Morning Light (30 page)

Loni ran to the horses to find the other canteens. She also fished through the discarded packs to get Clint a fresh shirt. When she returned to him he was praying out loud. “Please, God, don't let me muck this up. Don't let me kill him.”

“You're going to save his life,” Loni insisted as she passed him an uncapped canteen. “God didn't give me the visions and bring us all this way only to let him die. You have to have faith, Clint.”

“Until now I thought I did. Funny how when it's put to the test, it goes flying out the window.”

“That's not true. You're just scared, and you have every right to be. Has anyone ever done something like this in the wilderness before?”

“Probably not. It's totally nuts. My EMT certification may be revoked.”

While Clint worked to transfuse the child with another syringeful of blood, Loni stroked Trevor's forehead, smiling sadly. “He's so darling, Clint. He's going to live. I just know it.”

Clint began pumping up the blood pressure cuff again. “I pray to God you're right.”

T
he ride that followed was more grueling than Loni had ever imagined the horses could withstand. True to his word, Clint headed due west with Trevor and the sleeping bag cradled in one arm, the unburdened packhorses scrambling up the steep, rocky inclines behind him. He set such a fast pace that Uriah, Loni's mount, was soon blowing with exhaustion, his huge body foamy with sweat. Even Nana's energy seemed to flag on the steepest parts of the slopes.

At the crest of the second mountain Clint threw up a hand to halt the horses, slid from Malachi's back, and gently deposited the bundled child on the ground. To Loni he yelled, “Unsaddle Uriah. We'll go bareback from here.”

Bareback? Loni was only just now growing accustomed to the saddle. But she obeyed Clint's orders without hesitation, her heart breaking for Uriah, who stood on trembling legs, his great head hanging. Clint removed Malachi's bridle and put it on Jemima. Then he came to remove Uriah's head tack and put it on Ezekiel.

Patting the fresh gelding's shoulder, he said, “Ezekiel is sure-footed. Hold tight with your knees and make a fist in his mane to keep your seat. It won't hurt him if you pull on his hair a little. They don't feel it the same way humans do.” He interlaced his fingers to give her a leg up onto the animal. “You doing okay?”

Loni nodded as she got seated on the horse. “How's Trevor?”

Clint swiped at his crimson-stained shirt. “Still bleeding. My guess is he'll need more blood when we reach Wagon Wheel. I'm trying not to jostle him, but it's damned near impossible not to on horseback. I think all the movement is reopening the wound.” He swept off his hat to wipe his brow with his sleeve. “Pray that he doesn't bleed out before we reach help.”

“I will. With every step, Clint, I'll be praying.” Loni glanced at the spent geldings. “What about Uriah and Malachi? They're too exhausted to keep up now.”

“We're leaving them.”

“Oh, Clint,
no.
”

“We have no choice.” His jaw muscle rippled in his lean cheek. With his dark complexion it was difficult to tell for sure, but Loni thought he looked a little pale. “Hopefully they'll stay put or return to the main trailhead. I'll come back for them. Just say a few extra prayers that I can find them when I do.”

Loni nodded and then watched as he gathered Trevor and the sleeping bag back into his arms. He led the mare to a log to assist him in mounting, a feat that he executed with amazing strength and agility with a child in his arms. When Jemima headed out with the shorter string of packhorses behind her, Loni fell in at the end of the line. She twisted at the waist to gaze sadly back at Uriah and Malachi, neither of whom had the strength to lift their heads, let alone follow.

After only a few days in the company of horses, Loni knew the overheated geldings should have been rubbed down and then walked. Even after a less strenuous ride Clint never failed to do that, and she knew it was breaking his heart to ride off and leave them like this now, especially after they'd run their hearts out for him.

But Clint didn't look back. Shoulders hunched around the child in his arms, he pressed forward, once again pushing the horses to the limit of their endurance. Nana bounded to the front of the line to trot abreast of Jemima at Clint's right side, where she could be closest to Trevor. Loni found the dog's steadfast devotion nothing short of amazing.

Fear and outrage warred for supremacy in Clint's mind as he urged Jemima up the next incline. His son. He held the child in the bend of one arm, acutely aware of his precious little face peeking out from the cocoon of warmth supplied by the sleeping bag. His baby. On the one hand, Clint had never felt so terrified in his life. To learn that he had a boy, only to lose him like this—the very thought hurt beyond bearing. But equally prominent in Clint's thoughts was his sense of helpless anger. The child was eight years old.
Eight years
, and Clint had missed out on all of them, never attending a birthday party, never sending a Christmas gift, never telephoning to hear his son's voice.
Who're you?
Trevor had asked. And Clint had replied,
A friend.

He felt robbed. If Sandra had still been alive Clint would have looked her up and given her a piece of his mind. It wasn't
right
to deprive a man of knowing his child. And how had that been fair to Trevor? The boy was the spitting image of Frank Harrigan, just as Clint and all his brothers were. Trevor had a family, an entire
family
, that he didn't know existed, a grandfather who would have worshiped the ground he walked on, an aunt and three uncles who would have spoiled him rotten, and a
father
, damn it. Clint wanted to throw his head back and howl in anguish, not only over all the memories that he and Trevor had never made, but also over the future they might never be able to share.

Death. It came for the young as well as the old, and it might come for Trevor.

For Loni, the remainder of the journey passed in a blur of worry, exhaustion, and heartbreak as they left four more horses behind. When they were down to the last two mounts, Bathsheba and Delilah, Loni rode directly behind Clint.

“Still no phone reception!” she called ahead to him.

“Might not get any,” he yelled back. “We're much deeper into the mountains than last night, farther from any towers.”

Delilah didn't seem as sure on her feet as Loni's other mounts, so Loni was grateful when the terrain leveled out. “How much farther?”

“We're almost there.”

It seemed to Loni that they were in the wilderness one second and at the edge of a two-lane highway the next. Keeping to the shoulder of the road, Clint turned right, which she concluded must be north. It took all the strength she had to stay seated on Delilah during the race for town that followed. Once again Clint pushed the horses to the point of exhaustion, the weary Nana falling behind to catch her breath and then racing to catch up.

Just when Loni feared that Delilah might collapse beneath her, they reached the edge of Wagon Wheel. Clint didn't slow the pace even then. He rode Bathsheba at the same brutal speed, cutting through traffic at one point and bringing cars to a screeching halt. He didn't slow down until they came to a small log structure with a gravel parking lot out front.

“This is
it
?” Loni couldn't believe her eyes. The building looked like no emergency clinic she'd ever seen. “Is it even open?”

Trevor clutched in his arms, Clint slid off Bathsheba and ran up rickety steps onto a covered front veranda. “Tie off the horses!”

Calling to Nana, Loni tied the mares' reins to the porch posts before following Clint into the building. Her jeans were hot and wet with horse sweat, and coated with coarse hair. When she plucked the sticky denim from her skin, her fingers came away furry and smeared with grime.

“I hope they don't have a rule against dogs,” she told Nana. “No way am I leaving you out here and risking your getting hit by a car.”

Nana barked, clearly impatient to go inside with the child. They entered the clinic just in time for Loni to hear a man, somewhere at the back of the building, shouting at the top of his lungs. “You crazy son of a bitch! Are you out of your mind? A transfusion with blood that wasn't cross-matched could kill him. That isn't to mention possible death from shock or agglutination. If any clots hit his lungs he's a goner. Do you realize that?”

With no inflection in his voice, Clint replied, “I injected saline before each infusion to help prevent clotting. I used all I had. Without the blood he would have died where we found him.”

Upon hearing Clint's voice Nana took off like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. A second later the doctor was yelling again.

“Get that goddamned dog out of here! Where the hell did it come from?”

“That's Nana,” Clint explained. “She was in the raft when it capsized and pulled Trevor to shore so he didn't drown with the adults. Since then she's protected him from wolves, prevented him from getting hypothermia, and hunted for rabbits and squirrels to keep him from starving. She's
earned
the right to be here.”

“Not in my treatment room, she hasn't. Get that flea-bitten mongrel out of here.”

Clint led the dog by her collar back to the front. “Keep her here,” he said. “The good doctor has the personality of a rattlesnake.”

When Clint turned away, Loni curled her hand over Nana's collar. The dog whined pathetically. “I'm sorry, sweetie. Dogs can't be in sterile environments.”

As Loni's eyes adjusted to the dim light she took in the waiting room, a square area lined with cheap metal chairs. She glimpsed a nurse in blue scrub pants and a flowered smock rushing about in the treatment room, located behind an unimpressive check-in counter and office area. There came quick verbal exchanges between the doctor and nurse, followed by a spurt of frenetic activity. Loni couldn't see Trevor or Clint and could only imagine what was happening in there.

The nurse hurried out to the counter, grabbed the phone, and punched in some numbers. She barely glanced at Loni. “Lorna at Wagon Wheel. Trevor Stiles was just brought in. Trauma to the left shoulder, shock, near exsanguination. We need his blood stats, ASAP, and we need a helicopter lift to Saint Matthew's as fast as you can get someone here.”

The nurse hung up the phone and raced back to the treatment room. “They'll call with his stats as soon as they can. The grandparents are in Crystal Falls, so hopefully they'll know who to contact.”

“He needs more blood
now
, not in ten minutes.”

“Use mine,” Clint said. “It hasn't killed him yet.”

“
Jesus!”
the doctor cried. “Do you think I'm
nuts
? Do you have your donor card with you?”

“No.”

“Then I'm not touching it with a ten-foot pole. I can't verify your blood type. I can't be sure you don't check positive for hepatitis or HIV. No way, Jack.”

“I donate all the time. I'm certain I don't check positive for anything bad.”

Loni collapsed onto a chair, suddenly so weak in the legs she could no longer stand. Would Clint be endangering himself by giving the child more blood? She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. Lorna reached the desk before the second ring, grabbed the receiver, and barked, “Yes?” She furiously jotted down notes, hung up with a clipped, “Thanks!” and darted back to the treatment room. “He's an O-neg. That's all they could give me.”

“Do we have any on hand?”

“No.”

“Well, that's just
great.
Are you sure? Check the fridge.”

“I don't need to check the fridge. I know our inventory. We used the last of the O-neg this morning on the motorcycle vic.”

“So why didn't you call for more to be delivered? It's the most important blood type to have on hand.”

“I
forgot
!” Lorna cried. “It's been a circus in here all day. I'm only human. It's not my fault that Beth called in sick and we've been shorthanded!”

“Use
mine
,” Clint said again. “I'm an EMT, damn it. I guess I know what my blood type is. And I'll remind you again, it hasn't killed him yet!”

The doctor cursed under his breath. “Lorna, get the man on a table. Set me up with a direct line.”

Loni heard another rush of activity.

“How much have you already given him?” the doctor asked.

“Only a little,” Clint replied. “A half pint, maybe. Take what he needs and don't worry about me. I'm fine.”

“Let's give this boy some blood, then. He runs a higher risk of dying without it than he will from possible reactions.”

“My thought exactly,” Clint said dryly. “Maybe I am a crazy son of a bitch, but if anything goes wrong I won't hold you responsible.”

“It'll be the good senator's parents who'll sue my ass off, cowboy, not you.”

“The good senator wasn't his father. I am.”

“What? This is the Stiles boy. Correct?”

“I'm his biological father,” Clint insisted. “You have my word, and even though you're a prickly bastard with the rottenest bedside manner I've ever seen, I won't allow any lawsuits to be filed against you if the transfusion kills him.”

“A prickly bastard, am I?” The doctor laughed humorlessly. “That's fair, I guess. It's not every day I get a kid who's almost bled dry and been transfused out in the woods by an unqualified goat roper. That
isn't
to mention having a stinky dog the size of a horse enter my treatment room.”

“Yeah, well, count your blessings. We left the actual horses outside.”

Trevor got the blood he needed. When Clint joined Loni in the waiting room over thirty minutes later, the doctor and nurse were still working over the child. Loni clasped Clint's hand, noting that he shook like a leaf and looked a little gray under his dark tan.