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Now his memory was beginning to fog, but he recalled trying to climb back onto the horse. Spooked by the smell of blood, perhaps, it had run off, leaving him stranded. In the near distance, he could see the black scavengers feeding on the carcass of the coyote Webb had shot. If he didn’t make it to somewhere safe, he could be their next meal.
That was his last thought before the darkness closed in. He collapsed to his knees and fell forward in the long yellow grass, his blood seeping into the earth.
* * *
Cully O’Rourke whistled a tune to buoy his sagging spirits as he rode home to the family ranch in the foothills. The old Tee Pee Ranch was usually a good place for rabbit hunting. He’d counted on bagging one or two for his mother’s stew pot. But today he’d seen only one animal—and in his haste to shoot it, he’d forgotten that his dad’s old lever action 30.30 had faulty sights and always shot high. He’d missed the blasted rabbit by a mile. He couldn’t even see where the bullet had struck. Maybe it had just kept going.
He might have hunted for more rabbits. But in the distance he’d glimpsed a horse. Standing next to the animal, partly screened by a scraggly cedar tree, was a man on foot, who’d probably dismounted to take a piss. Since Cully was trespassing, that could mean trouble. It was time to head for home.
His mother and little sister would be disappointed, and his father would grumble, but supper would have to be carrots and potatoes. No meat for the family tonight.
* * *
Mounted on the buckskin horse, Kristin could see the distant birds flocking around the dead coyote. At least she’d have no trouble finding the road. But she couldn’t turn toward home until she’d found the person whose blood streaked the horse’s side.
Was that person Major Logan Hunter? He’d been riding a horse like this, with the Calder brand, when they’d met. If he was buying this ranch property, it made sense that he’d be exploring the place.
But who it was made no difference. She was a doctor, and somebody needed her help. It was her duty to find them and do what she could—even if what she could do was nothing.
Once more, the birds came to her aid. A hundred yards eastward, beyond the dead coyote, something had attracted a new flock. The vultures and ravens were circling, touching down, then rising again, as if waiting for a feast.
Nudging the horse to a brisk trot, Kristin reached the spot in seconds. The birds scattered at her approach, revealing a man sprawled on the ground.
Logan Hunter appeared to be breathing. But the blood-soaked flannel shirt that wrapped his arm and the red stain on the earth—which had to be from a gunshot wound—told her he might not live long.
Dropping the reins to keep the horse from bolting, she grabbed the canteen from the saddle, vaulted to the ground, and sank to her knees beside him. She needed to turn him over, stanch the blood any way she could, and get some water down him. She’d tended far worse wounds in the field hospital, but this one could be just as fatal, and here she had nothing to work with.
She shook him gently on his uninjured right side. “Major, can you hear me?”
He groaned and murmured something under his breath. It sounded like“. . . Miranda . . . tthe boys . . .”
“I need you on your side,” she said. “I can’t turn you alone. You’ve got to help me.”
“What’s happened?” He still sounded disoriented but seemed to be coming around.
“You’ve been shot. Come on.” She reached across and hooked her fingers into his belt. He was not fully conscious, but when she braced and began pulling his left side toward her, he helped by pushing with his legs. After a few seconds of effort, she had him on his side, where she could access the wound.
The bullet appeared to have nicked a collateral branch of the brachial artery—if it had hit the main artery, he would have died in minutes. The clumsy knot he’d tied wasn’t doing enough to stop the flow. She rewrapped the blood-soaked shirt—folding the body of the garment to layer over the wound and using the sleeves for the knot. She tied it as tightly as she could and twisted the stick to function as a tourniquet. It would have to do until she got him someplace where she could clean and disinfect the wound.
The weight of the canteen told her it was about half full. Raising his head with her knee, she twisted off the lid and gave him all he would take. The water seemed to revive him. He was looking up at her now, his gaze sharp and clear.
“What are the odds that I’d be found by a doctor?” he muttered.
“Don’t try to talk,” she said. “We’ve got to get you someplace safe, where I can dress your wound. Can you mount the horse?”
“Given the alternative, I guess I’ll have to.” He struggled to rise. He was so weak that the effort was excruciating, but with Kristin helping, he managed to clamber onto his feet and raise himself into the saddle. He slumped over the horse’s neck as she pulled herself up behind the cantle and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“The old ranch house is a couple of miles from here.” He spoke with effort, his strength ebbing. “There’s a well with good water. Webb gave me the key.”
His mention of Webb touched off an avalanche of questions. But right now, Kristin’s only concern was keeping this man alive.
He took the horse at a walk, holding the reins with his right hand. Even then, as Kristin cradled him in her arms, she could sense the pain that shot through his body with every step. A faster, more jarring gait would have been too risky for him.
“Do you know who shot you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Never saw a soul. Just heard the shot and felt the bullet. When I came home from the war, I thought I was through being a target.”
And I believed I was through watching men die, she thought.
