She’d only managed to save a couple of her own frocks, none appropriate for ranch work or, for that matter, even street wear.
She shaded her eyes against the glaring white sun and surveyed the road ahead. Who in their right mind would live in such a desolate area?
“How much farther?” Donny asked in a thin voice.
God only knows—but she didn’t want to worry him. “I’m sure we’re almost there.”
She pulled a pocket watch out of her purse. It was a little after three o’clock. She wished she’d gotten an earlier start. The train had rolled into town that morning, but by the time she’d hired a driver to help her transport Donny and her few belongings from the station, had a bite to eat, and rented a rig, it was nearly two before she got started.
Something caught her attention.
“Oh, look. Straight ahead.” She narrowed her eyes on the distant horizon. A dust cloud. “Do you suppose the doctor’s coming back this way?” The thought wasn’t altogether unpleasant. “Maybe he can tell us how much farther we have to go.”
A low rumbling sound like thunder seemed to rise up from the very earth. The horse lifted his ears and stomped the ground. It was the most energy the animal had shown since leaving town. The mare hadn’t seemed that anxious when the doctor’s vehicle made those ghastly blasts or even when she’d fired her shotgun.
Donny craned his neck. “I don’t think that’s the doctor,” he said with a worried frown.
She batted a drooping plume from
her face and craned her neck. “What do you think it is?”
The dust rose like a wall, spreading out on both sides of the road as far as the eyes could see. The rumbling sound grew louder and the buckboard began to shake.
“Oh no!” Hands on her chest, she stared in horror. A long line of running cattle turned like a school of fish and headed straight for them.
“Get down!” she screamed, as if safety was simply a matter of ducking. She released the brake and grabbed the reins. “Gid-up!”
Donny scooted down the best he could, the last bit of color draining from his face. “Cattle can run twenty miles an hour. We can’t outrun them.”
“I know that!” The old mare couldn’t even outrun a tortoise. She forced the horse into a U-turn until the back of the wagon faced the stampeding cattle. The wagon offered little protection, but it was the best she could do.
Shotgun and haversack in hand, she climbed over the seat and hunkered behind the valise and wheelchair. No bullet could halt the thunderous hooves, but maybe she could make them veer off course. Loading and aiming her shotgun, she fired two shots.
“Look. There’s the doctor!” Donny shouted.
She quickly reloaded. “I told you to stay down!”
Through the churning dust, she could barely make out the horseless carriage leading the stampede. The vehicle weaved from one side of the road to the other, the frenzied cattle practically on its tail.
Fairbanks drove straight at the buckboard. Molly froze and Donny cried out.
Just when she thought the doctor would plow into them, he stopped just a hair short, wheels screeching. He then spun his vehicle sideways across the road. Gears grinding, he drove the horseless carriage back and forth, shielding the buckboard and honking his horn. The vehicle rammed from one edge of the road to the other, backfiring. Smoke poured from its wheels.
Molly watched in horror, unable to move.
The doctor’s tactic worked, for at the last possible moment the herd split in two. Half of the cloven-hoofed beasts ran to the right of them, the other half to the left. The heated hides and clashing horns stampeded past on either side, rocking the buckboard like a boat in choppy seas.
The churning, choking dust cut visibility to zero and the deafening roar of pounding hooves seemed to go on forever. The horse whinnied and tried to pull free of its traces, but the brake held and the wagon moved only a few inches forward.
Finally the last of the cattle ran by and the rumble of frantic hooves gradually faded in the distance with only a few stragglers and men on horseback bringing up the rear.
Molly lowered her weapon and let out a long, harrowing breath. “Th-They’re gone,” she said, wetting her dry lips. She stood her weapon on the butt end and made her way back to the driver’s seat.
“Donny, are you all right?”
Donny lifted his head. Wheezing, he gasped for air and nodded.
“Everything okay?” a male voice called. The doctor stood next to the buckboard, his previously white shirt now gray, sweat streaking his dust-covered face. His eyes looked even bluer, peering at her with grave concern.
“I—I think so.” She brushed off her dress and coughed. Nothing could be done for the dangling plume of her lopsided hat. “Thank you.”
Dr. Fairbanks slapped his own hat against his thigh, a futile effort in the dust-filled air. “Sorry about that,” he said. “You aren’t the only ones spooked by Bertha.”
“You did that?” she choked out. “You caused the cattle to stampede?” Not waiting for him to answer she ranted, “You could have gotten us all killed!”
The doctor had the good grace to look remorseful. “The lady definitely needs work.”
Her mouth dropped open before she realized he was referring to his horseless carriage.
He placed his hat on his head. “And now that you’ve shot more bullets into Bertha, so do the front and sides.”
She folded her arms and glared at him. For the trouble he and his ridiculous vehicle caused, he deserved considerably more than a few bullet holes.
He shifted his gaze to Donny and frowned. “Is your brother all right?”
“Other than being scared half out of his wits, he’s fine,” she said, her voice cool. She had no intention of discussing her brother’s condition with this annoying, incompetent man. If his unfortunate choice of a vehicle was any indication of his medical skill, she’d best keep Donny away from him. She’d dealt with enough snakeoil doctors back in Colorado to last a lifetime.
“You’d better give him a drink,” he said.
Donny held his canteen upside down. “We’re out of water.”
Molly gave herself a mental kick for not preparing better. “I had no idea it would take so long to drive to the ranch.”
The doctor’s gaze sharpened. “I have extra.” After fetching a canteen from the front seat of his vehicle, he handed it to Donny. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
Donny took several gulps before handing the canteen back. He still wheezed.
“How much farther?” she asked. If she didn’t get to the Last Chance soon, she would scream.
“Just a mile up the road,” Dr. Fairbanks replied. He tossed a nod toward Donny. “I have some medicine in my bag that might help his bellows.”
Bellows! He made it sound like Donny was some sort of a machine. “Thank you for your concern, but what my brother needs is rest. If you would kindly move your . . . vehicle, we’ll be on our way.”
She didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but she had spent a good portion of her wages on doctors. None offered any hope of his ever walking, but all promised to cure asthma. One doctor had advised Donny to take up smoking as a way to build up the lungs. Another suggested Donny wear a muskrat pelt with the fur next to his chest. Oh yes, she had every reason not to trust a member of the medical profession.
“Very well,” he said. This time he didn’t wink. He simply turned and walked with long strides to his horseless carriage.
He took hold of the handle in front and cranked, jumping out of the way when the vehicle roared to life. He then climbed into the driver’s seat next to his barking dog and backed away until the road was clear, allowing her room to turn the wagon around. The doctor honked his horn as she drove by, but she didn’t bother to wave.
He had caused her quite enough problems, thank you very much, and she was happy to see the last of him. Right now her main concern was for Donny.
“Let’s sing,” she said. It was the last thing she wanted to do. Her mouth was dry, her throat parched, and she was bone-tired, but singing never failed to relax Donny and calm his breathing. “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry . . .”
Donny made a face. “Ah, gee. That’s for infants.” He brightened. “Let’s sing ‘Old Man Harrington.’”
“No, absolutely not.”
“Ah, come on, Molly. That’s your best song. You know everyone laughs when you sing it.”
She tossed him a stern look. “It’s not a proper song for a young man to sing and I never want to hear you mention it again.”
“How about this one, then?” Donny could barely get the words out between his ragged breaths. “This one makes people laugh too. O-O-Old man Bill Whit-ey, f-f-fell in a beer keg. What so—”
“Donald Thomas Hatfield!”
Donny tried to laugh but instead he coughed. She nonetheless gave him her best “motherly” look, but she couldn’t remain annoyed at him for long. He was right—it did make people laugh. The song was set to the same English drinking tune as the popular “Star Spangled Banner.” Once, during a saloon fight, angry fists gave way to loud guffaws when she stood on a table and sang it. Even so, she didn’t want her brother singing about drinking.
Donny could be irritating at times, but she loved him dearly. It was her fault he couldn’t walk. Somehow, some way she had to make it up to him—if it took the rest of her life.
Spotting a windmill ahead, she snapped the reins, but the horse lumbered forward at the same slow speed. N
ever had she seen such an enormous windmill; its slow-turning blades spanned a good twenty feet. She pulled up alongside it, letting the horse drink from the trough while she dipped her empty canteen into the wooden tank out of the animal’s reach. While Donny drank his fill, she spotted a red-roofed ranch house a short distance away.
“There it is,” she said with false cheerfulness. Everything looked so . . . big. The sky, the size of the ranch, the house. She only wished she didn’t have the feeling that her troubles had also grown in size.
Chapter 5
No sooner had Molly pulled up in front of the two-story adobe ranch house than a tall thin man with a skinny moustache walked up to her buckboard to greet her.
“Name’s Stretch,” he said, tipping his hat and revealing a mass of black curly hair. “Kin I help you?”
“I’m here to see Miss Walker,” Molly replied, trying to look as dignified as a droopy plumed hat and dusty purple dance hall gown would allow.
“Miss Walker ain’t here right now. We had ourselves some cattle trouble.” His gaze followed the swinging plume of her hat. “You ain’t one a those women lookin’ to be the boss lady’s heiress, are you?”
His skeptical look did nothing for her self-confidence. “I should wait and discuss my business with Miss Walker.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Would you mind helping me with my brother’s wheelchair?” The chair was awkward and heavy and she would never manage to lift it out of the back of the buckboard by herself. “Also, if you would be kind enough to help my brother out of the wagon, I’d be ever so grateful.” She also needed help with her valise, but she didn’t want to overwhelm the man with her demands.
Stretch glanced at Donny, then stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. He waved to the cowpoke sitting on a wooden fence. “Feedbag! Come here a minute.”
Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Page 3
