Chapter Eight

They'd struggled to pull Heath back to bed, concerned his coloring and temperature went from florid and hot to extremely cool and ghostly pale. He was now lying on his back, senseless. They were unable to rouse him, but at the same time his vitals were normal, although extremely low. It was as if he were playacting his own death.

Heath's eyes finally opened hours later when Luke and Bobbie entered the room.

"Hi," Bobbie said. "I know it's late, but we wanted to see how you're doing." She took his hand and held it. "I heard you had some problems. Are you feeling better?" Bobbie studied the young man, wondering if he were related to her. Luke sure seemed to think so, but it was fantastic, like a fairy tale. However, the more she looked at him, the more she detected a general "Spencer-ness" about him, something wild and free yet caring and humorous emitting from his soul.

Heath sighed, shifting on the bed and halfheartedly smacking the oxygen mask that covered his face. His hand fell down and lay motionless beside him.

Luke walked up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "He might be too tired to talk," he said. Luke stared at the man. He definitely was the same person, the one in the photo. Somehow he was tied to Lucky. He knew it in his bones.

Heath's blue eyes bore into Luke's. He blinked several times and then said, "Daaaad," in a voice so eerily reminiscent of Lucky's that Luke jumped back with a shout. Heath's eyes closed, and Luke saw it on him, that veil of death. "No!" Luke cried. "No! Lucky!!!"

***

Nick turned over on his cot for the hundredth time that night, flinging the blanket off and sighing. He'd volunteered to stay with the boy in the kitchen, in case he needed something during the night. But, he was powerfully tired, and the uncomfortable cot wasn't helping matters. The kitchen fire was only embers now, but the coolness was welcome.

Nick laid on his back, his arm covering his forehead, lost in his thoughts. Where was Heath right now? Had he managed to crawl to a bush for cover? Was he lying in a ravine, pitched from Charger when the horse stumbled? Had a robber killed him? There'd been rumors of Mexican criminals heading north. What if Heath had crossed them, one man against a gang of five or six?

Nick groaned and turned on his side. He'd never forgive himself if his last words to his brother were irritable and accusing. Why don't you take your work seriously, boy? Do I have to supervise every step you take? That fencing should have been done yesterday! Now we're behind. I wanted to use the morning for branding, daggonit. And then Heath's eyes had lit up, angry and injured. He'd regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Heath was a hard worker, but he liked to tackle several projects at once. The fence hadn't been repaired most likely because he'd attended to an injured horse, given a stranger directions, and helped Audra with a garden project. Heath had turned Charger away with a yank of the reins and ridden him hard and fast, away from his brother and his hurtful words.

It's my fault, Nick thought. What if I never see him again? What am I gonna do?

Nick sat up when he heard a noise from the other cot. It was the stranger, the Lucas boy. It was very dim in the kitchen, but he could see something was wrong with him. Nick rose and reached for the kerosene lamp nearby, lighting it and holding it up for a better look. He walked over to the cot and felt his heart jump.

Lucas was bright red in the face, and his body was jerking like he was having fits. Nick laid his hand on the boy's forehead, and his fingertips sizzled with heat. Nick ran swiftly to his brother's bedroom, taking the stairs three at a time. He rapped on the door. "Jarrod," he whispered harshly. "Jarrod."

There was movement within, and Jarrod opened the door, blinking against the lamp's light. "What?" he breathed out.

"It's the boy," Nick said. "He's got a terrible fever and is twitchin' around. I think we need to ice him down. Don't wake Mother. She must be awfully tired after tending to him for hours."

Jarrod nodded and reached for his pants, pulling his nightshirt over his head and following his brother, bare-chested. Nick was shirtless as well, having chosen to sleep in his trousers in case the boy needed something during the night.

Nick remained with the boy while Jarrod fetched the ice from the ice house. "Lucas," he said, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up." Nick's stomach dropped when he saw that half of the boy's nightshirt was soaked in blood. "Oh no," he said. "Lucas. Come on, now. You need to wake up, boy. Eat some more of that willow bark."

Nick left the boy and rooted around his mother's medicine basket. He opened the boy's mouth and inserted a strip of bark, but the boy wasn't responding. He wasn't able to chew, but maybe leaving it in his mouth might help, who knows...

"Fetch the bathtub," Jarrod said. He carried a slab of ice on his muscular back, gripping it with a pair of iron tongs.

Nick pulled a worn tub from the back room and placed it beside Lucky's cot.

"We must place him on top of the ice, but we don't want to burn his skin," Jarrod cautioned. "The blanket should protect him."

Nick and Jarrod lifted the boy's nearly dead weight from the cot and gingerly lowered him onto the blanket-covered ice. Jarrod placed a smaller piece on top of the boy's stomach, but Nick pushed it away, worried it might harm the bullet wound.

"He needs to be surrounded by ice," Jarrod said.

"His wound doesn't need that."

"How do you know?"

"It's common sense," Nick argued. "Don't disturb it!"

"What's going on?" Victoria's weary voice asked. She appeared in the kitchen in her elegant robe, her hair secured by a bonnet. "What are you fighting about?"

"It's him!" Nick said. "The boy. He's got a bad fever. Seems to be having a fit."

"Oh my," Victoria said, taking a look. "You have him on ice?"

"Yes," Jarrod said, wiping away rivulets of water from the ice that had melted over his arms and chest.

"He doesn't need it on his wound!" Nick protested.

"I was only trying..." Jarrod began.

"Don’t!" Nick cried, waving his fists and looking scared.

"Nick," Jarrod said, reaching for his brother's arm.

Nick pulled away harshly. "Leave me alone! You think you know everything. Stop blaming me!!" He stumbled toward the back door, kicking at the ice tongs on the floor and slamming out.

"Go to your brother," Victoria said. "I'll take care of the boy. Go on! Something's very wrong with Nick."

Victoria lifted the boy's nightshirt, worried at the swollen nature of the boy's abdomen. His fever was definitely very high. She hadn't seen a reaction like this since her children were little. Often the young ones had fits when feverish, but this older boy was very seriously injured. There had been blood in his urine the evening before. She hadn't closed him up with stitches because she wanted Doctor Merar to take a look at him first.

She'd merely packed the wound, but it wasn't working. They weren't going to have time to save him. The doctor was out of town on a trip. It might take a day for him to arrive. And, if she stitched him up, the boy would merely bleed inside. One step at a time, Victoria reminded herself. We'll handle what we can and leave the rest to God. But, her heart felt burdened. There was something very special about this young man. She surely didn't want him to die.

***

"Nick. Nick!!" Jarrod called out into the night. It was a cloudy night, no moon illuminating the sky, making it hard to see anything. He stopped outside of the ranch house, listening, trying to hear where his brother had run off to.  Crickets and night critters made their usual noises. Jarrod alerted to the sound of horses grumbling and nuttering to one another, and he ran toward the stables, nearly falling flat on the ground several times, unable to see the hills and valleys in the rolling terrain.

It was dark in the stables, but he knew which stall was Coco's, fourth on the left. The warm smell of horses, hay and manure were homey and regular, but the frantic sounds of slapping leather and heavy breathing weren't. Jarrod walked without calling out toward the sounds. A man was pulling at a saddle, having a hard time lining it up in the inky blackness of the stables. "Nick," Jarrod said softly. "What are you doing?"

"I'm goin' ta find Heath!" Nick declared. He finally strapped the saddle on and placed his foot in the stirrups.

"Wait," Jarrod said, resting a hand on Nick's shoulder. "Let's talk first."

"No," Nick grumbled, twisting away. He paused, though, not mounting the horse.

"It's three in the morning," Jarrod said. "What can you do with one horse, no shirt and the dead of the night? We'll have to add you to the search party list tomorrow morning. I don't want you to hurt yourself out there. We need you in the house."

"He's dyin'," Nick said. "It's my fault!"

"You were being a good Samaritan," Jarrod reminded him.

"I killed him," Nick said. He wrapped his arms around Coco and hugged the horse, laying the side of his face on its warm flank. "I dug around with my knife and hurt him so bad. I botched it. It...it's just like the war. We couldn't save the men. They kept dyin' and there was nothing I could do."

"You did your best. What else could you have done? Gunshot wounds are serious. That's why life's real important. You have to take care of yourself today. Live for today. Now let's go back to the house."

Nick resisted, trying to mount his horse again.

"Don't hurt Coco. Don't make your horse suffer because you feel guilty," Jarrod said. "She'll stumble. She can't see in the dark. I almost fell on my face coming out here."

Nick lowered his head, defeated. He allowed Jarrod to take him by the arm and lead him from the stables. "I can't live with this," Nick choked.

"Yes. You can. You will," Jarrod said with the confidence of an older brother. "When have I ever been wrong?"

"All the time," Nick snorted.

"Well, yes. I suppose," Jarrod chuckled. He led Nick into the house, walking his brother straight to the study and the liquor. "Sit," he said, gesturing to a carved, wooden chair. He plunked a shot of whiskey before his brother. "Medicine. Courtesy of Jarrod Barkley."

Nick drank it all down in a gulp and tipped his glass toward Jarrod, who poured another.

Jarrod watched Nick with a little trepidation. It wasn't like Nick to be this emotional. Sure, he was strong-minded and often impulsive or hot-headed, but he usually wasn't this desperate or down.

"It's my turn to stay in the kitchen," Jarrod said. "You hit your bed and get some sleep."

Nick grabbed the bottle of liquor, waved off his brother and walked away slowly, shoulders slumped, his posture radiating misery.

"How is he?" Jarrod asked, returning to the kitchen. His mother was washing the boy's wounds again.

"Not good," Victoria admitted. "I can't stop the bleeding. Something's wrong with him inside. The bullet must have torn him up. I couldn't tell yesterday. I don't know my anatomy, not like a doctor. No wonder he's been in such pain, the poor boy."

"Does he have a chance?" Jarrod asked in a hushed voice.

Victoria shook her head. "I think you should call for the preacher first thing in the morning," she said. "The doctor's not going to make it in time."

Jarrod scratched his head. "Well, we don't know that. Perhaps he's on his way here right now. If we're lucky." He looked on, feeling queasy at the sight of blood. His mother's hands were covered with it. "Can I do anything?"

"Boil me some more water," Victoria said. "Doctor Merar talked to me about cleaning wounds. It's what's most important. Men are killed by dirt. At this point, all we can do is treat the boy with respect and try to give him some comfort."