Whirlwind Wedding. Debra Cowan
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mumbled something and swayed, his eyes glazing. As if being pushed from behind, he toppled to the floor with a crash.
The wood shook beneath her and for a moment Catherine stared disbelieving at the long length of man stretched out at her feet. He had fallen over the threshold, half of him still outside.
In a flash, Andrew, his dark hair rumpled and his blue eyes drowsy, appeared beside her. He wore only the droopy cotton drawers she had seen when she’d checked on him an hour ago after marching him home. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure.” Shaking off her shock, she knelt, holding the lamp high. He’d said his name was Jericho. “Help me turn him over.”
Andrew was stocky and strong. With his help, she got the Ranger on his back. Blood smeared the weathered wood floor.
Her brother drew in a sharp breath and Catherine glanced up. He was pale, his eyes huge. “What’s he doin’ here?”
“Looking for the outlaws that Sheriff Holt told us about.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. Not yet.”
“He’s mean-lookin’.” Andrew stood frozen, staring warily at the stranger.
Catherine turned her attention back to Jericho. The man’s black vest fell open to reveal the waistband of his trousers and a lean torso, but her gaze was drawn to the dark bandanna tied below his elbow. His shirt was torn and she could see a nickel-size hole in his forearm. Gunshot. “He’s bleeding.”
She reached for the chambray cloth, intending to roll back his sleeve.
“He’s bleedin’ there, too.” Andrew’s finger shook as he pointed to the man’s leg. “Is he gonna die?”
“I don’t know.” She tempered her impatience. Her brother’s sharp unease was undoubtedly due to witnessing the recent death of their mother.
Summoned by Mother’s urgent letter, Catherine had spent two weeks traveling by train and stage from New York City to Whirlwind. By the time she arrived, Evelyn Donnelly was dead from consumption, and the brother Catherine had never known was fending for himself.
She shifted the lamp to get a good look at the Ranger’s leg. A blood-soaked length of rope was tied high on his right thigh. Catherine had thought it was the leg strap for a gun belt, but he wasn’t wearing one. An egg-size hole tore his denims. She spread open the fabric with gentle fingers. A low groan escaped the man.
“It’s okay,” she said, automatically soothing him while she continued to examine his leg. His blood-caked flesh gaped. Raw, ragged and still oozing, the wound was deep.
She glanced up at Andrew. “We need to get him all the way inside.”
“Our house?”
“Yes. There’s no one else to help him.”
Her brother swallowed hard.
“Andrew,” she said sharply.
“He’s big!”
“You pull one arm and I’ll pull the other.”
With considerable effort, they dragged him across the wood floor, angling around the table to position him a few feet from the stove. Catherine knelt, checking the injury to his arm again. It would keep, but his leg needed immediate attention. His pants were torn on his outer thigh several inches above his knee, and she discovered two small holes in his leg there, where the bullets had entered. Blood still seeped from the open flesh where the slug had exited. Because his trousers were stuck to his skin, she couldn’t tell if the wound was on the top part of his thigh or the inside.
She stood and retrieved a pair of scissors from the free-standing cupboard behind the table, and cut through the rope. Laying the rope and scissors aside, she pressed her hand firmly to his leg, finding the rock-hard muscle hot and feverish beneath her touch. She ignored the flutter in her stomach. She wasn’t generally nervous around unconscious men.
“Andrew, get me a clean cloth and some water. Put one of the brick pieces from the stove in the water to warm it up.”
It was something the Sisters had taught her, and Andrew followed her instructions as carefully as she had always followed the nuns’. She cleaned the Ranger’s injury as best she could, applying pressure when fresh blood seeped out. His denims stuck to his leg and Catherine knew she might have to cut them off in order to see the damage. Despite working with the Sisters for four years at Bellevue Hospital and around New York City, she didn’t have all the skills needed to tend such a severe injury.
“You’ve got to ride to Fort Greer for Dr. Butler,” she told her brother. “This man has lost a lot of blood. We can’t let him die, and I’m afraid if we don’t get the doctor here soon, he will.”
In the wash of lamplight, the furrow of pain between the stranger’s brows seemed to be permanently carved. An old scar ran high on his left cheekbone.
“Don’t dally, Andrew.” She got to her feet and took him by the shoulders. That she was his only family had thus far meant nothing to the boy. Quietly belligerent, he came and went as he pleased no matter if Catherine cajoled, threatened or bribed. “Don’t disobey me in this, I beg you. This man’s life could depend on it.”
He nodded solemnly. For the first time since she’d come to Whirlwind, there was no hint of defiance in his face. Just a sober understanding and a hint of fear.
She walked to the corner behind the door and picked up their father’s old shotgun.
“What’re you doing?” her brother breathed.
She turned, her hands trembling on the stock. “Do you know how to use this?”
He nodded.
“Take it and go for Dr. Butler.”
“Okay. Moe’s fast—”
“No.” The Ranger had said the outlaws were near. Until she knew where the McDougals were, she had to be careful. She didn’t want Andrew taking any chances by getting their horse from the barn, where any or all of the gang might be hiding. “Take the Ranger’s horse and don’t disappear. Come straight back.”
The boy rushed to his room and returned wearing his brown homespun trousers and buttoning the placket of a brown-and-white checked shirt. He stomped his feet into his worn shoes. At the door, he took the gun. “I’ll hurry.”
“Good.” She began to roll up the sleeves of her plain white bodice.
“What will you do?”
“See if I can stop the bleeding.”
He grimaced and disappeared into the night. His shoes scudded across the porch, then silence fell. Unease at being alone with the man tightened her shoulders, but she calmed herself by observing that he was unconscious. He couldn’t hurt her.
Catherine knelt again, dragged in a deep, steadying breath and unfastened his pants. Her hands trembled so badly it was difficult to tug the heavy material down his hips. She abandoned that, fearing he might die before the doctor arrived. Picking up the scissors, she cut at the denim just below the rip so she could press her hand fully against the wound on the inside of his thigh.
She dipped the rag in water again and gently cleaned away more dried blood. Fresh crimson seeped out and she applied firm pressure.
He was lean and hard and his body burned with fever. Even in the pale light she could see the angry red of infection around the wound before fresh blood covered it again.
Maybe it was the fact that her mother had been buried two days before she’d arrived, but Catherine was determined that no more death would happen in this house so soon.
She kept the cloth in place, pressing with her hands. She closed her eyes, praying Andrew would reach Fort Greer and the doctor in record time.
When a rough, callused hand grabbed