Chapter 12
There were times, Jarrod swore, that Nick must have been born pacing … probably paced in the womb. "Isn't there something you need to be doing? Some place you need to be doing it? Not here?"
"Should have told him to wire me along the way. Assumed he'd just do that. It's been days. Not a word."
"Nick."
The back-and-forth rhythmic sound of boots on floor provided the only response.
"Nick."
Same response.
"NICK."
It stopped. The feet remained in one place. "WHAT?" The eyebrows, over the hazel eyes, dipped into a scowl.
"For the love of God, would you either sit down, or leave? Pacing isn't going to bring word or get him here any faster. What it is going to do is fray my one last nerve."
The blue eyes were brighter than usual, with a snap to them. Hazel glared back.
"All right, you're concerned. But, you didn't tell him to check in, and from what you've said, he had no reason to do so. He's not overdue. Truth be told, Nick, he's not even due yet. Don't you have more horses coming with him? Can't you go build a corral, or something. Just leave me in peace. Please."
"Okay, Jarrod. Okay. You're right. But I don't like it. Got this feeling something ain't right. If he don't show up soon, or send word, I'm going looking for him."
"Fine, Nick. You do whatever you have to. Just let me get some work done here. Now."
He returned the stare he'd gotten earlier, and waited until the rancher reached for the dark hat and settled it on his head. Giving it a tug, he marched out the door.
Jarrod attempted to return to the work he had sitting in front of him, and found his thoughts drawing him away.
I'm sure Nick is overreacting. After all, that's Nick. Nothing I've seen or heard would suggest Heath Thomson is in the habit of checking in with people … or expecting they would be waiting for him to do so. I'm sure if Nick had told him to, he would have. But, Nick didn't tell him.
If Nick's accounting is accurate, there's no reason to believe anyone watching … if indeed, there were anyone watching … would have become suspicious. No reason to suspect that anyone out there sees Heath Thomson as a threat. At least not yet.
Have to admit I'm getting anxious to meet him. He's got me curious. Just what about him has drawn Brother Nick. He doesn't take to strangers that readily. Not unless they have curves in places most ranch hands don't have curves, and faces that are much easier to look upon.
Okay, Counselor, back to work.
He'd kept turning, drew, and dropped, all at once. Almost succeeded in doing the impossible. Almost succeeded in taking out the two men without sustaining any damage in return. In truth, he wasn't quite fast enough. At least not for that.
He accomplished most of it. Both men were dead. A bullet from the second one had found him. Low enough to miss the protection of a rib, and wide enough to avoid hitting anything crucial. Deep enough to do damage. He was bleeding … more than was healthy … and the accompanying pain made its presence known whenever he moved.
The pain he could manage. Long ago had found a way to push it to the back and move forward with whatever needed doing. The bleeding he couldn't ignore. Only took a moment to determine that the bullet hadn't gone through, and that it was deep enough he'd not be taking it out. All he could do was get the bleeding stopped. He got his emergency supplies from his saddlebags and set about doing that.
After tying off the padding as tightly as he could, and realizing it had slowed the run of red without halting it completely, he decided the slug must have nicked something. Or the bullet was the problem … shifting just enough with every move to renew the hemorrhaging. Either way he was going to need help. Sooner, rather than later.
He wasn't sure how far to the next town, even where it was. The only thing to do was head back to the last one. It was going to be a long night. A night of slow going, nursing a sore side, and hauling two extra, body-laden horses. Wasn't all bad though. The night was clear and there was a half-moon, instead of total darkness. Plus, he knew the way.
He pulled up to the sheriff's office just after the dark had given up the fight, and the light of a new day was sliding into place. He eased himself out of the saddle, across the boardwalk and through the door, to find the sheriff pouring his day's first cup of coffee.
It didn't take long to tell his story. Took a little longer to convince the man of the truth of it. When he suggested wiring Marshal Sawyer to vouch for him, the man became more believing. More, but not completely. When the sheriff advised him that he didn't want him leaving town until he gave him leave to do so, he didn't argue.
He was pretty well argued out. Pretty well done in. He could feel himself start to sway with the shifting floor in the room. As he reached a hand toward the desk, to steady himself, and ask about a doctor, the words drifted a distance into the background … kept drifting as the sheriff's face followed them. He hit the floor before the lawman could reach him.
When his eyes opened again, they did so upon the face of a stranger. He blinked a couple of times to bring it into focus, as the man spoke.
"Welcome back, young fella."
Then there were arms pushing him down and the same concern-filled voice. "Whoa there. You're not quite ready to be getting up."
Seeing the blue eyes traveling around the room, and the unspoken questions, he continued.
"Sheriff, and a couple of deputies, brought you over. Dug the bullet out, and stitched up the hole. You lost a lot of blood. Would have lost a lot more if you hadn't done what you did … enough that I doubt there'd have been any need of my services. You're going to be just fine. Just need a mite more rest."
"Horses … gear … left … hitch …. Stable … will pay …."
"They've been fed and bedded, and will be well rested by the time you're ready to go. Sheriff took care of it. Your saddlebag's in the corner there." He jerked his chin in the direction, while waving his hand.
"Rest of your gear is stowed away at the livery. Sheriff has your holster and rifle … for safe keeping."
Heath looked at him, trying to gather his thoughts. "Gettin' … dark. Been out … all … day."
The doc chuckled. "You might say so, but it's only part truth. You rode in here two days ago."
At the look of alarm, he hastened to reassure his patient.
As he started to repeat his prior information that he was fine and would just need some rest, he saw something in the eyes that told him that wasn't the young blond's concern.
"It's not a problem. Had more than one stranger laid up in this room. The missus and I are happy to help. No worries there. Is there something else that's got you worried?"
"Expected … going to … be late."
The next voice he heard came from a plain, but pleasant-looking lady who had appeared from somewhere. "Well, we'll just have to let whoever know what's happened to you. You give us the details and we'll send a telegram."
He started to shake his head and stopped when, in return, the room wanted to spin around him, and he had to swallow hard to keep his stomach contents out of sight.
The doctor moved over to him again. "Telegraph office is closed until morning. I'd like to get some food and water into you, and then you need to rest some more. Going to be what gets you out of here soon as possible."
The blue eyes had closed, and he saw the squint lines appear and the jaw muscles tighten. This patient was in pain. Were he a betting man, he'd wager he was also trying to hide it. "Once we get some food into you, I can give you something to take care of the pain you're working so hard to hide."
The eyes flashed open, and were now dark, and hard. The rest of the face matched. "No … med … cine." It was clear there would be no argument.
This man was an enigma. The scars on his back held an untold story. Men who needed to appear tough would refuse pain medication … but that didn't seem the case with him. Something in those eyes spoke of a heap of living that stretched far beyond what his years would suggest.
When the sheriff told him what had happened, he'd voiced his curiosity as to how the man had gotten those dead bodies loaded on the horses. Sheriff couldn't answer that, but he did share what he'd learned when he took the horses to the livery. The owner remembered the horses … and the quiet, young man who'd requested the best of care for them, and then insisted on providing some of that himself, especially to the small, black mare he'd been riding.
Don't know what his story is, and it's not likely he's going to tell me. Not really my concern. Just need to be sure I give him the best care possible. Try to keep him from doing anything stupid, anything that decreases his chance of surviving this. The longer I can keep him here, the better. That might not be beyond tomorrow morning. Will push it as hard as I can.
"Your choice. It'll be available if you change your mind. Beth Alice here can brew up a tea that'll take off the edge, if you'll agree to that?"
The eyes shifted to his wife, almost as if the man were judging whether he could trust her … trust that it would be tea only that he'd be getting. He took his time with the assessment, and then, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he nodded. After accepting some water from the doctor he drifted back to sleep, until the wife awoke him sometime later with food … and tea.