Calder Brand - Janet Dailey Page 0,46

through the dressings Rusty had bound over his wounds. He’d probably bleed to death before they made it to Ogallala. But at least he wouldn’t be alone. As the chuckwagon was getting ready to leave, two of the men had ridden up with the McCracken brothers’ bodies slung behind their saddles. The rustlers had been wrapped in a canvas tarp and laid in the wagon bed next to Joe, to be dropped off at the sheriff’s. If Joe ended up dead with them, it was no worse than he deserved. He’d thrown in his lot with the worthless pair. He was no better than they were.

Jesse Trumbo, with Rusty’s help, had given him one last chance at a clean start. More than anything, Joe wanted to take that chance. But first he had to survive, and that alone would be a miracle.

Mercifully, as the miles wore on, he blacked out. The next thing Joe became aware of, the chuckwagon had stopped moving. He could hear the late-night sounds of a town—music and laughter from a saloon, the nicker of a horse, and the distant whistle of a train.

The chuckwagon creaked as Rusty moved across the seat. Joe could hear him talking to someone outside.

“I’ve got two dead rustlers to deliver to the sheriff and a gunshot cowboy that needs a doc. Can you help me out?”

“The sheriff lives two blocks from the other side of the tracks. There’s a sign on the gate. You’ll have to wake him up, but he’s used to that.” The speaker sounded young, maybe a kid sweeping up outside one of the saloons. “The doc’s out of town—gone all week, I heard tell. But there’s this lady. She doctors folks that can’t pay cash. She helped my sis when her baby had the croup. Just follow this road to where the fields start. You’ll see an old brown house with big trees around it. That’s her place.”

“Thank you, young man. Here’s a little something for your trouble.”

“Wow! Thanks, mister!” The boyish voice faded as he hurried away. Whatever Rusty had given the lad, it must’ve been generous.

Shifting his position on the open bench, Rusty leaned back over the wagon bed. “You still alive, Joe Dollarhide?”

Joe moaned through a red haze of pain.

“Hang on, then. Since those other two galoots ain’t goin’ nowhere, I’ll deliver you first. Let’s just hope the lady’s at home and willin’ to help you.”

The jarring motion as the wagon started up again lanced fresh agony through Joe’s body. The sticky wetness told him he was lying in his own blood and getting weaker by the minute. And Rusty was taking him not to a trained doctor, but to some woman who dosed her neighbors’ rashes and coughs.

It was time he faced reality.

He was going to die.

* * *

Sarah had spent most of the night tossing and turning. After a long day of work, she’d fallen into bed, hoping to sleep. But that was when her worries had come flocking home to roost.

Only one medical school application had arrived in the mail. She’d filled it out and submitted it, but months had passed and she’d heard nothing back—not even a rejection letter. Meanwhile, Everett was pressuring her to wed him before he began his summer campaign. On top of that, the roof needed serious patching to stop the ruinous leaks, and her absentee landlord had left any repairs up to her. Ahab’s hooves needed trimming and shoeing, and she barely had enough money to pay rent. Say yes to Everett, and all those other problems would vanish like magic. So why did she keep putting him off?

But she knew the answer to that question. Everett was a splendid catch by any woman’s measure. But marrying him would mean giving up her dream.

It was well after midnight when she finally sank into a fitful sleep. She had just begun to dream when a hard rapping at the door jolted her awake.

Sweeping her hair out of her eyes, she swung her bare feet off the bed, stood, and flung Uncle Harlan’s old woolen robe over her flannel nightgown. The knocking continued as she hurried to the door, pausing to knot the sash of the robe before releasing the latch.

The risen moon revealed a stocky, grizzled man, dressed in worn trail clothes, standing on the front porch. Behind him, parked at the front gate, stood what appeared to be a chuckwagon, with the canvas cover in place.

Before she could gather her wits, he spoke. “I’m