Page 18 of Calder Strong (The Calder Brand #5)

It was time he turned in and got some sleep, Joseph told himself. But curiosity was eating him alive. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew what had happened out there on that dark road.

Taking his keys and a flashlight, he went out to the car. There was a loaded pistol in the glove box. He would keep it handy—not that it would be much protection against a submachine gun if the shooters were close by. Maybe he was taking a foolish chance. But the thought didn’t stop him.

After turning on the headlights, he started the engine and drove down the switchbacks, past the closed sawmill, and onto the back road used for mill deliveries.

The clouds had cleared the face of the moon, illuminating a landscape of sagebrush and scrubby juniper.

A coyote streaked through the headlights’ beam and vanished like a ghost. A flying insect spattered against the windshield.

Joseph kept driving. Here he was no longer on Dollarhide property.

The land was mostly public, but his family paid to use the access road for the mill.

So far, there’d been no sign of the first vehicle he’d seen. He was about to turn around and go home when his eyes caught the gleam of light on metal. There it was, pulled off to the right on an old side road that led to a dry water hole.

The old flatbed farm truck looked as if it had been used for target practice, although it would take only seconds for a submachine gun to riddle the chassis with holes.

The tires had been shot out, the windows blown.

The empty bed and the ground were scattered with hay.

So far, Joseph could see no sign of the driver.

Since there was no sign of life, Joseph left the pistol in the glove box of his car.

With the flashlight, he walked over to the disabled truck and peered through the shattered side window.

His breath caught as he saw the man slumped over the steering wheel, his head and clothes thickly mottled with blood.

The man would have to be dead, Joseph thought. A good twenty minutes had passed since he’d heard the gunfire. Even if this man had survived the shooting, he would have bled out by now.

The wise course of action would be to leave him, go home, and phone the sheriff. But first, Joseph needed to make sure the man was beyond help.

Reaching past the broken glass, he slid a hand under the side of the man’s jaw and down to his throat. His flesh was warm, the pulse a barely discernable flutter against Joseph’s fingertips. He was alive. Barely.

Joseph forced his thoughts into a plan. Get him out of the car, stop the bleeding, and get him to the nearest source of help. He cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t he brought any first aid supplies in the car? He would have to make do, any way he could.

“Sir, can you hear me?” he asked. “I’m here to help you.”

There was no response.

After opening the door, Joseph leaned over the man and directed the light to the bloodied back of his head.

Taking care, he fingered the wound. It appeared to be a scalp crease that hadn’t penetrated the skull.

Otherwise, the fellow most likely would be dead.

But the wound was serious enough. And his blood-soaked clothes told Joseph that the bullets had done more critical damage to his body.

Dragging him out of the car could worsen the blood loss, but it had to be done.

After turning off the flashlight and jamming it into his hip pocket, Joseph seized the man by the shoulders and eased him out from behind the wheel.

He was tall and muscular, a leaden weight in Joseph’s arms. As Joseph pulled him away from the open door, the man’s body straightened.

Joseph could see blood oozing from a wound, above the hip, toward the left side, that was soaking through his clothes.

Joseph backed him off until his booted legs fell free of the car and dropped with a thud. Sweat drizzled down Joseph’s face as he cradled the bleeding head with one arm and eased the upper body to the ground.

By now, his shirt was smeared with blood. His arms ached from hauling the heavy body out of the car. Getting it into the back seat of the Model A would be another struggle. Maybe by then the moonshiner—which he undoubtedly was—would be awake.

Joseph pulled the flashlight out of his pocket, switched it on, and directed the beam at the man’s face.

The flashlight froze in his hand as the circle of light fell on lean, chiseled features, a long jaw, and a twist to the mouth. This was the man who’d shamed Annabeth at the dance and slapped her face. This was the man Joseph had fought.

He was looking at Silas Mosby.

Joseph couldn’t stop the thought from crossing his mind. He could walk away and leave the man to die. He’d be doing Annabeth a favor. She’d have the farm and could no doubt find a better husband.

But maybe she loved this man. Maybe Ellie and Lucas loved him and needed their father. In any case, it wasn’t Joseph’s place to judge or play God. Whatever it took to save this man, he had to give it his all.

Joseph pulled away the hem of the bloodied shirt and loosened the trousers to uncover the bullet wound—an oozing, thumb-sized hole above the crest of the hip.

Except for the fact that Mosby was alive, there was no way to know where the bullet had gone or whether it had hit any vital organs.

For now, he could only stop the bleeding and try to get some help.

“You’d better not die on me, you sonofabitch,” Joseph muttered, leaning over him. “I don’t want to be the one who has to tell your wife she’s a widow.”

With nothing else at hand to stanch the wound, Joseph yanked off his flannel shirt.

Using his pocketknife, he ripped off the shirttail and folded it into a thick pad, which he pressed onto the wound.

Then, with effort, he worked the shirtsleeves around the body and tied them in a knot over the pad.

When he pulled the knot tight, he felt a reflexive twitch and heard a low groan. Mosby could be coming around.

He would need water. Joseph kept a canvas water bag in the car. He found it, along with a bandana he’d tossed on the seat and forgotten. It would do for binding the head wound.

Kneeling, he supported Mosby’s head and tied the bandana around it. He kept the pressure as tight as he could. Head wounds, even superficial ones, tended to bleed heavily. Joseph could hope the injury was no more than the scalp gash it appeared to be. But the blood loss was still a worry.

Steadying Mosby’s head, he splashed the blood from his face and tilted the mouth of the water bag to his lips, just enough to wet them. “Drink it,” he muttered. “I’ll be damned if you’re going to die on my watch.”

Mosby’s eyelids twitched and opened. He accepted the water and took a swallow. “Not too much. You don’t want to choke,” Joseph warned. “That’s it.”

He took the water away. Only then did Mosby’s eyes widen in recognition. “You … bastard.” Every syllable was laced with pain and hatred. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m trying to save your life, you fool. Now shut up before I change my mind.”

“The truck … ?”

“Shot to pieces by the goons who took your cargo. You’re shot up, too. Got a big hole in your side.” Joseph gave him more water. “I’ve got to get you in my car. Can you walk if I help you?”

Gritting his teeth, Mosby struggled to sit up.

He was a strong man, but he groaned with pain as Joseph braced him to stand and hobble to the car.

He purpled the air with curses as he was laid on the rear seat, half-curled on his side with the wound on top.

The blood was already soaking through the makeshift dressing.

“Where … where’re you taking me?” he asked.

“To a doctor. My aunt is close. You know her ranch.”

“No!” He grunted with pain. “A doctor has to notify the law. I’ll go to … prison. No doctor. Take me home.”

“You’ve got a bullet in you. If it doesn’t come out, you’ll die from the infection. You need a doctor.” Joseph climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“No—please, God, no doctor,” Mosby pleaded. “My wife can do it.”

“Your wife isn’t a doctor.”

“She doctors the animals on our farm. Does a damn good job of it …” His voice trailed off into a gasp of pain as the car began to move.

Joseph thought of Annabeth and the awful weight of responsibility he would be placing on her. “But she doesn’t have the medicine, the tools, or the experience to save you. You could die if I take you home. And your wife would have to live with that.”

Mosby swore as a rear wheel crunched through a low spot in the road. “Hell, her and the kids would be better off having me dead than in prison. But I’m not going to die, Dollarhide. I’m not leaving her and that bastard boy for you to take.”

The word that the man had applied to Lucas hit Joseph like a gut blow. He’d hoped, at least, that the son he couldn’t claim would be valued and loved.

“That brat is never going to amount to anything.” Mosby’s words continued through what had to be a haze of excruciating pain. “I’ve tried to make a man of him. But he’s got no spine. The little whiner’s going to grow up licking the shit off other men’s boots.”

Joseph struggled to keep his temper in check. Mosby was trying to break him. He couldn’t give the lying skunk the satisfaction—no more than he could force him to accept treatment from a doctor.

“Shut up, Mosby.” Joseph kept his voice level. “Any more of that talk and I’ll throw you out of the car. You can die on the road.”

“Just take me home … Drag me onto the porch and clear the hell out. I’m not letting you in my house or anywhere near my … wife.” His voice faded with the last words.

“All right, if you say so, I’ll take you home. What happens after that is on you.” Joseph doubted the words even as he spoke. How could he leave Annabeth alone to deal with her critically wounded husband? What would she do if he were to die?