Kim bobbed her head toward the female patient. “Alone?”
“I’ll stay with her,” Alan said.
Kim nodded. “In that case, no problem.”
“Don’t leave me, Doctor,” the woman said. “I’m dying.” She clutched her chest.
“You’re in good hands. I’ll be back.”
Patrick hustled outside with Wes.
“I hate seeing drug cases around here,” Patrick said to Wes.
“A lot more of it lately. Had a few last weekend when Doctor John was on call.”
The contrast between the quiet night and the waiting room drama was stark, save for the clattering wheels of the portable X-ray machine. Patrick stopped just shy of the parking lot.
“I wonder what’s going on? Hopefully it will end with tourist season.” But tourist season ended with Labor Day, which had been several weeks before. Patrick’s mind returned to the horse. “Did you get a look at Mildred’s leg before I got here?”
“I did.”
“How bad is it?”
“It’s not broken through the skin, but Miss Mildred is hurting and unhappy. Pretty near her pastern joint, but I think it’s clear of it. You’re lucky, Doc. The prognosis for horses that break into their joint is bad. A fair number of them die of joint sepsis.”
Not a compound fracture, not in the joint. No open wound, so no infection. Those were good things. Patrick didn’t want another patient to die of blood poisoning on him, even a horse. Especially not after losing a patient to it for the first time the previous week. Bethany Jones. That had been her name. If her family hadn’t waited to bring her to the hospital until she was next to death, Patrick might have had a chance to save her. People in Wyoming were nothing if not self-reliant. A little too self-reliant sometimes.
“Good.” Patrick resumed walking toward the trailer.
Wes put a hand on his arm, stopping him again. “One of those Jones boys came by this afternoon wanting a copy of his mother’s autopsy report.”
“Again, huh?” Patrick hadn’t met them, but he kept hearing reports of their visits.
“They’ve always been pushy.”
“Hopefully we’ll get the report soon, so they won’t have any more reason to show up here. I’m pretty anxious to get my hands on it, myself.” It was hard not to feel responsible when someone died on him, whether it made sense to or not.
Wes released Patrick’s arm, and the two men rounded the back of the trailer. Mildred was facing out now, and Tater was whispering in her ear. He nodded when he saw them.
“I’m going to give Mildred a painkiller before I examine her and x-ray her leg,” Patrick explained.
He got into the trailer with Tater and Mildred. Mildred immediately pinned her ears and started battering the inside of the trailer with her back hooves.
“Shh, Mildred.” Patrick stepped closer to her. “It’s okay, girl.”
“Maybe we oughta take her out of here, Doctor Flint,” Tater said.
“Good idea.” Patrick wanted room to run.
Tater pulled at the knot in Mildred’s lead rope. “Well, hell. She’s gone and snugged it up so we can’t never get it untied.”
Patrick pulled his Sawbones pocketknife out and held it up. “Yes?”
“Sure. I’ll hold her, and you move in there quick and slice it off at the knot. We’ll still have enough to work with.”
Patrick did, then dropped the knife back into his pocket.
Wes said, “That Minnie Mouse knife wouldnta done that, now would it?”
Patrick grinned.
Tater walked Mildred out of the trailer without further injury, thanks to the first-rate splint someone had put on her leg. Then he tied her lead to a side slat. Patrick approached her again, aiming to give her a shot in her neck. The horse struck quick as a rattler and sunk her teeth into Patrick’s chest.
“Aah,” he yelled. His shoulder dipped and his knees bent. “Son of a buzzard bait!”
Tater whacked Mildred on her side, but Mildred held on for two excruciating seconds before releasing Patrick. He backed away quickly. She swished her tail.
Wes crossed his arms. “Son of a what?”
Patrick didn’t answer. He rubbed his chest. She hadn’t broken the skin. He’d have a good raspberry tomorrow, though.
Tater stroked his mare’s nose. “Sorry, Doctor Flint. Mildred’s a mite short-tempered.”
Something he wished Tater had told him before he got in range of her teeth.
“And here I thought everybody loved you, Doc,” Wes said.
Patrick shot Wes a look. To Tater, he said, “You ever given a horse a shot?”
“A time or two.”
Patrick handed him the syringe. “Knock yourself out, then.”
Wes coughed into his hand, but it sounded a lot like more laughing.
Pounding feet and a breathless voice startled Patrick. “Doctor Flint. We got a call.” It was Kim. Kim never ran.
“What is it?” He backed away from Mildred to keep both himself and Kim out of range.
“A deputy. Attacked by a prisoner. They’re transporting him here.”
Patrick could move to the ends of the earth and not get away from the worst of what man was capable of. His heart plummeted. He knew the local deputies. One lived next door to him and his family. “Johnson County?”
“Big Horn.”
He didn’t know any of the Big Horn County deputies. That didn’t minimize the tragedy, though. “How far out are they?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“And the patients inside?”
“Their vitals are consistent with amphetamines. No other indicators. And the older couple? She’s diabetic and forgot to refill her insulin.”
Patrick closed his eyes for a long second. “All right, then. Five milligrams of Valium and observation for our speedy customers. Check the glucose level of our diabetic patient. We’ll get Mildred squared away, and then I’ll be in to check on everyone and sign prescriptions. We should be done before the ambulance arrives. Thanks, Kim, and let me know if anything changes.”
“Got it.” She nodded and retreated to the hospital.
A heavyset man appeared in her place with a Great Pyrenees in his arms. The dog’s head hung on his shoulder, facing away from Patrick. One paw rested on the man’s arms. Patrick did a double take. Make that one paw caught in a bear trap.
The man said, “Are you the doc covering for the vet?”
Patrick wanted to deny it, but he said, “I am,” and thought, It’s going to be a long, long night.
Chapter Two: Stop
Buffalo, Wyoming
September 18, 1976, 10:00 a.m.
Susanne
Susanne knew she should feel guilty, but she didn’t.
Trish was still sawing logs and Perry had parked himself in front of the TV, where he was watching college football. She glanced at her son. Belly-down on the brown shag carpeting, he wore only his Superman underwear. His chin was in his hands, his knees bent, his feet swinging in the air. A mini Burt Reynolds on his bearskin rug, she thought, and giggled. Neither kid was ready to leave. Neither of them had packed. Her either, for that matter.
She sipped from a hot mug of what Patrick called her “coffee-colored water.” It was ten o’clock, and she was at the kitchen table in a bright red kaftan housedress she’d made herself. A swap-meet local radio show touted puppies, fencing supplies, and workhorse harnesses. It competed with the TV in the other room and the snores of Ferdinand, their Irish wolfhound foundling who ate them out of house and home and perpetually smelled like he’d rolled in dead prairie dog. Through the picture window across the back of the combined living and dining room, she could see the golden fall leaves on the aspens in the backyard shimmering in the breeze and sun. Despite the urging of the ticking clock, she didn’t move. She was missing her mother and sister in a paralyzing way. She’d already used up her monthly long-distance budget talking to them in the first two weeks of September. Letters would have to
do, but they only wrote her back one to every three she sent to them. She understood. They had each other and their familiar family, friends, and communities. She was the lonely one.
Why had Patrick had to move them so far away from everyone they cared about? Except for each other, of course. It seemed like he was trying to recapture an element—location—of the dream he’d abandoned in favor of medical school: to be a happily impoverished wildlife biologist or forest ranger. Sure, she’d made a few friends in Buffalo, but it wasn’t the same as back home. Well, except for Evangeline Sibley. The pregnant rancher’s wife was the next best thing to having her own sister here. Patrick was great friends with Vangie’s husband, Henry, too. But truth be told, the rest of the native Wyoming women were just too rugged and outdoorsy for Susanne. Most of them had never met a tube of lipstick or compact of rouge. They hunted and fished with—or without—the men. Susanne was proud of being a Southern lady. She didn’t want to be like the local women, but she still felt somehow . . . insubstantial . . . around them.
As if to confirm her thoughts, the radio announcer said, “Becky Wills has drawn a moose tag over near Jackson and is looking for someone to keep her boys, aged three, five, and seven, for about ten days while she and her husband are out of town for the hunt.”
Only in Wyoming would a woman advertise on the radio to find someone to babysit her kids so she could go hunting. Susanne would have never left her kids with strangers. Not in Texas, anyway. She might be in the same boat if she had to leave town in a hurry for an emergency, but it sure wouldn’t be to hunt.
How was she supposed to gel with women like Becky Wills? And they were all like her.
Trish walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. Some of her blonde hair made a fuzzy frame around her face and head, having worked its way loose from two long French braids. “What’s for breakfast?”
Ferdinand stood. He stretched his skinny, scraggly, pony body into a downward dog. Then, like a greyhound, he bounced and floated over to Trish. She hugged him around the neck and cooed to him.
“Perry, Ferdie, and I ate two hours ago. There’s Life cereal in the pantry.”
Trish’s eyes narrowed and her nose wrinkled, but she grabbed a bowl and spoon, setting them down a little too hard on the thick slab tabletop. Susanne winced. The table was special to her, along with the matching hutch beside it. Rich, polished walnut, brass fittings, glass doors. The first pieces of new furniture she and Patrick had ever purchased. Luckily, the placemat absorbed the impact of the bowl. Trish went back for the cereal and milk.
“Your dad is at the hospital. He’s going to want to leave as soon as he gets back.”
“Like, goody for him.”
“Trish.” The tone of her voice said, Enough of that. She sighed. “You’re not too old to spank.” She wasn’t proud of it, but Susanne had broken yardsticks, wooden spoons, hairbrushes, and sticks on her kids’ behinds. It hadn’t slowed them down much.
“If you can catch me.”
Susanne pointed at her daughter’s hair. “That’s what tails are for.”
Trish poured cereal and milk into her bowl. She clanked the spoon against her teeth, then slurped the milk out of a big bite. “What time will he get here?”
“Manners, Trish. I expected him already.”
“Thanks for waking me up.”
Susanne pretended not to notice the sarcasm. “You’re welcome.”
The phone rang. Hoping it was her mom or sister, Susanne dove for it. She wasn’t as fast as her daughter.
“Flint residence, Trish speaking.” The teenager rolled her eyes as she said the greeting her parents required of her. She listened for a moment. “He’s not here right now. Let me get my mother.” Holding the phone out to Susanne, she said, “They want to leave a message, you know.”
“Don’t say ‘you know.’ I don’t know unless you tell me.” Susanne growled but snatched the phone from her daughter. “This is Susanne Flint.”
“Hello, Mrs. Flint. This is Hal Greybull, the county coroner.”
“Hello, Mr. Greybull. We met at the pancake breakfast for the fire department, I believe?”
“Indeed we did. I just tried Patrick at the hospital and didn’t reach him there. Can you have him call me?”
“Sorry. He must be on his way home. Will he know what this is about?”
“I have some final questions for him before I release the Jones autopsy and report.” He recited a phone number.
Susanne knew which case that was. Her husband had been out of sorts ever since he hadn’t been able to save the elderly woman’s life. Patrick was brilliant, and she knew he’d done his best. Sometimes bad things just happen. No reason why. Humans live, humans die, and doctors aren’t God, but too few people understand that. “No problem.”
“Thanks.”
Susanne placed the phone back in the cradle. Her mind drifted to the night Bethany Jones died. Patrick had cried in Susanne’s arms. Her eyes burned. She had gotten so lucky in the husband department in many ways. Maybe Wyoming wouldn’t be forever.
Trish’s spoon clattered to the table, off the placemat. With her mouth full, she said, “Why is Dad making us go elk hunting with him, anyway?”
Good question. One she ignored from her daughter. Arguments with teenage girls were to be avoided at all costs. “Get your wet spoon off my table.”
Trish did it, slowly.
A thought struck Susanne. She understood why Patrick wanted to go. He loved to hunt. She even got how much he wanted to spend time with the kids and share this activity he loved with them. But why did she have to go? She was with the kids all the time. In her mind she ticked off points against hunting. She hated, in no particular order, being cold, sleeping on the hard ground, shooting, horses, and dead things. In a flash, she knew why she hadn’t made the kids pack or finished getting her own things ready.
She wasn’t going.
“Mom, did you hear me? I asked why Dad is making us go?”
The front door opened and shut. Patrick was home. Ferdinand trotted downstairs to greet him. She heard Patrick say hello, then send the dog outside.
“Ask your father.”
Perry was so engrossed with the TV that he didn’t hear his father come in. If he had, he would have jumped up and turned off the set. Patrick and Susanne usually limited the kids to The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau or Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, and one cartoon a week. In her funk, Susanne had let Perry’s unauthorized add to the watching schedule slide.
Patrick’s light-brown head appeared at the top of the stairs, which opened onto the living room, and Perry. “Who’s ready for the hunt?” His handsome face looked drawn and his light blue eyes hollowed, but his voice was cheerful.
“Hey, honey,” Susanne said. “Long night?”
Trish went back to her cereal. Every milk slurp and teeth clank raised Susanne’s ire. She felt on the brink of an ugly mood swing, so she pasted on a smile.
“Unbelievably hard. I’ll tell you all about it on the way into the mountains.” Patrick frowned as he approached Susanne. He ducked to avoid a light fixture hanging from the low ceiling. He was only six feet tall, but the fixture was oddly placed. “Why is Perry watching football?”
Hearing his name, Perry finally registered his father’s presence and jumped to his feet. He backed to the TV and turned it off.
“I just let him turn it on for a second while he ate.” Susanne crossed her fingers in her lap and hoped the kids wouldn’t rat her out.
Patrick kissed Susanne’s cheek, then put his wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. “Are the bags ready to load in the truck?”
Perry wandered over to the table. He ducked his head. “Not yet.”
“I thought you were excited to finally be old enough to hunt, bud?”
“I was. I am. I’ll be ready fast. But, Dad, how come I can’t play football? I’m old enough for that, too.”
“Because I don’t want you to have a cracked skull. We’ve already ta
lked about this. You can play when you’re in the eighth grade.” He looked away from his son and at Trish and Susanne in turn. “Now, get ready. All of you. Daylight’s a-wasting, and we’re going hunting.” He almost sang his last few words and did a few bad steps of the hustle.
“Do I have to?” Trish asked, her voice wheedling.
The dancing stopped. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just ask that. Get moving.”
The kids filed out, Perry on his tiptoes and excited, Trish with hunched shoulders and a scowl on her face.
“What’s with her?” Patrick asked. He poured himself a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee.
“She’s a fifteen-year-old girl. She wants to be with her friends. And I think from the way she’s jumping every time the phone rings that there may be a boy in the picture.”
“She’s too young for boys.”
“Same age I was when I started seeing you.”
“Exactly my point.”
Susanne smiled at him. “Maybe she’s like me in more ways than one.”
“What do you mean?”
There’s no way what she was about to tell him would go well, but she had to get it over with. “I hate hunting.”
“You don’t hate hunting.”
She braced herself. “I do. I don’t like guns at all. Or horses. Cindy stumbles all the time. It scares me. And I’ve decided I’m not going on the trip.”
Patrick’s bowl crashed to the floor, splattering milk and cereal on the linoleum, the cabinets, and all the way over to the carpet. “You’ve what?” The eyes he turned on her were stormy.
Yeah, it wasn’t going well at all.
Chapter Three: Sidewind
Buffalo, Wyoming
September 18, 1976, 11:00 a.m.
Trish
Trish picked up the yellow doughnut phone her parents had given her for her fourteenth birthday. She dialed, messed up, and dialed again. As the line was ringing, she sat in her hanging basket chair and swiveled back and forth, admiring the flare of her bell-bottom jeans. Her mom wouldn’t let her wear the platform sandals with them that she craved, but they didn’t look bad with her imitation Dingo boots.
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