Just then, Deputy Joe lifted his head and focused on them. “Washington Nolan, come down here, son. Quickly! I need you to fetch Doc Griffin.”
Washington ran down the hillside, his long legs carrying him over boulders and logs that took Zoe longer to maneuver. Zoe followed as quickly as she could. By the time she reached the road, however, Deputy Joe already had Wash mounted on Kin’s mare. “Bring him back quick as you can. Tell him the man’s lost a lot of blood.” With that Deputy Joe slapped the rump of Kin’s mare, and Wash started at a gallop for town.
Zoe swallowed and looked at Kin. This wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all.
Relief swept through Joe as Wash headed down the road toward town on Kin’s mare. Now to find Don. He jogged to the other side of the coach.
The old man lay face down in the tall grass by the road. No. “Don!” He clambered up the embankment to the man’s side. The frozen ground had no give beneath his fingers. “Don?” He squatted next to the man and forced himself to go slow and assess wounds before he tried to move him, just like Reagan had taught him.
Gently, he ran his hands down the man’s neck, shoulders, arms. Then his ribs, hips, and each leg. There were no bumps or abrasions. Joe rolled him over. A small lump on Don’s temple indicated he’d probably whacked his head when he hit the ground, but other than that, his pulse was strong, and his breathing seemed even.
Joe released a sigh. It might take him some time to come around, but the man would likely be just fine. Keeping him warm would be key, however. He could use his own coat, but Reagan had pounded into him time and again the importance of keeping his own needs in mind during critical situations such as this. He would do no one any good if he gave up all his warmth to help others and put himself in danger. Since he’d already given up his shirt to help stop the bleeding of the man in the coach, he didn’t dare give up the coat.
He scrabbled atop the carriage once more and this time he hauled open the door and let it crash back against the side of the coach wall. Snagging the knife from his belt, he leaned in as far as he could and slid the knife into the leather of the bench seat. As he worked at stripping off a length of the leather that would be wide enough to lay Don on, he spoke. “Hang in there Zeb. I just need to get Don off the frozen ground, and then I’ll be back to help you all out of here. How is he?” The gunshot man must have passed out, because other than Zeb’s ragged breathing, the inside of the coach rang with silence.
“He’s bleeding bad.” Zeb’s voice trembled.
Joe tore the leather off the seat in a long thick strip, sending a shower of feathers floating through the air like snow cascading from a weighted tree branch in a windstorm. “Give me five minutes. Maybe less. I’ll be right back. Keep the pressure on that wound!”
“Hurry!” Zeb called after him.
Joe ran to the kid who was still seated where he’d left him. Zoe was standing by his side looking toward the coach with an expression filled with disbelief. Grabbing Kin’s arm, Joe hauled him to his feet, shucking his knife from its sheath. “I’m going to need your help. But, so help me, if you try and escape, I won’t hesitate to shoot you. Do you understand?”
Kin nodded.
“Good. Zoe, come on, I need your help too.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dixie stood staring out Ma’s window for the longest time after Flynn left. One finger toyed with the collar of her blouse as her vision blurred against the roof-peak of the post office across the street.
Those who hope in the Lord…
Hope…
Her conscience squirmed.
She had given up hope, hadn’t she? She used to believe. Long, long ago, it seemed, though in reality it had only been a couple years. She used to believe in God. In the fact that He’d sent His Son into the world to die for the sins of all mankind. She’d even put her hope in that sacrifice.
And yet… Somewhere in the long year and a half that she’d been married to Steven, her hope had somehow drizzled away, until now it was barely a memory on the horizon of history.
Longing seeped into her soul. She closed her eyes. Oh to have hope once more. Was it too late for her?
Hoofbeats thundered into town with an urgency that drew her attention to the street below. Washington Nolan leapt from the back of the horse as soon as it skidded to a stop in front of McGinty’s Alehouse. “Doc!” He was yelling before his feet even touched the ground.
Something was terribly wrong. Had something happened to his father, Butch, or to one of his brothers?
She’d better go down to find out so she would know where to send a meal.
She took only a moment to check on Rose, thankful to see that she seemed to be resting a little easier this afternoon, and then hoisted her skirts and hurried down the stairs.
By the time she reached the front of the boardinghouse Flynn was already shrugging into his coat and on the run for the livery where his horse was kept.
Washington stood with his hands propped on the hitching rail by Kin Davis’s horse, his head hanging down between his arms.
Dixie’s heart threatened to stop in her chest. Not Kin! “Wash?” She stopped by his side and folded her arms against the cold, wishing she’d remembered her shawl. “What happened?”
He started a bit at her nearness, but didn’t reply right away.
“Is it Kin? Is he hurt?”
Wash shook his head, sending a wave of relief through Dixie.
He scrubbed one hand down the length of his face. “It’s my fault. I couldn’t talk him out of it. Kin….he wanted to…well, I’m not sure what he wanted to do, actually. But he rode down on the stage, and they must have thought he intended to rob them because Old Don took the hairpin too fast and the stage tipped over. Someone got shot. I think by another passenger inside the coach. Deputy Joe said he was bleeding real bad.” Washington looked like the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders. “I’d best get back, and take a couple mounts with me. There are going to be a few people who need rides back into town. Will you send the sheriff on out, if we aren’t back by the time he gets in?”
Dixie nodded. “Of course. Take a wagon too. Some might not be able to ride. And I’ll make an extra-large supper tonight. Kin brought me enough fish to make a large chowder. You let everyone on the stage and those helping know they are welcome to the diner tonight—on the house.”
Wash nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Will do. And good idea about a wagon.”
With that, he swung up onto the tired mare and trotted down the street toward the livery.
In the distance, Dixie could see Flynn just galloping out of the livery yard, with his doctor bag and rolled-up stretcher tied to the saddle behind him.
Kin Davis, what have you done? With a sigh, Dixie hurried back into the warmth of the boardinghouse. She’d best put on some extra pots of water to boil too. Doc was sure to need plenty of hot water tonight if he was going to be doctoring several hurt patients.
Charlotte was thrilled that the foreman had agreed to her Christmas festival plans. Her mind had been whirling through all kinds of ideas for preparations that would need to be made before that night.
She would have the children put on a theatrical stage-show of sorts that would portray the birth of Christ. There would be shepherds, and wise men, and sheep. Someone would need to play the star, and there would of course have to be a Mary and a Joseph and a Christ-child.
They could use some of the long empty days between now and Christmas to practice the production. A thrill of excitement rushed through her simply at the thought.
Her gaze wandered to the silent man beside her. He had visited amiably with her for much of the ride home. But now his brow was pinched and she could tell he was back to worrying about Dixie and Rose. And who could blame him? If she wasn’t so excited about Christmas, she would be worried sick over Dixie and Rose being accused of murder by a man none of them even knew. Surely he couldn’t arrest the two women without proof?
She worried her underlip wi
th her teeth. Perhaps if she could just get Reagan talking about something she could ease some of his tension. “What made you decide to become a lawman, Sheriff?”
A muscle bunched along Reagan’s jaw, and an indecipherable emotion crossed his face. “What made you decide to be a teacher?” He turned the question back on her.
Charlotte’s fingernails bit into her palms. But very well. They couldn’t just sit here in total silence for the next hour into town. So if he refused to converse she would do the conversing.
“My choices were homemaking, nursing, or teaching. Since I wasn’t ready to set up housekeeping, and since blood makes me feel rather faint, I chose teaching. Don’t get me wrong, I do love children, and I do love helping them learn. So it wasn’t chosen out of hardship but chosen because I felt it was the best match for my skills.”
Reagan nodded.
For a long moment, Charlotte feared that she was going to have to come up with another topic if she wanted to keep the conversation going. But then Reagan spoke.
“My father was shot by an outlaw he’d been chasing for months when I was still a teen.” The muscles in his jaw bulged in and out. “I had so much anger bottled up inside me. Took me a few years to work through that, but eventually I realized that, if it were in my power, I wanted to keep things like that from happening to others as much as possible. The only way I could see to do that was to become a lawman myself, much to my mother’s chagrin.” The corner of his mouth tipped up into a sardonic grin. “We lived in Seattle at the time and I went to the sheriff in town.” The sardonic grin grew into a soft chuckle. “Let’s just say the man was familiar with me, but not because of any reason you might think.” He winked. “He was mighty leery about training a boy who’d up till that point mostly been on the wrong side of the law, but he took me under his wing despite his misgivings and taught me everything he knew. Even made me a deputy for a short time. But then I saw Zeb’s advertisement in the paper seeking a sheriff for his new town. Ma and I were ready for someplace a little quieter than Seattle by that time, so I applied.” He shrugged. “And here we are.”
“Well, I’m glad you are here, Sheriff.” The words emerged before she could think better of them.
His gaze darted to hers, then he nodded. “And I’m glad you are here.”
Forbidden emotions surged to life in her chest. Before she could give them foothold, she turned to study the patches of snow that glistened in the shaded areas along the road.
Beside her, Reagan blew out a breath. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very good company today and for that I apologize.
Charlotte waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. I’m worried about them too, now that you’ve told me about the marshal’s accusations.”
He nodded. “Seems so contradictory to their character, and yet the marshal doesn’t seem like a frivolous man.”
Charlotte didn’t want to dwell on what kind of man the marshal might be. “How much farther back to town?”
Reagan cleared his throat. “We should be there inside thirty minutes now.”
The silence descended again, but this time it felt more companionable than oppressing, and Charlotte let it rest. Her worry for Rose and Dixie returned to the fore and she niggled at the inside of her lower lip. Finally, she released a long slow breath. It was best she take these worries to the Lord in prayer before she worked a hole clean through her skin.
Flynn pushed his mount as fast as he would go, but it still took him twenty minutes to reach the site of the accident.
Zebulon Heath paced the edge of the road near two unconscious men, the tip of his cane making a rhythmic tick, tick, tick, against the ground. Flynn offered the town founder a nod as he swung down from his horse. “Mr. Heath, good to see you again.”
“Likewise. I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Indeed.” Flynn turned his focus toward the two men laid out in the grass beside the road. One was Don Brass, the stagecoach whip. The other man he didn’t recognize. He was glad to see that Joe had put a barrier between them and the frozen prairie sod. A rapid assessment showed that neither man was bleeding, and he should turn his attention to the one with the gunshot wound. He flicked Zeb a look. From what Wash had said, Zeb had been the one to accidentally shoot another passenger when the stage had overturned. “The other man?”
Zeb jabbed his cane toward the coach. “They’re working to get him out now.”
Zoe Kastain and Kin Davis both balanced on the toppled coach, leaning through the door to each take the arm of a man. Flynn couldn’t see the extent of his injuries from here. Joe must be lifting him up from inside. Since there was no moaning or howling, the victim must be unconscious, which was a mercy. Wash had said the man was shot in his midsection and abdominal wounds were often severely painful.
Flynn yanked the rolled-up stretcher from where it was strapped behind his saddle. With a quick flip, he unfurled it onto the roadbed. He wanted to ask for details about what happened, but his patient’s health always came first. He would need to see the man before he knew what questions to ask. Besides, he knew that Reagan and Joe would sort out all the details of today’s event.
“Joe, I’m here,” he called into the coach. “What can I do to help?”
Joe didn’t hesitate. “Zoe, thank you. You can get down now and let Doc take your place.”
Flynn hauled himself atop the carriage, and as soon as he had a hold of the wounded man’s arm, Zoe scrambled out of the way.
The patient was a dark-haired man who appeared to have been in good health prior to today’s accident. Good. That would be a benefit to his recovery.
“Ready? And…lift!” Joe instructed.
Flynn was even more glad for the patient’s sake that he was unconscious, because it took the three of them a lot of heaving, and pulling, and pushing to extract his dead-weight from inside the carriage. He, Kin, and Joe were covered in the man’s blood by the time they got him down and laid out on the stretcher.
Washington Nolan rode up only moments later with a buckboard and Flynn thanked the Almighty for his good sense. They were certainly going to need that wagon with three unconscious men to haul into town.
As they worked at loading the wounded into the wagon, Flynn thought ahead. There wasn’t enough space in his room at the alehouse to quarter all three patients. He was going to have to requisition a room at Dixie’s place. He checked the gunshot wound while Joe and Kin worked to lift the other two men into the wagon. The bullet had penetrated high on the man’s right side. He didn’t notice any frothing around the wound, so maybe he’d been lucky enough for the bullet to miss his lung. If the bullet had only damaged the man’s liver, then there was a very slim chance he would live. Flynn felt relief. But a dusty road in the middle of nowhere was not the place to conduct a surgical exploration for the bullet. There was nothing more he could do for the man here. They needed to get him back to town as quickly as possible so a better look could be taken in a more sterile environment.
A soon as they got the wagon loaded—which included not only the injured, but the satchels and lockbox from the boot of the stage—Joe took hold of Kin’s arm. “I’ll ride into town with Kin and the rest of you can ride the mounts or sit in the wagon.”
Washington swung down from Kin’s mare and handed over her reins. “If it’s all the same to you, Deputy, I’d like to get Zoe home to her parents’ place.”
Flynn tied his horse off to the wagon and helped Zeb up to the box seat at the front, halfway listening to the conversation taking place near the tailgate.
Joe pierced Wash with a hard look. “You have anything to do with these shenanigans, son?”
Wash swallowed, but it was Kin who spoke up and right quick. “He didn’t have nothing to do with it, I swear. In fact, he tried to talk me out of it.”
Wash only studied the ground, kicking at a ripple of dirt that had been mounded up by the frost.
Zoe cleared her throat and looked at Joe earnestly. “Wash and me was com
ing—were coming—we were coming to try to stop Kin, not to help him.”
Joe gave a nod. “Very well. You may head home. But I might have more questions for both of you, so expect me to pay you a visit.”
“Yessir,” both young people chimed together.
Flynn pulled himself up to the driver’s seat and slapped the reins against the horses’ flanks. “Get up,” he clucked to them. He needed to find the balance between getting the wounded man to surgery as quickly as possible and not jarring him so much that he expired between here and town. He set the horses to a trot that would hopefully be the middle road between the two.
Relieved to be on the way, he could finally ask Zeb for more details. He glanced over at the man.
Hands folded one atop the other and resting on his cane, Zeb leaned heavily on the prop as though his legs had just been kicked from under him.
“Care to tell me what happened back there?”
Zeb loosed a tremulous breath. “We were riding along just as quiet as you please, when from out of nowhere comes this banshee screech that liked to have shaved the hair clean off my neck. Both the parson and I shucked our weapons. I was trying to get a good glimpse of the bandit so’s I could get a shot at him, but Old Don tried to outrun him. Likely to protect the cash I had in the lockbox. Next thing I know, the whole shebang is going wheels over top railings and the parson crashed into me and that’s when I shot him.”
Flynn tossed a glance into the back of the wagon. “So the gut shot man is a parson?”
Zeb seemed startled. “Oh, no. I apologize. The ‘him’ I meant was the other passenger who boarded the carriage with us. The new parson—Preston Clay—he’s the one that took a conk to the head and is lying next to Don there.”
“I see. So do you know anything about this man you shot?”
Zeb sighed. “’Fraid not. Other than he said he was Dixie Pottinger’s husband. Now don’t that beat all?”
Flynn’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and then in the next moment his temperature surged till it could have rivaled the bubbling water of the hot springs just outside of town.
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 12
