Part Eleven

The rain hit late in the night, the wind whipping sheets of it against Dr. Saxton's house, thunder booming, forks of lightning illuminating everything like a photographer's negative and then leaving the outside pitch black once more. Jarrod sat in the doctor's office now, his chair pulled close to the window as he watched the night. Once the sheriff had taken the shackles off his legs, he had paced for a while, glad to be able to take a long step again, glad to have the weight of the iron lifted off him, but after a while he had sunk into this chair. Why was the doctor taking so long?

"I'll make some more coffee," Heath said after he'd shaken himself awake about the fifth time.

"Why don't you just sleep?" Jarrod nodded toward the settee he was already seated on. "I'll wake you when the doctor is all done."

Heath narrowed his eyes. "When's the last time you slept?"

Jarrod stared into the night and didn't answer him. He didn't know.

"Jarrod?"

He remembered waking that last morning with Beth lying in his arms. Watching him sleep, he'd supposed. She hadn't said anything, but the corners of her sleepy eyes had crinkled, and she had reached up to stroke his cheek, his hair, and he had pulled her close—

"Jarrod."

He wrapped his arms around himself and leaned his forehead against the rain-fogged glass.

"What are you gonna tell Mother?" Heath asked.

"I don't know." Jarrod sighed and turned to face him. "If Nick—"

Heath pressed his lips together, and for a moment they were both silent.

"She'd want to see him either way," Jarrod continued lamely. "She has that right."

"And Audra?"

"I don't know. I don't know what Mother's told her. I don't even know what day it is anymore, whether she'd be back from Philadelphia by now."

"Mother wired her about Beth," Heath said quietly. "I don't guess I ever heard what arrangements they made for Audra to get back home."

"If she's home, she'll come, too."

"Yeah."

The clock on the mantelpiece whirred and struck the quarter hour. There was a second of silence, and then the whole house was rattled with the boom and crash of thunder. Jarrod stood up and paced away from the window. A moment later, the door to the back room opened. Jarrod stopped where he was and Heath got to his feet beside him.

"Your brother is holding on," Dr. Saxton said as he removed his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. "But he's going to need a transfusion. Have either of you given him blood before?"

"He's given me some," Heath said. "I guess that means mine will work for him."

"Not necessarily," the doctor said.

"I've given Nick blood in the past." Jarrod was already rolling up his sleeve. "There weren't any problems."

"Good. Did you eat?"

"Some."

The doctor looked at Heath for confirmation.

"Some," Heath agreed. "Not enough."

"Enough for now," Jarrod said, and he went into the back room.

He found the doctor's wife rinsing off surgical instruments and putting them into a metal pan. She gave him what he was sure was meant to be an encouraging smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. If Nick had been pale before, he was white now, almost as white as the new bandages that bound his shoulder and swaddled his middle. His breathing was slow and even.

Mrs. Saxton pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. "He'll need to stay warm now."

"The anesthetic will wear off before long," Dr. Saxton told Jarrod as she carried the instruments out of the room. "We ought to get the transfusion done before it does."

Jarrod took the chair he indicated, waiting for the stab of the doctor's needle, not flinching when it came. The rubber tube turned dark with his blood, blood that would bring life to his brother.

"All the life I had went into that grave this morning."

He'd told Mother that after Beth's funeral.

"That's not true." He could still see her there in the gun room, small and fierce as he reached for a rifle to take with him to hunt down Cass Hyatt, begging him to think before he did something that could not be undone. "You think it is, you believe it, but it is not true."

He prayed now that she was right, that this one thing at least could be undone. He would give any of that life, all of it, to keep Nick from dying. Please, God, don't let go of him.

Heath stood on the other side of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, his back against the wall, watching Nick, too. Waiting. Waiting and listening to the storm.

It wasn't long before the doctor was removing the needle from Nick's arm and from Jarrod's, carefully bandaging each. Then he checked Nick's pulse and lifted one eyelid.

Nick stirred weakly and tried to pull away.

"He'll be coming out of it soon," the doctor said.

"And?" Jarrod asked.

"And now we wait."

"But what do you think?" Heath moved away from the wall, closer to the bed. "Will he make it?"

Dr. Saxton went to him and turned his head towards the lamp. "It's too early to say. Come and sit down."

The doctor gave him a spoonful of laudanum and then stitched up the gash on the side of his head.

"Now, I want you to go back into my office and lie down on the settee."

"But—"

Dr. Saxton pulled Heath to his feet and pushed him toward the door. Heath swayed a little but still tried to turn back.

"Go on," Jarrod told him. "Before you fall down. I'll stay with Nick."

Heath frowned but did as he was told.

The doctor turned to Jarrod. "As for you—"

"I want the truth. What are his chances?"

"Chances." Dr. Saxton moved the lamp closer to Jarrod and started examining the back of his head where the sheriff had hit him. "There's not much I can do for this now. Or that crease there."

He prodded the place above Jarrod's left ear where Hyatt had creased him.

Jarrod flinched and pulled away. "What do you mean chances?"

"I mean I can't tell you exactly. No two patients are alike. I can make guesses based on my experience, but I can't promise anything. If he'll rest and if we can get that fever down, that would make a big difference." The doctor started examining Jarrod's wrists. "And if he's like his brothers, he's got a strong will. That counts for more than most folks realize."

Jarrod flinched again as the doctor spread some kind of stinging salve on his wrists and then bandaged them up.

"You're going to have to eat something, Mr. Barkley," Dr. Saxton said. "And don't tell me you already have. You need to build your blood back up in case your brother needs more of it. Caroline?"

After a few seconds, Mrs. Saxton came to the door.

"Is there something you can fix Mr. Barkley? Something to help him get his strength back."

"There's still some beef stew from dinner," she said.

"That should do nicely. Heat some of that, if you would, my dear."

"Right away."

"After you eat," the doctor told Jarrod, "I want you to get some sleep, too."

"Later," Jarrod said, keeping his eyes on Nick. "And no more laudanum."

Dr. Saxton shook his head. "Suit yourself. As for me, it's been a long night. Once Mrs. Saxton gets your stew, we're going to bed. I trust you'll call me if your brother needs me."

Jarrod nodded.

"You eat every bite of that stew, understand?"

"I'll eat it."

"All right then. I'll be just a call away."

The doctor felt for the pulse in Nick's throat and then left. A few minutes later, his wife brought Jarrod the promised stew. Then she, too, was gone.

Jarrod ate, listening to Nick's slow breathing and the wildness of the storm outside. When his plate was empty, he carried it and the pitcher from Nick's bedside to the dark kitchen. He left the plate on the table and filled the pitcher from the pump at the sink. He stopped on his way back to check on Heath and found him sprawled on the settee sound asleep. Someone, the doctor's wife most likely, had spread a crocheted afghan over him.

"Sleep well, little brother." Jarrod laid one hand on his fair hair, wondering what he would have done, what Nick would have done, without Heath here quietly helping them both. "I owe you more than I can ever repay."

Jarrod carried the pitcher into the back room, shut the door behind him, and sat down again beside the bed. The back of his hand against Nick's cheek told him the fever was up again, and he dipped a cloth in the fresh water. Nick started at the touch of it against his face.

"Mmm."

"Nick?" Jarrod leaned closer to him. "Can you hear me, Nick?"

Thunder boomed, and Nick turned his head to one side, his eyes squeezed tight shut, his breath suddenly fast.

"Nick." Jarrod pressed one hand to his cheek. "You're all right, Nick. It's just the rain."

Nick had never liked thunderstorms when he was a little boy, even though not much else had ever scared him. Storms didn't bother him now, but every once in a while a wild one would make him a little jumpy. This one was fierce.

Jarrod quickly poured out some fresh water and lifted Nick's head, but at the first touch of the glass to his lips, Nick began to struggle against him, pushing with his free hand.

"No. No, don't. Don't."

Jarrod shoved the glass back onto the table, cursing himself for his stupidity. After what Hyatt had done—

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He used both hands to try to keep Nick still. "You're all right, Nick. You're all right. Nobody's going to hurt you. Nick."

"No more." Nick twisted and shifted in the bed, no doubt pulling at the new stitches. "No more water. No more. Jarrod, don't— don't drown—"

Jarrod held onto him, forcing his voice to stay low and calm. "Everything's all right, Nick. Listen to me. Listen. Nobody's going to drown." He felt sick just hearing the word. Drown.

It's not just the pain. It's the terror of it. It's the helplessness.

"Don't," Nick sobbed, still fighting him. "Jarrod, don't. Jarrod."

Jarrod sat down on the bed and pulled Nick up against him, wrapping him in his arms, holding him so he couldn't hurt himself. Nick huddled there, his breath coming now in quick little gasps. Again the thunder crashed. Lightning lit the room. Nick looked up at Jarrod, his eyes wide and wild, the hair that fell into his face stark and black against his pale skin. He clutched Jarrod's shirtfront with his free hand.

"Shh," Jarrod soothed, holding him tighter, and his struggles began to weaken. "You're safe now, Nick. You're safe. Pappy's got you now. You're safe."

"Pappy?" Once more there was the crack and flash of close thunder and lightning. Nick ducked his head against Jarrod's chest and wrapped his arm around his waist, clinging to him. "Pappy."

For a long while, Jarrod just held on, speaking low comfort until gradually Nick's breathing slowed and his body relaxed. The arm around Jarrod's waist dropped limp beside him, and Jarrod laid Nick back on the bed. For a moment, he was alarmed to see sudden beads of sweat on Nick's forehead and unshaved upper lip, and then he realized he was suddenly cooler. The pain lines in his expression had softened.

He patted Nick's face with cool water and then situated himself where he could lean back against the head of the bed and lay Nick's head in his lap. Then he closed his eyes, and the rain was only a patter against the roof.

Author's Note: NOL1, this one's for you.