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.
“Could it have been an accident?”
He didn’t answer. Kristin felt his body slump against hers. Was he unconscious or just weak and tired?
Reaching around him, she steadied the hand that held the reins. Ahead, over his shoulder, she could see the ranch house. Except for the ravages of time and neglect, it was much as she remembered it from her growing-up years, when Tom Petit was alive and his daughters, long gone from here, had been her playmates.
“We’re here,” she said, and felt him nod. Easing herself off the back of the horse, she led it to the hitching rail in front of the house. Logan Hunter pulled himself upright in the saddle. She caught his weight as he half climbed, half slid to the ground. Blood was oozing from under the shirt that wrapped his wound. She’d loosened and tightened the makeshift tourniquet as needed, but it hadn’t helped much.
“Key’s in my left hip pocket.” His voice trailed off. She reached behind him and found the key as they mounted the porch. Supporting him with one arm, she opened the front door.
On the inside, the house had the look of a place that had stood empty for a long time. The last occupants appeared to have left in a hurry. Was there anything here that she could use?
The sofa in the parlor was probably mouse-infested, but it would give him a place to rest while she searched, starting with the horse.
The saddlebags were empty except for some spare ammunition and a small box of matches. Kristin stowed the matches in her pocket and took the rifle out of its scabbard. If some enemy had shot at Logan meaning to kill him, they could be back.
The canteen, almost empty now, hung by its strap from the saddle horn. But there was a pump at the base of the windmill. Logan had mentioned well water. Gripping the handle, she pumped and prayed with all her strength. Moments later she was rewarded with the sound of water gushing up from below. As it poured out of the tap, she filled the canteen and hurried back into the house.
Her patient had sagged into a corner of the sofa. His eyes were closed, but more water from the canteen, raised to his mouth and splashed on his face, revived him. Kristin left him long enough to do a quick search of the house. Clean linens or kitchen utensils would be a godsend. But the cupboards and closets were empty. She found little more than a dirty-looking mattress on the floor of one of the bedrooms. But the kitchen did have a plain wooden drop-leaf table. With a good scrubbing, it could be put to use.
The hospital where she’d been posted toward the end of the war had made use of the latest devices and procedures—transport by motorized ambulance, anesthetics like nitrous oxide, new methods of disinfecting, like sodium hypochlorite that killed bacteria without burning delicate tissues, and even blood transfusions. Kristin could have used any and all of these to save her patient. But here, in this isolated place, she had nothing.
The outcome here would depend on her own ingenuity and on Logan Hunter’s strength and will to live.
* * *
The table, newly washed and still damp, was cold against Logan’s bare skin. He lay on his side, feeling like a sheep on the butcher’s block, with his arm elevated and his booted feet dangling over the end. Whatever happened next was going to hurt like hell. His only consolation was that, one way or another, it was bound to be over soon.
Kristin had removed her white blouse. The simple muslin shift she wore underneath was tucked into her divided riding skirt. The damp fabric outlined her round, firm breasts, the nipples shrunken from the cold water she’d used to splash off the dust. Too bad he was in no condition to appreciate the sight as she bent over him. She was a beautiful woman. He could only hope she was also a skilled doctor.
He’d lent her his pocketknife. She’d sterilized the blade in the fire she’d made with gathered kindling in the kitchen stove. She would use it to probe for the bullet if it hadn’t passed through, and for any other needed emergency surgery.
With care, she unwound the makeshift bandage and examined the wound. “We’re in luck,” she said. “The bullet made a clean exit. It must’ve been a small caliber weapon. But you’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re still bleeding. How does your left hand feel?”
“A little numb. But I can move my fingers.”