He stopped dead.
A young Indian boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, stared at him, half in and half out of the pool. His dark eyes held fear, yet he did not move as Tyler slowly approached, holding his rifle at the ready. The boy watched him warily, yet he did not reach for the long knife at his waist. Glancing around for the boy’s people, Tyler found no one except him.
Like Tyler, his torso was bare save an armband of leather and beadwork, and a long necklace of beads that hung down his chest. His fringed leggings lay in the water, and Tyler observed the unnatural angle of his right one. His leg was broken.
Setting his rifle aside, Tyler held out both hands to the boy, showing his palms and his nonviolent intent. “I’m not gonna hurt you, son,” he said, his voice low. “Can you understand me?”
The boy merely stared at him. No doubt, he recognized Tyler’s unarmed body language but did not speak English. Nor did Tyler speak Comanche. Lowering his body to a squatting position, Tyler edged closer and pointed at the boy’s right leg. “Broken?”
He made a snapping gesture with his hands. The boy nodded. Tyler edged closer, keeping his hands open, then mimed pulling the boy from the water. The kid nodded again. “All right,” he said, stepping to the Indian’s shoulders and put his hands under them. “I’m just gonna pull you from the water.”
The kid wasn’t very big and weighed perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds. Tyler easily dragged him from the pool and rested his back against a big rock. “I don’t know how you got separated from your people,” he said, pointing at the boy’s leg for permission to examine it, received it, “but I bet they are worried about you.”
Pulling his knife from his belt, Tyler cut the deerskin legging from the boy, hearing him hiss with pain. What he saw stopped him cold. He rubbed his face in consternation, gazing at the white bone that stuck up through the Indian’s torn flesh.
“That’s not something I can fix, kid,” he said, glancing at the boy’s face. “I have to get you to a doctor.”
Cutting the rest of the legging off, Tyler then sliced it into strips. Hunting around the edge of the river, he found two stout mesquite branches that were fairly straight and about the same length. Indicating with his hands, the boy was to hold the splints in place, Tyler then tied the wood to his leg with the leather.
“Now that should keep the bone from hurting you too badly while I get you to town.”
As the kid now gazed at him with some semblance of trust, Tyler bent down and picked the kid up in his arms. He paused at his rifle and jerked his chin at it. The Indian picked up the gun and carried it as Tyler strode quickly to the house, trying to avoid scraping the boy on the mesquite thorns. He set the kid down on the porch, took his rifle, and ran into the house for a shirt and blankets.
Returning, now decently covered, he trotted to the corral and haltered the mules. Leading them to the buckboard, he harnessed them, then drove the wagon toward the barn. Old bales of straw, sitting there for countless years, made for a fairly decent cushion against the bumps on the road. He threw the blankets over the straw, then picked the Indian up and placed him gently in the buckboard.
Climbing into the high seat, he turned long enough to send the boy a reassuring wink. “They’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
The boy actually smiled as though having understood him. Tyler whistled at the mules, sending them into a trot down his lane and onto the road that led toward town. Keeping an eye on the kid, he knew that despite the straw bed, the jolts and rocking of the buckboard hurt the Indian terribly. But there was no other option.
Tyler had to get him to town and a doctor.
Early evening had fallen by the time he reached Bandera, piano music and raucous laughter emerging from the saloon. Not knowing where the doctor’s office was or where he lived, Tyler guided the mules toward the saloon to perhaps ask for directions. Until he saw Miss Quinn walking across the packed dirt street. “Miss Quinn!”
She glanced up, instantly recognizing him. “Mr. Price,” she replied as he reined in the mules to a stop beside her. “What might I do for you?”
“Where’s the doctor?”
She frowned, her heart-shaped face and huge hazel eyes inside her bonnet puckering in an endearing fashion as her lips turned downward. “Are you ill, sir? Injured?”
“Not me,” he replied, impatient. “Him.”
Tyler jerked his head over his shoulder at the buckboard. Miss Quinn strode to the wagon and peered inside. Then gasped. Instantly, she hiked her skirts and climbed up to the seat beside him. “My house,” she snapped, pointing. “That way.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tyler slapped the reins on the mules’ rumps to get them going again, urging them into a brisk trot.
“We’ll get him into my house,” Miss Quinn explained, turning to gaze at the boy in the buckboard. “Then, I’ll fetch the doctor without telling him who his patient is.”
Tyler glanced at her. “Why the deceit?”
“He will refuse to treat him in his own office,” she said, “but in my home, he might be persuaded to do so.”
“His leg is shattered,” Tyler said.
Miss Quinn nodded. “I saw it. Poor boy. Where did you find him?”
“On my property, by the river.”
“His people must be looking for him.”
“I’m sure they are.”
As Miss Quinn directed him to her home just on the edge of town, Tyler had to admire her pluck and her ability to take charge, as well as her compassion for an injured human, even if that human was a Comanche. He liked her more as she bossed and bullied him into carrying the boy carefully into her home, making sure he didn’t accidentally bump the boy’s leg into the wall.
An emaciated woman, whom Tyler assumed was Mrs. Quinn, stood up from her rocker as Tyler carried the injured boy inside her house. She gazed on in astonishment, her mouth open, as Miss Quinn followed, pointing down the short hall.
“The room on the right,” Miss Quinn ordered. “He can use my bed.”
As Tyler obeyed the direct command, he heard Mrs. Quinn ask, “What is going on?”
“An injured boy, Mother,” Miss Quinn answered. “I hope you are willing to help him.”
“But he’s a Comanche.”
“I don’t care if he’s a man from the moon,” Miss Quinn snapped. “He needs our help.”
Tyler set the boy on the narrow bed he now knew was in Miss Quinn’s room. It was neatly made and covered in a quilt, with soft pillows for the kid’s head. She stood in the doorway, looking on, then nodded. “I’ll go get the doctor,” she said, gazing up at Tyler. “Will you stay with him?”
“Sure.”
Miss Quinn gave him a quick smile, then vanished down the short hall, yet he heard her crisp orders to her mother. “Boil water, and fix him some tea, Mother. I’ll be back with the doctor.”
Tyler heard the door slam on her mother’s protest, “But, Charlene –”
Taking a small chair, Tyler sat down in it, finding the Comanche’s dark eyes on his face. He tried to make gestures with his hands and arms for the kid to not worry, uncertain if he got his message across. Yet, the boy nodded and closed his eyes. Knowing it was a bit too warm to cover the boy with a quilt, Tyler simply rose to pour water from a pitcher into a cup and held it to the kid’s lips.
He drank thirstily. Tyler set the cup aside and found Mrs. Quinn in the doorway, hesitant, fearful, her gaunt face with her too big brown eyes trying to smile. She held out a steaming mug toward Tyler.
“I made him some dandelion root tea,” she said, her voice soft. “It may help.”
Tyler accepted it. “Thank you, Mrs. Quinn. By the way, I am Tyler Price. I fear I don’t know his name, however.”
Mrs. Quinn bobbed her head. “Mr. Price. You are a kind man to bring him here.”
Tyler grinned. “Well, ma’am, it was your daughter who insisted. She was rather forceful.”
“That is my Charlene,” Mrs. Quinn gazed at the young Co
manche. “She always insists on doing what is right, no matter the cost.”
Tyler handed the mug to the Indian, indicating he was to drink it. The boy obeyed, sipping the hot liquid until the mug was empty. He slumped back on the pillow, handing the cup back, then closed his eyes. Tyler suspected he hadn’t fallen asleep, though he gave a good imitation of it.
Within a short time, Tyler heard the front door slam, and Miss Quinn’s voice rise. “Mother? Mr. Price?”
Mrs. Quinn scurried down the hall as though caught doing something terrible while Tyler followed. Miss Quinn strode quickly toward them, a short, bespectacled man in a derby hat following behind her. “This way, Dr. McFadden,” Miss Quinn said firmly. “I hope you brought laudanum for the patient.”
“Of course, I did, Miss Quinn,” the doctor replied, with a bit of asperity in his tone. “I always carry it.”
Entering her bedroom, Tyler having backed up against the hallway wall to permit them to pass him, Miss Quinn gestured toward the Indian boy lying on her bed. “Your patient.”
Dr. McFadden entered the room, and stopped, gawping, gasping, as the boy gazed at him with calm dark eyes. “What is the meaning of this?” McFadden spluttered, indignant, outraged. “I will not treat these – Indians.”
Chapter Three
Dr. McFadden turned to leave the room. Mr. Price, as though anticipating this, deliberately blocked his exit, gazing down at him from his taller height. “I will pay double your normal rate, sir,” he said, his tone amiable.
“I don’t care about the money,” the little man snapped. “It’s the principle. These people are our enemies.”
“What has this boy ever done to you?” Charlene retorted. “He has harmed no one that you know.”
“But the Comanche have raided farms and ranches for years.”
“Not in the last several,” she replied, her arms across her chest, imperious. “We have peace now, Dr. McFadden. That boy is suffering and needs your help. You will be paid for your services here.”
“But –”
Charlene stepped toward him, lowering her voice. “You will treat this boy, McFadden, or I will inform your wife of the harlots you dally with every Saturday night.”
The little doctor’s face paled. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened behind his spectacles. “Double the rates you say?”
“Yes, sir,” Tyler replied and chuckled. “I will pay it.”
McFadden straightened his clothes, reasserting his dignity, adjusting his spectacles. He removed his derby and placed it on a nearby table. “Very well then. I will need linen for bandages and hot water, please.”
Dr. McFadden opened his black bag as Olivia went to the other room to fetch the hot water from the stove. Charlene picked out old linen from the cupboard, sitting in a chair to cut it into strips, watching the little man pour a dollop of laudanum into a cup. He glanced at her.
“This might go down better with a little alcohol.”
Charlene nodded. “I have wine in the kitchen. Mr. Price, would you mind fetching it? It’s in the cabinet above the stove.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Focusing on cutting the cloth and keeping a sharp eye on McFadden, Charlene tried to ignore Mr. Price’s striking good looks, and the power of his masculine personality as he left the room. She told herself that it wasn’t just his attractiveness that drew her toward him. There was simply a magnetism about him, something that pulled one’s attention to him, and once there, one could not look away.
Dr. McFadden examined the boy’s leg, untying the splint that kept the limb steady. He carefully set aside the mesquite branches and tossed the leather wrappings aside. He muttered under his breath, peering closely, but Charlene could not understand what it was he said. Mr. Price returned with the bottle of red wine that Charlene liked to sip sometimes in her evenings, at the same time, her mother returned with the hot water.
The doctor poured wine into the cup with the laudanum, added a small amount of hot water, then encouraged the boy to drink it. The Comanche made a moue of disgust, his nose wrinkled, at the first taste. Charlene observed Mr. Price gesture to him that he should drink it, smiling, and found to her astonishment the Indian obeyed him.
“You are very good with him, Mr. Price,” she said, rolling her strips of linen to make it easier for Dr. McFadden to bind his leg.
Mr. Price poured water into the cup, handing it to the kid to wash the foul taste from his mouth. “I’ve had a little experience in communicating with people who can’t hear or speak,” he explained, setting the now empty cup aside.
“Now we wait for him to get drowsy,” Dr. McFadden said, pulling out his pocket watch for a quick peek. He eyed Charlene sidelong with no little resentment, but she felt no guilt at all for blackmailing him into doing what is right. Though she did feel a great deal of gratitude for Mr. Price offering to pay the doctor’s fee, for she could not.
Her mother fetched a chair from the kitchen to plant in the doorway, and sat down in it, wrapping her shawl closely about her shoulders despite the warmth in the room. “Is there anything more I can do?” she asked, her voice small.
“He will need looking after,” Dr. McFadden replied, peeling back one of the Indian’s closed eyelids. “He must stay here for a time.”
He peered at Olivia over the rim of his spectacles. “Are you up for it, Mrs. Quinn?”
Olivia licked her lips nervously, glancing between Charlene and the doctor. “Yes,” she said, “yes, I think so.”
“I will show you how to dose him with laudanum for his pain,” Dr. McFadden continued, standing and striding to the end of the bed to pick up the boy’s ankle. “Mr. Price? Is that your name? I need your assistance please to set the bone. Take a firm grip on his knee, please.”
Charlene, and even Olivia, stood up to step closer to the action, watching avidly as the doctor prepared to set the Indian’s broken leg. “Miss Quinn,” McFadden ordered, “please go to the other side of the bed and hold him down. He may still feel the pain and thrash about.”
Charlene obediently hurried around the doctor’s back to the far side of the bed and pushed down on the Comanche’s shoulders. Dr. McFadden gazed around at his two assistants. “Ready?”
The boy cried out in pain as the doctor set his broken leg, trying to rise though his eyes remained closed. Charlene kept him pinned easily, despite how strong he was. Within minutes it was over, the Indian relaxing into sleep while the doctor cleaned the wound in his flesh with iodine. Mr. Price then held the mesquite branches steady while Dr. McFadden bound the leg expertly, the bone straight and even beneath his copper skin once more.
Closing his bag and picking up his hat, McFadden stood up. “Mrs. Quinn, give him a spoonful of this laudanum morning and night for his pain.”
He handed her a brown bottle, lowering his face to peer over his spectacles at her. “Slowly decrease the dosage over the next few days. Feed and water him well, and he should recover in a few weeks.”
Her eyes large, Olivia hastily moved the chair out of his path, allowing the doctor to stiffly move out of the room. “I will, thank you, Doctor.”
Charlene thought it prudent to offer her own thanks. “I greatly appreciate this, Dr. McFadden,” she said, following him and her mother down the short hallway.
McFadden half turned to send her another resentful glance, then replaced his derby atop his head. He did not reply and made his way out the door. Mr. Price left in his wake. Standing near the window with the dusk settling over the land, Charlene watched as Mr. Price pulled bills from his pocket and gave much of it to the doctor.
Dr. McFadden nodded curtly to him, accepted the money, then strode quickly down the porch steps as though wanting away from the house as fast as possible. Mr. Price came back in, eyeing Charlene and Olivia almost apologetically. He gave Charlene a rueful grin.
“You sure know how to twist our good doctor into a knot, ma’am.”
Charlene waved her hand, dismissively. “He shouldn’t be dallying with
loose women, either, Mr. Price.”
“Charlene!” Olivia gasped, clutching her shawl over her narrow shoulders. “How do you know such things?”
“Never you mind, Mother,” Charlene replied. “Let’s just say I do and leave it at that.”
Plucking Olivia’s hand from her shawl, Charlene held it. “Thank you for being willing to help this boy.”
Olivia shunted her face away and gazed down, a small smile on her lips. “Yes, well, someone needs to care for him, and you work so hard already, dear.”
Charlene glanced at Mr. Price when he cleared his throat. “I want you to have this, Miss Quinn.”
He held out money to her, his dark gray eyes earnest. Charlene shook her head. “We – I, cannot accept that, Mr. Price,” she said, her tone stiff, feeling a mixture of anger and shame that he should regard them as needy. “Thank you.”
An Unconventional Bride For The Rancher (Historical Western Romance) Page 3
