Margaret looked around and then called out, “Storm, here boy!” She whistled and chirped, urging her horse forward and cutting through the brush heading down the hill where they had heard the horse.
“Be careful,” Joe said behind her, but nothing was holding her back as she moved through the forest, zigzagging through the trees. Her horse stumbled once, and then Joe saw Storm, still saddled, his reins dangling on the ground. He appeared to be trembling, his eyes wild. Margaret stopped Angel and climbed out of the saddle calmly.
“Stay back, Joe,” she ordered, tossing her reins to him. “Let me get him.”
Joe grabbed her hand, because he took one look at that horse and knew this was an accident waiting to happen. He wished he’d brought his gun. “Just be careful,” he said.
She nodded. “Joe, let go. I’ll be careful, but I have to see if he’s hurt. I know what I’m doing.”
He eased his grip, and she slipped away, holding out her hands as she stepped carefully toward the horse. “Whoa, easy there, Storm. That’s a good boy,” she said. She kept her voice calm and reassuring, but he wasn’t taking his eyes off her. If that horse did anything to hurt Margaret, he’d be in there, and he was ready with his palomino, keeping it steady and holding Angel’s reins beside him.
Storm snorted and reared up, screaming out before stomping to the ground, pawing and sidestepping. Margaret kept going slowly, walking as if she meant every step, setting all her focus on the horse. Joe wanted to yell at her to get back when she reached for the reins and then touched Storm’s neck. The horse was wild and out of control, rolling the whites of his eyes, his head high and frantic.
“Whoa, easy there,” she said over and over.
As he watched, there was something magical about her. She appeared to draw the horse in, to offer him relief. Joe watched, paying attention to what she was doing for the first time. He’d never seen her this way. He’d also never taken the time to stay when she was with Ryan, and he realized now that there were so many things he wanted to say to his son. He hoped and prayed he’d have the chance. This woman had reached his son when he couldn’t, just like this beast that he had been so quick to write off. She was calming him and moving him, and the horse started to respond a bit. She kept moving his back end, pulling and releasing, and the horse began to respond to her.
“Joe, the stirrup is broken,” she said. “There’s brush stuck in the side of his saddle. He could have been running a long way. He’s got a gash on his side, too. It’s not bad, but…”
The horse was a mess, with mud coating the back of his legs, his hocks, his back end. Joe climbed down from the saddle and started toward Margaret, but Storm reacted and reared up, screaming.
“Joe, stay there,” she said. She raised her hands and calmed Storm again, but he was having none of it.
“Any sign of Ryan?” Joe called out.
Storm lowered his head a bit, and she patted his neck. “Good boy. There, it’s okay. No one is going to hurt you,” she murmured. “No, Joe, there’s no sign of him here. There’s a rope in my saddle bag. I need it. Can you walk over with it very slowly and calmly?”
Joe did as she said, glancing over at the way she started to move Storm and then walked him over to where he was rummaging in the saddle bag as he held the reins for both horses. He pulled it out and handed it to her, and she didn’t give Storm a chance to freak out, as she moved him backwards and then to the side, getting him to think. Joe knew that if a horse was working, having to think, it wouldn’t spook. This horse needed more than he could give, more than Ryan could give, but not Margaret. This was easy for her.
She looped the rope around the ring of his halter, which Ryan had obviously put on him under the bridle, and then she tied it loosely to a tree, letting him graze. “Joe, if we can figure out the direction he came from, we can backtrack.”
He started down the trail until he found a fork. “We can’t take him,” Joe barked, heading back to Mercedes.
“I’ll take him behind Angel. We can’t leave him. He wouldn’t make it,” she said. She waited until Joe mounted his horse. “Start down the trail. I’ll be right behind you.”
Joe hesitated when she took the reins from him and walked over to Storm, and he watched as she untied him and held the rope while she mounted Angel. Storm decided to spook and sidestep, but Margaret spoke softly and moved a step . She didn’t face Joe when she said, “Joe, start down the trail. He’s scared, and we need to move.”
He knew they did. The shadows around them were growing darker, and they were losing light fast. He looked to the ground, searching for tracks, spotting prints in the mud left from Storm’s shoes. He was glad he’d had him shoed, now, as it was making his son easier to track. He glanced back and saw Margaret talking the horse down, and he kept looking back. “Are you okay?”
“Keep going, Joe,” she replied. “We’re fine.”
Joe kicked Mercedes. “Come on, let’s go.” He spotted a steep hill bearing tracks that let him know Storm had raced up it, and that was when he spotted a red backpack that looked far too much like Ryan’s.
“Ryan!” he shouted. He vaguely heard Storm squeal behind him and Margaret trying to calm him.
“Joe, what’s wrong?” she called out as he leaped out of his saddle and skidded down in the mud to the backpack.
“It’s Ryan’s!” he said.
“Is he there?”
He was frantic as he slipped down. The backpack was torn, and one of the straps was broken. “Ryan, where are you? Answer me, son!” he cried. He listened, and all he could hear was a rustling behind him as Margaret slipped down. He looked around when she slid into him.
She touched him and then grabbed his shoulder. “Joe,” she said frantically, and her breath went out of her in a way that turned his blood to ice. She moved away, skidding on her knees, stumbling over a log. For a minute, everything went into slow motion as he turned and blinked, and Margaret was running, batting away the brush, the branches and leaves, yelling something he couldn’t register as she sank to her knees over Ryan’s still form.
Chapter Eighteen
Margaret’s hand shook as she touched Ryan. He was cold and still, with a gash at his hairline, his dark hair matted with blood.
“Margaret!” Joe was frantic, skidding beside her and moving to scoop Ryan up.
“Don’t touch him!” she yelled, reaching for Joe’s arm and holding it. She pressed her fingers to the pulse point at Ryan’s neck and lowered her ear to his chest, listening for his breathing.
“Margaret, is he alive? Margaret!” Joe was yelling, and she slowly sat up and shook her head.
“His pulse is weak,” she said. She struggled to remember her training, and for a minute, the face of the boy lying there changed to a boy she knew as Charlie. It was amazing, the details that came to her in a moment like this as she noticed the dried blood splattered across his face, his pale skin that was cool to the touch. She shrugged out of her coat and laid it over him. Joe’s hand was shaking as he touched his son’s head, tears glistening in his eyes.
“Joe, I need your help,” she said. “He’s hypothermic. Go up to the horses and bring down the blanket and tarp, the water. There’s a first aid kit in the pouch, as well. Bring it all down.”
“You keep my boy alive,” he said, and Margaret couldn’t help reliving the fear of that father’s vengeance, when she had to tell him what she’d done to his son, how she’d screwed up.
“Go, Joe! Can you get any cell service?”
He stood up and checked his phone. “One bar.”
“Call for help now, and then get everything.”
He was on the phone, and she watched him as he stood and frantically ran his hands over his head, knocking his hat off, yelling at whomever he was talking to when he couldn’t give the exact location.
He turned to her. “They said to leave my phone on, and they’re sending help.” He pulled off his coat and handed it to her, and she set it over Ryan. Joe slipped and craw
led through the mud up the hill to the horses, and she vaguely heard Storm’s snort. Then Joe was coming back down, his arms full with her bedroll, a tarp, her saddle bag. He dumped everything beside him and handed her the first aid kit.
Margaret could feel her hands sweating even though she was far from warm, and she hesitated as she watched Ryan, a boy she loved, lying so still, barely breathing. For the first time, she truly understood how Charlie’s father could hate her so much.
****
Watching his son lying helpless and bleeding and barely alive, Joe silently prayed. Please, Evie, don’t take him, he thought. Please, I won’t screw up again.
Margaret was yelling at him now, her hand shaking. “Joe, I need your help!” She had scissors and was cutting Ryan’s sweatshirt open. He was fighting for shallow breaths, but his eyes were still closed. “Light, I need the flashlight! We’re losing light fast.”
It was in the pile beside him with the tarp and a backpack. He grabbed everything and flicked it on just as Margaret exposed Ryan’s bare chest and pressed her ear to it. His chest was discolored.
“Margaret, what is it?”
She raised her head, and he’d never seen her look so helpless. “I think he busted a couple ribs and punctured a lung.”
“What does that mean?”
She just looked down at Ryan and then shut her eyes. He wanted to reach across and shake her. “It means he’s not getting the oxygen he needs,” she said.
“You mean he’s drowning in his own blood. Margaret, could he die?” he cried. He watched as she sat back and raised her knee, resting her hand on it and looking down as if she didn’t know what to do. “Margaret!” he yelled, and she looked up at him with tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
He reached over his boy and grabbed her. “You’re not going to let him die. You’re a surgeon! You know what to do.”
“Yes, in an emergency room, with equipment, and a sterile environment, and an operating table…” Her voice caught as she whispered the last part.
“You don’t have an emergency room. You can handle any challenge—you know that. You can do anything you set your mind to. What do you need?”
“I need a syringe, two, preferably, and a gauge, and…”
“No, Margaret, look at what we’ve got. Come on, think. What can we use here?”
She shook her hands, and Joe let her go as she grabbed the first aid kit and rummaged through it, first grabbing the pen light and clicking it on. She leaned forward and opened Ryan’s eyes, shining the light in one and then the other. She dropped the light into the pack and grabbed a packet, handing it to Joe. “It’s an alcohol wipe. Tear it open for me.”
He ripped it open, and she gestured to Ryan’s chest. “Wipe it,” she said. She pressed her fingers to his chest and lowered her head again, shutting her eyes and listening. When she looked up at Joe, she cried out, “Joe, God help me! I don’t want to screw up again, not with Ryan.”
He reached for her arm. “You won’t screw up. You listen to me. You’re good, and you can do anything. You know what to do. Trust that.” He willed her to believe in herself, because this wasn’t the time for her to have any doubts. She slowly nodded, picking up a needle from her field medical kit. With shaking hands, she felt her way over Ryan’s chest.
“Joe, I need light. Shine it over his chest. I need to see. I need to insert this needle, not too far, just enough to relieve the pressure. There’s blood pooling in his lung, and he can’t breathe.”
“You can do this,” he said, holding her gaze and willing her to be strong.
As he silently prayed, she injected the needle. His son gasped, and lights shone above them from a chopper, blades whirring through the air overhead.
Chapter Nineteen
“You’ve got a lucky boy. Someone knew how to keep him alive,” the doctor said. He had gray hair and appeared close to retirement, wearing faded green scrubs and standing on the other side of Ryan’s hospital bed. He scribbled something in a chart and then glanced down at Ryan, frowning. “That was a very stupid thing to do, young man, scaring your parents like that, running off on a horse. You’re lucky they found you.”
Ryan’s head was wrapped in bandages. He had thirty-six stitches across his hairline, a gash on the back of his head, and a concussion, though only one broken rib that had punctured his lung.
The doctor looked over at Joe. “You should go home and get some sleep. Your boy’s going to be fine,” he said.
The fact was that Joe didn’t think he could leave Ryan’s side again. He’d never felt the kind of fear he had when he saw Ryan lying bloody and helpless in the mud. Joe and Ryan had been airlifted out, and Margaret had stayed with the horses, telling him she’d be fine and she needed to get them home. He hadn’t thought twice about her until the doctor stepped out of surgery and said it had gone well. Ryan opened his eyes a few hours later, and then Joe started to worry.
A soft hand touched his arm, and he smelled her before she said anything. She slid her arm around his waist, sliding up against him, setting her hand on his chest. “I was so worried about you when you didn’t call,” Sara said. “And you, scaring your dad like that, how could you?”
Ryan just shut his eyes and turned his head away.
The doctor glanced down at him, flipped the chart closed, and said, “He needs some sleep. Don’t stay too long.”
Joe watched the doctor leave, and Sara looked up at him with such worry. “Joe, you look so tired. You need to get some sleep. After you’re rested, you can come back and see Ryan.” She didn’t glance Ryan’s way, and this time, when Joe looked back over at Ryan, he could see what Margaret had been saying—well, some of it.
“Ryan,” he said, touching his arm and leaning over, “I’ll be right back.”
“Dad, was the doctor talking about Margaret? Was it Margaret who helped me, or did I dream it?” Ryan asked. His voice was so raspy, and Joe could tell it hurt for him to talk.
“Save your voice. Margaret went with me to find you. If it wasn’t for her…” He stopped and shook his head, because he didn’t want to go there, even though the grave of his son had flashed before him when he kneeled beside Margaret.
“And Storm?” Ryan choked out.
He was even worried about the damn horse. “Margaret found him. She’s bringing him back,” Joe said. With the horses and everything, she had about a day’s ride alone.
His son’s eyes widened. “Is she…” he started to ask, but Joe touched his arm.
“No more talking,” he said. The fact was that Joe needed to find out where she was, whether she had made it back. Since Ryan was stable, he could step out long enough to call her, talk to her, and thank her. Then he remembered she had no phone. “Go to sleep now, Ryan,” he said.
There was something sad in his son’s expression when he glanced at Sara, who was still attached to Joe, as if she belonged there, that made Joe’s mouth harden. He had gotten the message loud and clear. He set his arm around Sara and said, “Come on, let’s go,” and guided her from the room.
“Joe, let’s go home” she said. “I’ll get you settled, make some dinner. You can get some sleep…”
“No, I can’t, Sara. I can’t leave here.” He took both her hands in his. “You don’t deserve this.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I asked you to marry me because I wanted a mother for Ryan. He needs guidance, and I thought a woman’s influence was needed.” He watched as she blinked a couple times and realized she always wore makeup, not heavy, but shadow, mascara, even lipstick that matched her painted nails. Her hair was always curled, and she always smelled like the floral perfume she wore. Margaret wasn’t like that. She sweated and didn’t care or try to hide it.
“Well, of course,” Sara said. “I won’t tolerate this kind of thing from Ryan. When we’re married, you’ll just have to get rid of the horse.”
Joe let out a laugh, but it was more of disbelief than
anything else. He crossed his arms. “Are you kidding? Ryan taking off wasn’t because of the horse or any horse problem. It was because of what I did, asking you to marry me. Apparently, he believes you don’t like him.”
Her jaw slackened. “That’s not true, Joe, and that’s not fair. I’m not a monster. I love you, and I realize Ryan and you are a package deal.”
He waited for her to say she cared about Ryan, but nothing came.
“Sara, this is a mistake. I don’t love you,” he said, watching as tears popped into her eyes.
“What?” She stepped back, holding both her hands up.
“Sara, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but Ryan means more to me than anything.”
She started to step away, but she turned back and slapped Joe across the face. It stung, and when she went to slap him again, he grabbed her wrist. “You hit me once, and I deserved that,” he said.
She pulled her hand away. “This is about that frumpy horse woman, isn’t it? I’ve seen the way you look at her, the way you drool over her. You’re interested. I’m not stupid.”
When Joe went to deny it, she stepped back, shaking her head. “I’m not an idiot, Joe, so don’t treat me like one,” she said. Then she turned and left, bumping into a tall, dark-haired man who gripped her shoulders and said, “Whoa, there. You okay, ma’am?”
“Fine, I’m sorry,” she snapped, turning and hurrying away as Joe looked over at his big brother, Logan. The man was six foot three, with cropped hair tinged gray at the sides. Logan narrowed his eyes at Sara’s dramatic exit and looked back to Joe.
“That’s a nice handprint on your face, there, little brother,” he said.
Joe paused only a second before crossing the distance, and Logan set his hands on Joe’s shoulders, pulling him close and hugging him.
Chapter Twenty
Margaret had worried herself sick, watching as the helicopter airlifted Ryan away. Even though she had relieved the pressure and he could breathe, there were a whole host of things that could still go wrong, with a possible infection, not to mention how bad his head injury was.
The One (Book 1, of The Wilde Brothers, A Contemporary Western Romance) Page 10
