by Lynn Donovan
“I need to know. How can we find out?” Anger hardened in her stomach like a rock. Every suspicious bone in her body tingled.
“I believe Mrs. Evelyn Graham has alchemy skills. I can take a sample to her and help her determine what’s been added to your salve.”
Charity pondered his words. “…Been added, indeed.” She honed her attention on the veterinarian. “Please do, Dr. Meadows. It’s important I know.”
“Of course.” He gathered himself as he stood. “I understand, but it’s still a mystery how hemlock would make it’s way into a salve that you, yourself mixed.”
“Oh, you let me worry about that.” Charity lifted her chin a notch. It wouldn’t be the first time she harbored these suspicions against her husband’s mother.
“Alright, I’ll go straight there. I should have an answer for you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Dr. Meadows.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” The doctor took quick strides to leave her parlor. She stood in front of her chair, thinking about all he had said and the troubling notions that stirred in her mind. Hezekiah’s footsteps broke her abstraction. “Oh Hezekiah, the most dreadful thing… well, perhaps I should wait until I know for sure--“
“Who was that man?”
She stared at him. Why would he ask about Dr. Meadows’ identification, didn’t he hear what she said? Wasn’t he curious what dreadful thing she was postponing until she had better evidence?
“Why?”
“He looks--” Hezekiah shook his head. “Nah, I don’t see how--”
“He’s a veterinarian. He came here with the competition.” She shoved her fists onto her hips. Why was Hezekiah acting like this?
“What are you trying to say?”
TEN
Roland gathered his things from the Second Chance barn, including the dead frog in the bucket, and rode straight to Lantern. Mrs. Graham’s home was nearly dead-center of town. How Roland wished she lived on the outskirts so he didn’t have to be so exposed to so many people, but he needed Mrs. Graham’s help and knowledge to determine his theory. He tied his horse and stepped up to her door, praying she’d answer quickly so he could get inside.
She did, and he entered as swiftly as societal protocol allowed. “Mrs. Graham, I have some things I need analyzed.”
“My pleasure, come with me.” The doctor’s wife led him to a side parlor that appeared to have been her husband’s examination room.
Roland placed the jar of salve, a sample of the suspected hemlock plant wrapped in an oil-soaked rag, a balled-up handkerchief holding evidence from the dead calf, and the bucket with the dead frog on the examination table and stepped back.
“What have we here -- goodness! What are you needing?”
“Mrs. Chance asked me to look into her calf mortality problem. I think someone poisoned the salve she uses for the cows’ udders, which in turn has killed several calves within a week of their births. Let’s start with this plant. Is it Hemlock?”
She lifted the blossom and stem by the oiled rag and looked closely at it. “Did you get this from the creek?”
“Yes, the one that runs through the Second Chance Ranch.”
She nodded. “That’s hemlock alright. Is that what you suspect is in the salve?” She lifted the jar and sniffed it delicately.
“I do.” Roland hefted the bucket and tilted it so that she could see inside. “I applied some of that salve on this frog, and you can see the results.”
Her face drew tight as she wrinkled her nose in revulsion. “Yes. I see that it’s dead.”
“Within thirty minutes of my application this frog expired and exhibited a great deal of pain--”
Mrs. Graham held up a small, slender hand and swallowed quickly. “Please, Dr. Meadows, spare me the details.”
Roland hesitated, then put the bucket back on the table. “Do you want to see the calf tongue I brought?” He began to unbundle the specimen.
“No! Dr. Meadows, I assure you, we need to take all of this to Honor Featherstone. She’s has much more knowledge of these matters than I. While I served my husband as a nurse, she actually attended her husband as a fellow doctor and has performed autopsies -- her skills with pathological findings are much more… advanced than mine.” She stepped away from the table and gathered her shawl and hat. “Shall we?”
He stared at her a moment. “You mean to tell me there’s a woman in town named Honor? May I assume she’s related to Hope Ledbetter and Charity Chance?”
Mrs. Graham considered his question, then smiled. “Yes. There’s Patience, Faith, Grace, Mercy, Hope, Charity, and Honor. They are descendants of the original founders and cousins to each other.”
“Ah. And you want me to take these things to this Honor Featherstone?”
“I will come with you. I have my talents and she has hers. Together I think we can be of help to your investigation, Dr. Meadows.”
He watched her inch her way to the front door and shrugged. “Alright, if you think that is best.”
“I do.” She exited.
He gathered his samples and followed her into the street, resisting the temptation to pull his hat down low and his neckerchief over his nose. A block’s walk and they were tapping on another door. Mrs. Featherstone’s housekeeper answered and led them to another doctor’s examination room. Roland laid his belongings out and explained to Mrs. Featherstone what he had shared with Mrs. Graham.
Mrs. Featherstone didn’t so much as flinch with the sight of the dead frog or the calf’s tongue. She sniffed each and turned to Mrs. Graham. Roland watched with amusement the two women working through the evidence. Mrs. Graham confirmed the plant was hemlock, without a doubt. Mrs. Featherstone took samples of the frog’s tissue and the tongue and looked at it closely with a tubular instrument. She concluded her findings and turned to Roland. “This is definitely poisoning from the hemlock. You say Charity made the salve? Did she mention Grandma Isabella’s recipe.”
Roland chuckled. “I take it this Isabella Lantern is the linking ancestor to you women named for the gifts of the spirit?”
Mrs. Featherstone smiled. “My daddy always said, ‘If you walk downtown of Lantern, Texas and slap five people on the back, four of them will be related to the Lanterns.” Her laugh was amusing, almost a chortle. “Our names were some sort of consolidated pact among our parents.”
“I’m finding this to be true.” Roland returned her smile. “So, you concur the salve is the source of the calves’ demise?”
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Featherstone’s face sobered.
“Yes.” Mrs. Graham nodded confidently.
“Alright. I’ll take this information back to Mrs. Chance. Thank you, ladies.” He touched his hat brim and gathered his evidence. As he mounted his horse and cantered toward the road that would take him past the Hope Ranch on his way to the Second Chance Ranch, his mind leapt to thoughts of Hope and the children. He flipped the reins and clicked his tongue to coax his horse into a faster pace. His heart beat a little faster thinking of being near Hope one last time. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her while he rode past.
God willing and the creek don’t rise.
Sheriff Patience Muldoon sat behind her desk with her boots crossed at the ankles atop the desk. She casually perused a new package of wanted posters to while away her time, yet hoped to find information on that bushwhacker who had escaped her jail. Woodrow was a sneaky devil and he had friends ready and willing to help him whenever he got into trouble.
Keeping busy aided her with the heavy-handed grip of grief after the news that Thomas was never coming home. He had died during the War, even though she had never received word of his passing until Caleb Cantwell showed up a few weeks ago. She was grateful he had moved out to the bunkhouse at Hope’s Ranch. Patience needed the time of solitude to grieve the confirmed news.
With the Whittaker farm secured and the bushwhacker’s escape, she had nothing but time on her hands. She lifted a flier from
the stack she held and placed it behind the others. She nearly choked, dropped her feet to the ground, and looked more closely at the poster. A familiar face in a rough-sketched likeness appeared on the page. She quickly scanned the information. “Roland Malone, Wanted for Murder and Horse Theft.”
Could this be the veterinarian she had seen caring for the animals at the competition? He wouldn’t be the first man on the fly who had used an alias name. She stood. What should she do? The man had been bunking at Hope’s ranch, but was he still there? Most of the competitors who opted not to stay to court a local gal had moved on. Had he? She needed to find out.
Not wanting to alarm any of the town’s citizens, she strolled from her jail office with as much apparent apathy as possible toward the livery. Half a block from the corral, she heard Luke Coffey yelling to his mother from the hayloft window. “Look! A rider!”
Patience turned to the road entering town and the cloud of dust moving toward her.
Nick Garcia, Hope’s head ranch hand, stepped out of the Livery barn. His gaze focused on the rider. “It’s Señora Hope!”
Luke ran out of the barn just as Hope reined her horse to a sliding halt. “We need the sheriff!” Her eyes darted to meet Patience’s. “Sheriff! That bushwhacker’s back! He’s got Mr. Cantwell at gunpoint!”
Roland hurried his horse away from Lantern. Being in town made his stomach tight. Could he trust his instincts? Was there a fellow following him? Would he go to the sheriff and reveal his secret? There was no telling, but it just made sense to stay away from town and people. The rural roads and ranches presented less of a chance for him to be tailed or, worse, caught and dragged back to Charleston. No, that wasn’t the worse that could happen.
The bounty hunter could be some crazed vigilante who might take the judicial system into his own hands and hang Roland wherever he found him without regard for who might be watching. Roland swallowed hard. He cared less for his own demise and more for who might witness it. It would break his heart to have Hope and her children witness such a horrible sight.
He should stay away from her ranch all together. He should go straight to the Chance Ranch, deliver his news, and keep going. Perhaps if he could get far enough out west, he could get completely lost in the gold rush and the bounty hunter would give up searching for him.
If only--
The horse crested the hill. Hope Ranch was visible from here. Roland stared at it. Longing filled his heart. How he wished things were different. He truly loved the beautiful widow, and her children were a gift to any man who would marry her. How he wished that man could be him. He closed his eyes and let go of a sorrowful sigh.
The colt!
The mare!
He hadn’t checked on them in several days. What harm would it be if he were to slip onto the ranch, check them both and then hustle out again, undetected? As a doctor of veterinary medicine, he had an obligation to make sure his patients were in robust condition before he left this area for good. He knew it was wrong, but he tugged at his horses reins all the same. He prayed this wouldn’t be the biggest mistake of his life and that the good Lord would allow him one last look at the woman who would plague his dreams for the rest of his life.
He dismounted behind the barn, and looped his horse to a horseshoe that had been nailed to a back post. Quietly, he slipped around to the door and pulled it open just enough to squeeze inside. He went into the mare’s stall and closed the door. He wanted this visit to be as anonymous as possible.
But then all hell broke loose.
Roland flinched as two loud voices echoed through the doors of the barn. Even the colt acted jittery. He leapt to his feet and nuzzled against his momma for a suckle. The comfort of her milk would calm him, but she too was anxious because of the harshness of the two men’s words, and she fidgeted away from her colt’s insistent prodding. Roland gently wrapped an arm around the mare’s neck and tried to calm her with soft, gentle words. She slammed him against the side of her stall. He did his best not to make a sound when his breath was crushed out of his lungs.
A gun shot rent the stagnant air inside the barn! Roland flinched and ducked low to the ground, avoiding the mare’s hooves and antsy side-stepping. The colt whinnied and tried his best to nurse. She wasn’t having it. Roland tried to keep from being discovered and not be trampled at the same time.
Another shot rang out, then the familiar voice of Nick Garcia. “Señior Cantwell!”
The man moaned. Roland closed his eyes. He should step out and try to help. But who was the second shooter? Was it the bounty hunter? Had he followed Roland to this ranch? He clinched his teeth. Had he put Hope and her children in danger? Was this Mr. Cantwell the latest man Roland had seen come to Hope Ranch to bunk after the event ended? Was that who Nick now identified?
“He’s been shot through and through, but I’m afraid it got his lung.”
Roland had to act.
ELEVEN
Hope’s eyes darted between Luke and the sheriff. Patience turned at the sound of a horse walking up behind her. Luke brought her horse, Blue, bridled and saddled. She smiled.
Hope fought with her horse, to keep herself facing the sheriff. “Please hurry,” she muttered.
Patience turned to thank Luke but he spoke first. “I already had Blue saddled, Sheriff. I thought it was for another reason, but I guess the good Lord knew you’d need him instead.” Luke handed her the reins. The saddle wasn’t hers. She vaulted into it anyway. Her feet dangled above the stirrups. Nonetheless, she thanked him and kicked Blue into motion, leaning over his head, to let him run at his top speed. Nick leapt on his horse’s back and took off after the sheriff. Hope glanced at Luke with a grateful expression and a nod of thanks, and let her horse finally leap into motion to follow the other two.
When the Ranch was within their sights, Patience pulled Blue to a quick stop. Nick and Hope slid to a halt beside her. The sheriff expressed her concerns for blundering in on the bushwhacker and causing more harm than good. It was Nick who had the right idea. Patience followed him down the embankment to the creek that ran through Hope’s Ranch. Hope followed her. In the creek bed, they were out of sight from any lookouts who might be assisting the bushwhacker in this newest attempt to cause harm.
Hope felt her horse shiver. Froth floated in the stream ahead of them. She was grateful for her horse’s stamina. As they quietly approached the barn from behind the foliage along the creek, Patience tilted her head like a hunting dog honing in on a sound.
Terrified horses neighed, indicating the men were indeed inside the barn. Patience motioned with her head to let Nick know. Nick nodded understanding. She slipped from her saddle and tied Blue to a low-hanging branch. Easing herself quietly toward the barn. A gunshot rent the silence. Hope stiffened and gasped, Patience took off running.
“Miss Patience, wait!” Nick yelled in a whispered volume. Ignoring his warning, the sheriff lifted her gun and hurried through the barn doors. Nick panted as he pushed past her stunned, unmoving stance. Hope came alongside her but didn’t move any further.
A silhouette of a man in a dark duster turned his gun toward Patience. Without hesitation, she fired her gun. Hope heard the man fall onto the hay-covered floor. She couldn’t see, the flash took what little sight she had in the densely lit barn and wrapped it in even more darkness. She blinked and blinked, trying to regain her sight. Her lungs heaved for air as her heart pounded with terror. Who had Patience shot? Caleb or the bushwhacker? Hope couldn’t be sure.
“Señior Cantwell!” Nick knelt beside the first fallen man. Patience had shot the bushwhacker! Not Caleb.
“Uhhh!” Cantwell moaned. He was alive! Patience ran to Woodson. She kicked his gun away from his reach.
Nausea gripped Hope’s gut as a crimson pool oozed from the man’s shoulder and saturated the hay and dirt beneath him.
Nick turned to Patience with sorrowful eyes. “He’s been shot through and through, but I’m afraid it got his lung.”
Roland stood
next to the still fidgeting mare and shook his head. He couldn’t let this man die. A lung shot could be fatal if not treated quickly and properly. He had an obligation to help. But fear held him frozen in the stall. He gritted his teeth and forced his body to move. Gingerly he opened the stall door and crept out.
The lady sheriff’s gaze darted toward him. “You!”
He fought the urge to back into the stall, but what use would that serve? Two men were shot and he needed to help them. Sheriff or no sheriff, he had a Hippocratic oath to uphold.
She lifted a trembling hand and pointed at him, shouting about taking her horse and riding back to Lantern to fetch the doc’s wife, whom he’d just left. “That won’t be necessary,” he tried to reassured her.
“Hurry!” she screamed.
Her hysteria confused Roland. Why would a woman of the law be so affected by a man wounded by gunfire. Wasn’t this the sort of thing she encountered often? Roland stepped toward her. “I’m a veterinarian. I can help.”
He knelt to examine Mr. Cantwell. As Señor Garcia had said, the man had been shot through and through, but by his ragged breathing Roland concurred that the man’s lung had indeed been nicked. He needed to seal the chest and stop the bleeding. He looked around the barn for something that would do both.
“Get me that tarp over there.” He pointed past the sheriff. She responded and pulled the canvas up next to Mr. Cantwell, then resumed pressing the other man’s bandana over his gunshot wound. He didn’t look good either.
Roland pulled a knife from his boot and cut the tarp into two pieces. To attempt to stop the bleeding, he grabbed some polishing rags from a pile that Garcia had used, and tied them together to make a long bandage. He maneuvered the tarp under Mr. Cantwell’s shoulder and the other over his chest pressing the two tarps together over the entry and exit wounds to seal the man’s chest cavity. He glanced up at the sheriff whose eyes remained on Cantwell even though she diligently held the bandana firmly over the bushwhacker’s wound. “Hold these.”
