Unbroken Hearts (14 page)

    
The runaway mare didn't slow as she neared
the corral. Bailey was now on a mount, and he and Billy rode straight into the
danger. They roped the crazed animal on their first attempt. Two night herding
men appeared. They'd been asleep in the bunkhouse when they'd heard the
shouting. They looped more ropes around the gray and wrestled against her.

     
The lathered, heaving runaway was
brought to heel, and walked back to her stall, led by Bailey, who chanted
honeyed words to calm the wounded animal.

    
"You'll be fine now," Cal
murmured shakily into Sarah's hair. He prayed that he was telling her the
truth.

    
Ned, face etched with worry, rushed to
Cal's side. His limp was more pronounced than usual. "What can I do?"
He rasped.

    
"Get a doctor," Cal mouthed so
Sarah couldn't hear him. Ned nodded and raced to saddle up, but Billy had
beaten him to the task and was already cinching leather on a fast gelding.

    
Amidst all the chaos Cal jumped from the
saddle, took Sarah in his arms, and gingerly carried her into the house. Her
confused eyes scanned his tight face just before she lost consciousness.

    
"Get the arrow out of my back,"
she whispered.

Chapter 12

    
Cal took the steps two-at-a-time. He swept
past wide-eyed Emily who'd watched the drama unfold from the porch with Mama.

    
"M-Mr. Easton! What
happened?" Emily's little face was full-moon pale; her light blue eyes
yawned wide with fright.

    
"She's hurt. Don't know how
badly," he tossed back. "Ned's going for Doc Chandler."

     
Cal carried Sarah up the stairs. She
felt as light as a feather quilt. The door to his room was slightly ajar; he
kicked it fully open and strode over wood planking to the bed.

    
Carefully he laid Sarah on her side. Then
he gently rolled her to her stomach. His trembling hands tore her oversized
shirt up the back, and he lowered her camisole to reveal the wound on her
shoulder.

    
Cal scowled. Maybe it felt like an arrow
to Sarah, but it wasn't. Nor was it a bullet wound. He saw a sharp gash about
four inches in length. It was a deep cut, but it didn't penetrate like a
gunshot.

    
As he gazed down he regretted taking her
riding. It had gone badly. He'd have to find it in himself to apologize for his
ungentlemanly advances, and now this on top of it.

    
He took her limp hand and held it gently
in his own.

   
Emily walked into the room, and taking one look at the blood stained
sheet she shrieked. "Oh my God! Sarah is dying!" Then she fell to her
knees and wailed.

    
"Emily she's not dying." Cal
rose from where he was seated at the bedside, and he took another set of tiny
hands into his own.

    
"Oh." Her angel blue eyes were
glimmering with tears. "It just ain't fair!" she blurted. "Sarah
gets all the hurting!"

    
"How's that?" Cal's eyes
narrowed, and his voice tightened.

    
"Th-those bad men, what gone and
killed my uncle," she spouted, "one hurt Sarah!
 
P-poor, poor Sarah! He, he pulled up
her skirts and laid on her. The blood ruined her skirt after, because somehow
he cut her – oh my God –-." She clapped a hand over her mouth
and whimpered.

    
Cal felt like he'd been gored in the
stomach.
 
"Oh no. Oh no,"
he closed his eyes, "Emily --"

    
"Oh, I wasn't to talk about any of
that," Emily blanched.

    
Cal held her little shaking hand. His
coffee eyes were brimming. "Sarah will be OK." He looked into her
eyes. "There now," he whispered, "I'll take care of your sister,
but I need you to help me with Mama. No one else can do it Emily. Ned had to
fetch the doctor."

    
Emily sobered, and then she hopped forward
and impulsively hugged Cal.

     
He wrapped an arm around her tiny
shaking shoulders, and for a moment they clung to each other. He ran a rough
hand over her angel hair.

    
Emily pulled away. "I'll go take care
of your mama now. Mr. Easton. Take good care of my sister." Her voice was
thin, but her posture was strong.

    
"Yes, I will. And you'll look after
Mama?"

    
Brave little Emily nodded and turned and
scampered down the steps.
 

    
Cal sighed raggedly. He swallowed back
tears. Sarah. Suddenly he felt even worse about his uncontrolled lust down at
the creek. He supposed he'd been without a woman for too long, but that was
scant excuse for his behavior.

    
As he silently chastised he decided she
needed fresh air, so he opened a window. Cal collected towels and water from
the washstand, and he folded and pressed a clean one to Sarah's wound. The
bleeding had slowed, and after a minute it stopped. He carefully dabbed the
wound with clean water, and finally he pressed another towel against the gash
and held it firmly in place.

    
The soft breeze wafting across the room
was calming. His heart was no longer racing as fast as the mare.

    
After a short time Sarah opened her eyes
They flickered immediately to Cal and met his dark gaze; confusion and fear
were evident in their green depths.

    
"Don't roll honey. You've been
hurt."

    
"I remember."

    
Cal dragged a chair over and sat down next
to her. Taking her hand again he explained. "It wasn't an arrow, Sarah. It
wasn't a bullet, either. I sent Ned for the doctor." He'd leaned over and
was speaking a few inches from her ear. His breath slid across her cheek.

    
"Something hurts on my back –
at my waist." Sarah groaned. "What is it?"
 

    
Cal's eyes drifted downward to something
hard lodged between her lower back and the top of her trousers. Gingerly he tugged
her pants away; he tried to ignore the glimpse of thin cotton drawers.

    
He spied a large stone, which he plucked
away. As he turned it in his hand the rock felt heavy; he judged nearly a
half-pound in weight, elliptical in shape with a sharp edge.
 

   
"A rock Sarah. It was stuck in your pants, and I removed it,"
he muttered. Cal set the rock on the table next to his bed. His cheeks had
reddened slightly.

    
"Oh, that's so much better."
Sarah's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you. I could have been killed when
that horse bolted." Her voice was a thin whisper of gratitude mixed with
awe.
 

    
More than saving her life, he'd risked his
own, bad arm and all. Chasing down a runaway horse, and getting so close as to
pull her off was a risky maneuver. Both horses could have easily gone down.

     
Cal was boiling with fury.
Someone
threw that rock.
More likely they'd
used a sling. The Eastons learned to hunt with slings when they were boys, and
Cal was a good slingshot. He'd also preferred oval shaped rocks like the one
now setting on his bedside table. He'd been able to hit anything accurately,
even at 50 yards. But this made no sense. Why would anyone want to hurt Sarah?

    
Cal wrestled to put aside his anger for
Sarah's sake. He sat and held her hand while they patiently waited for Doc
Chandler. How good it felt to sit, touch, and have a quiet conversation with a
woman. Cal offered her water and helped her take a few sips.
 

    
Sarah couldn't help but wonder at his
innate gentleness, but she supposed it came naturally to him because, after
all, he'd had practice caring for his mother. While they waited he left the
room only once, to go check up on Emily and his mother, and to reassure them
about Sarah's condition. He returned carrying a bottle of whiskey and piece of
leather. These were set on the table.

    
Over an hour passed, and Ned rode up to
the house accompanied by a good-looking young man.

    
Cal met them at the top of the stairs. The
younger man toted the standard physician's black leather bag, but he was
dressed in buckskin pants and a blue plaid shirt that matched his eyes.

    
"Where's Doc?"

    
Ned set a defensive posture. "Doc
Chandler was called out to deliver Mrs. Simmon's baby." He doffed his hat
to the man on the step behind him. "This here's Rutherford. He arrived
last week after word moved down the trail that we needed another doctor. He
comes from a place called Rooster, in Minnesota."

    
"That's Rochester," corrected
the young doctor. "But I took my training in Boston before that. The
gentleman I worked with in Rochester was a union surgeon named Mayo
who—"

    
"OK, fine! You'll have to do,"
stormed exasperated Cal. The man looked too young to be a doctor, and it
bothered Cal that he was rather handsome. Sarah was lying in his bed half
undressed. He'd have preferred old Doc Chandler.

    
Doctor Rutherford entered the bedroom and
cocked his head low to smile at Sarah.
 

    
"Hello miss. I'm Doctor
Rutherford."

     
"Hello," Sarah squeaked.
If the doctor recognized her as the girl from town who rode the white pony he
gave no indication, and for that she was grateful. He leaned over her and
pulled back the towel, studied the wound, and shot a look at Cal.
 
"You washed it with water?"

    
"Sure.
 
That matter?"

   
 
"Yes, it does."
Rutherford hovered over his patient. "She's lucky, this is mostly bluster,
but it does need stitches. She'll be fine, " he added. The doctor reached
into his bag and brought out a needle, thread, and bandages. He saw the bottle
on the table. "You can give her some of the whiskey."

    
She'll be fine.

    
Rutherford didn't miss a beat.
 
He soothed Cal with a smile and knowing
look.

   
Cal poured a glass of the whiskey and held the glass while Sarah
drank.
 
She made a face as she
swallowed, and asked if the burning feeling was normal. The men grinned.

    
Anticipating pain, she bit down on the
leather strap. Rutherford asked her to hold steady while he stitched the edges
of the wound back together, and she felt only a few dull pricking sensations as
he worked. He finished by covering the wound with a bandage. Throughout the
procedure the men kept up a steady banter, and Rutherford sprinkled Cal with
advice.

    
"Keep this bandage in place for
several days," he instructed. "Your wife can get up and back to her
regular duties by tomorrow, but she shouldn't do any heavy work that might pull
out those stitches. She'll be fine so long as infection doesn't set in. Send
for me if she takes a fever." Rutherford's cursory glance at Cal became a
close inspection. "Why is your arm in that sling?"

    
Cal hadn't expected that. And he hadn't
corrected Rutherford's error when he'd addressed Sarah as his wife. "I was
shot in the shoulder about three weeks back. Doc told me not to use the
arm."

   
"Let's take a look at it." Rutherford motioned for Cal to
remove his shirt.

    
Cal lifted his arm in a gesture of
resignation and stripped off his shirt.

    
Rutherford examined Cal's left shoulder.

    
"It's healed well. No
putrefaction." he murmured.
 
"You feel pain?"

    
"No."

   
Doctor Rutherford grabbed Cal's right arm and studied it.

   
"You're looking at the wrong arm," Cal grunted. "That
one's fine."

     
Rutherford smiled. "Indeed it
is. I'm looking to see what the other one
should
look like." Rutherford looked thoughtful.
"You haven't used your left arm in too long. Look at how much thinner and
weaker it is against your healthy right arm."

    
Cal looked down. Rutherford was dead on.
His left arm was a pale weak cousin next to the right.

 
   
Rutherford grimaced. "I
want you to start exercising your arm immediately. Use it every day. Make it
strong again. Arm wrestle with your wife or Ned if you have to, and burn the
blasted sling. If you don't move this arm, it'll be useless as an old
nag."

    
"But Doc said—"

    
"My training's up-to-date. Chandler's
isn't. You do as I say. Doctor Chandler didn't serve in the war . . . he hasn't
treated the gunshot wounds like I have."
 
Rutherford packed his supplies back into the leather bag as
he spoke. "I'll be back in a few days to check on the missus
and you
." He'd made it clear; he wouldn't entertain any
arguments.