Daunting Days of Winter (23 page)

“Hi, Heather. I’m Jennifer. Carol is the doctor. She’s going to help you.”

“I heard she was a vet,” Heather gasped.

“I am,” Carol said, as she emerged from the kitchen with a stack of towels. “Obstetricians are in short supply, so I guess it’s me or your neighbor. I’ve delivered lots of farm animals, if that’s any consolation.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not at this point you don’t.” Carol checked the girl’s pulse. “This your first baby?”

Heather nodded, relaxing a little as the contraction ended. “I had the ultrasound scheduled, but then everything crashed and I couldn’t have it done. I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t due for a couple of weeks. I thought I’d have a chance to come and talk to you before now, but I haven’t been feeling very good.”

Carol patted her hand. “Well, just relax. How strong are the contractions?”

“Compared to what? They’re pretty strong I guess, but I don’t know. My water broke a little bit ago, then it felt like a snake wrapped around my belly and started squeezing. Felt like I needed to go to the bathroom too, but I knew enough not to push, at least not yet.”

While Carol tended to the mother, Jennifer talked to the elderly couple that had brought Heather to Carol’s. “Are you family?”

The woman shook her head. “Just neighbors. She worked at the truck stop in Clinton and rented our basement apartment. We’ve been trying to help her as best we can.”

“Is the father around?”

The man shook his head and spoke softly. “He’s a truck driver. No one knows where he was back in September, and he hasn’t shown up. They weren’t married.” He paused, biting his lip. “I didn’t really know him, but I always wondered if he was that committed to her. He’d go a long time between visits; she was always worried about their relationship.” He frowned as he glanced over at Heather and exhaled faintly. “She’s a sweet girl, but…”

His wife grabbed his arm. “Shhh, not now,” she said, her eyebrows furrowed. She looked at Jennifer. “We’ll do what we can to help Heather out. By the way, I’m Jane, and my husband is Gordon. What do you need us to do?”

Jennifer shrugged helplessly. “Carol, what do we do?” she asked, returning to Carol and Heather.

Carol issued orders, sending Jennifer and Grace after more blankets and rags, Ty to get one of the women in town who was an LPN, Gordon to get water, and Jane to help with Heather. Spencer had heard the commotion and come upstairs out of curiosity, so David was assigned to keep Spencer and Emma out of the way and to maintain the fire and keep the house warm.

“I feel another contraction coming on,” Heather said, her voice rising as she gripped Jane’s hand.

“Let me know when this one ends and the next one starts, and how strong they feel,” Carol directed. “We need to track them as they get closer together.”

Heather clenched her lips together and nodded, her face reddening as she absorbed the pain of the contraction. After twenty seconds she gasped, then took in several deep breaths. “Okay, it’s ending, but they’re getting stronger.”

Carol lay a blanket over Heather and helped remove her pants and underwear. “I’m going to wash my hands and get some wet towels. I’ll be right back.” She hurried to the basement where two large pots of water sat on a grate in the fireplace, sprinkled in a few grains of the powdered bleach, and dipped her hands in the water of the smaller of the two pots. The water was still quite cool, and she grumbled under her breath before turning to David and Gordon. “I need it hot! Get the fire cranked up and monitor the temperature of the water. It might get real warm down here, but you’ll have to put up with that.”

Gordon added wood to the fire while David took Spencer outside to bring more wood in.

“Call me when the water gets hot to the touch. Understand?”

Gordon nodded. Carol dipped an old bath towel into the water, then wrung it out and ran back upstairs.

Jennifer knelt at the head of the box spring and stroked Heather’s hair, keeping it pulled back from her face, while Jane held her hand and chatted with her.

“You feel the next contraction coming on?” Carol asked, seeing Heather shift under the blanket.

She shook her head. “No, it’s just not very comfortable on this thing.”

Carol bit her thumbnail as she assessed the situation. “I really want you on something firm, but maybe we can improve things a little.” Carol grabbed some pillows from the couch and, with the help of Jennifer and Jane, set about repositioning Heather on the bed. When they were done, Heather was propped up with couch pillows, her hips on the edge of the box spring and her legs extending off, supported with pillows. As Carol commented under her breath, it was far from perfect, but it was the best they were going to manage under the circumstances.

CHAPTER 30

Tuesday, February 7
^th

Billings, MT

Rose felt the knife strike bone, the impact making a dull thud in the silence of the RV. Mantle jerked his head back and screamed as a thin trickle of blood began to drain from the wound. He pushed at her, but Rose clung fast to the knife anchored in his back, grasping it desperately with both hands and drawing the wound open as she fought to keep her grip.

He clawed for her hands as blood now ran freely down his back and splattered on the floor around him. “You stupid bitch!” he screamed, trying to jerk away, flailing at her with his hands.

Rose tugged at the knife, wanting to pull it out, but the blade, embedded deep in his bone, resisted. She stepped back with one foot, twisted the knife, and jerked it as hard as she could. Mantle fell forward with her pull, still screaming and twisting in pain as the knife pulled free.

Rose stared at her hands and the knife, scarlet red and dripping with blood. Mantle lurched away, and she saw him groping for his handgun with his free hand while keeping the other pressed against his neck, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Rose raised her foot and lashed out, catching him in the nose with her heel and snapping his head back.

“Stop!” he screamed, eyes watering and blood now gushing from his nose too. He coughed and sprayed blood on Rose’s legs. His eyes were filled with panic, like an animal caught in a trap, knowing its fate but terrified of meeting it. “Don’t kill me,” he begged. “This wasn’t my idea.”

Rose could see that Mantle was still groping for the handgun, his fingers just inches away from it. She kicked at him again, but this time he grabbed her leg with blood slicked fingers, dragging her towards him. Rose slipped on the bloody floor, landing hard by Mantle. He struck her, punching her in the stomach and knocking the air from her lungs.

In spite of the pain, Rose could feel the gun pressed against her leg. She kicked it away from Mantle while slashing at him with her knife, cutting a deep, six-inch long gash in the arm he was using to search for the weapon. Her lungs ached for air, but she ignored the need and cut again, stabbing him in the thigh as she tried to crawl away.

He grabbed her leg, but with only one good hand to use, Rose pulled away, retreating from Mantle in the narrow walkway of the motorhome.

Mantle breathed heavily and glared at her. “Mickey’s going to kill you, you know. You have no idea what you’ve done.” The dirty, gray shirt he wore was now stained red, with only the shoulder opposite the wound still its original color.

Rose retreated further, then spotted her rifle on the floor against the couch, where it had fallen during the struggle. Mantle followed her gaze to the gun. He leaned to grab it at the same time Rose lunged, catching her in the face with a bloody elbow, and knocking her backwards, his size and strength still overpowering her. Rose fell back against the bedroom door, and Mantle snatched the gun from the ground and pointed it at her in one swift motion.

He struggled back to his feet, holding the gun in his crippled left hand, blood running from his forearm and thigh, his right hand pressed tightly against the back of his neck. “I might die, whore, but I won’t be the only one. Get on your feet!” He spit at her, a red gob of saliva landing on her thigh.

Rose, just catching her breath, was breathing rapidly. She labored to get into an upright position, then stood up just a few feet in front of him. She stared at him, strong, defiant, unafraid. “Death would be far better than a week with you. Pull the trigger.”

Mantle grinned, his teeth red with blood, and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked softly, but didn’t shoot. Mantle looked puzzled.

Rose still held the knife in her hand. She closed the eight-foot gap between them in two quick steps, plunged the blade in the left side of Mantle’s groin, and pushed down before pulling it out again, severing his femoral artery. Blood spurted from the slice in his pants, sending a thick stream three feet in front of him and covering her legs and the floor in the warm, red liquid. She raised the knife again and buried it in his neck above the collarbone, leaving just the handle sticking out.

Mantle looked at Rose as she pulled back with the knife, his eyes wide, the color in his face draining quickly. He struggled to form words, but couldn’t, and he dropped to his knees, the blood from his groin slowing to a small stream.

Rose yanked her rifle from his hand and stepped away. He gazed at her, his eyes rolling unsteadily in their sockets, but his expression was unmistakable.

She wiped off the blood covering her gun on a couch pillow, then held the weapon in front of him. “Bolt action,” she demonstrated, chambering a bullet. The casing of the bullet Rose had fired when Mantle had pulled her from her horse fell on the vinyl floor and bounced with a metallic ring. “Now you go rot in hell.” She raised the rifle and brought the butt end of it down hard on the bridge of his nose, sending Mantle slumping backwards onto the floor of the RV.

Through the windshield Rose could see Mickey leading the horses back to the motorhome, only a couple of vehicles away. Rose moved forward, trying to avoid the blood on the floor while ducking low, grabbed the pistol, and set it on the table. Shivering in the cold, she hurriedly pulled on her thermals and shirt while watching Mickey lead the horses closer. She ejected the magazine from the handgun and inspected it, finding it empty with no bullets in the chamber.

“Didn’t want to waste bullets,” she said under her breath, disgusted. “You didn’t even have bullets, you piece of trash.” She tossed the gun on the couch and readied herself for Mickey’s return.

Crouching down behind the driver’s seat, she peered out the front window and watched as he tied Smokey to the guardrail on the side of the road. His face was expressionless, void of any emotion. No anger. No excitement. No fear. Just blank and soulless.

“Hey Mantle,” Mickey shouted as he tried to see inside while crossing in front of the motorhome. “Hope you saved something for me.” He paused by the passenger window, listening for a reply, but heard nothing. “Pretty quiet in there. Is she enjoying it?”

Rose could hear him laugh at his own remark, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She leveled the gun at the center of the doorway, where she could see his silhouette through the opaque window in the door, and heard him tug on the door latch.

“You want me to wait for a few more minutes while you finish up?” he called through the door.

Rose’s heart beat faster. She wanted a shot with no obstructions, both to guarantee a hit and to see his expression, but the longer he waited to enter without hearing anything from inside, the greater the chance he would be suspicious and come in ready to fight. She could see him lean close to the door, his head cocked sideways to listen.

Rose swallowed hard. She could feel the sweat forming on her forehead and along her spine.

“Mantle?” he called.

Rose rocked the camper back and forth and let out a deep groan loud enough for Mickey to hear outside the camper.

His head jerked back from the door. “What the hell?” she heard him exclaim. The door flew open and Mickey leaped into the RV, catching Rose momentarily off guard. His body had just filled the frame of the door when he saw her crouched behind the driver’s seat, her rifle pointed straight at him.

His face betrayed his surprise and confusion as Rose pulled the trigger, the rifle roaring, the bullet striking Mickey in the right side of his chest, knocking him backwards out the door. Rose hurried to the open doorway as she chambered another bullet.

Mickey, looking terrified, lay on his back on the ground. He fumbled for a gun holstered on his hip, but Rose shot again, striking him in the stomach. He screamed shrilly when the bullet hit and clutched at the wound, gaping at Rose, half dressed and standing in the doorway. She watched him down the barrel of her rifle, her right hand working the bolt.

“Screw you!” he yelled defiantly, extending the middle finger of his right hand.

With his hand directly in her line of sight, Rose pulled the trigger, the bullet blowing off three of his fingers before striking him in the bottom of the jaw. His arm dropped limply onto the road, the bloody stump of his hand draining blood onto the pavement, his body motionless.

A violent shudder coursed through Rose as she stared down at the dead man. She didn’t regret shooting him, she was sure he deserved to die, but the tension, the emotion, and the fear of all she’d been through in the last thirty minutes made her head swim, and she held the sides of the doorway for support.

Sobbing came from the rear of the RV and brought Rose back from her state of delirium. She remembered the woman in the back and turned back into the motorhome. She stopped at a bucket of water sitting in the kitchen sink and poured some of the water over her arms and hands, excising the vile, sticky blood from her body.

“Everything will be alright…” she called out before catching herself, unwilling to say something she didn’t believe. She thought a minute. “They’re both gone now. They’re dead. I’ll be right there.”

She quickly dressed, putting her boots on last, then walked slowly to the back and knocked on the door, hearing only muffled sobs. “I’m coming in,” she announced, as she turned the doorknob and entered the bedroom. Even with the brief glimpse she had had of the woman when she first entered the coach, she was still unprepared for the scene before her.