Page 19 of Calder Strong (The Calder Brand #5)

He waited for a reply. But from the back seat, there was nothing but silence. When he slowed the car and glanced around, he saw that Mosby was still breathing, but his eyes were closed. Hopefully, he’d passed out.

Now would be the time to get him to the doctor.

But Mosby had been right about one thing.

Joseph recalled his aunt mentioning that doctors were obligated to report gunshot wounds to the authorities.

For Dr. Kristin Dollarhide Hunter, saving the man’s life would mean sending him to prison for trafficking in moonshine.

Even if Joseph asked her to, she couldn’t make an exception.

Joseph had reached the turnoff to the Mosby farm. He hesitated, thinking of Annabeth and her children, and the consequences of his next action—including the stain of being connected to a criminal. There were no good choices here.

Decision made, he swung the car onto the lane that would lead him to the house.

Annabeth lay alone in the double bed she shared with her husband.

After a long day of housework, tending her children, making bread, updating the farm accounts, milking the cows, delivering a breeched calf, and cooking supper, she was exhausted.

But on these late nights when Silas was out, she never slept.

And tonight he was out later than usual.

She liked to pretend she didn’t know what he was up to. But she was no fool. She knew who his friends were, and every instinct told her they weren’t just playing cards.

Earlier, she’d checked on her children. They were fast asleep in the next room, safe in their shared bed.

Ellie slept curled like a kitten with her thumb in her mouth, which seemed to comfort her.

Lucas lay on his back with his hands resting on the patchwork quilt.

Today his father had taken him to the potato field again.

The boy had lost his oversized gloves and had to pick through the foliage for bugs with his bare hands.

The sight of his bleeding fingers had nearly broken Annabeth’s heart.

Silas’s only comment had been, “That’ll teach the little bastard not to lose expensive gloves. ”

Annabeth had doctored his hands with her homemade salve. But they needed time to heal. Tomorrow she wouldn’t allow him to be taken to the field. Silas might rail at her, maybe even hit her. But she would stand firm. Lucas would not be working without suitable gloves that fit his hands.

A frantic pounding on the front door broke into her thoughts. She kept the door locked at night, but Silas had a key. This had to be somebody else—although it was strange that the dog hadn’t barked.

She tossed back the covers and swung her legs off the bed.

With Silas’s robe thrown over her thin nightgown, she closed the children’s door and hurried into the front room.

The pounding on the door continued, along with a muffled voice calling her name.

Silas’s loaded shotgun hung on a rack by the door. She snatched it down before answering.

“Who’s there?”

“Annabeth, it’s Joseph!” Her throat tightened as she recognized his voice. “Your husband’s been shot! Open the door!”

She put the gun aside, turned on the light, and flung open the door. Joseph stood in the glow of the porch light. His white singlet, his arms, and his hands were smeared with blood.

Her husband’s limp body lay half-draped across his shoulders. Silas’s head and midsection were wrapped in blood-soaked rags.

“He’s got a bullet in his side.” Joseph crossed the threshold, staggering under Silas’s two-hundred-pound weight. “It’s got to come out. We’ll need him on the table.” He drew a harsh breath. “You’ll want to get a sheet—then some kind of sharp tool, and something for bandages.”

Annabeth’s knees had almost given way at the sight of so much blood.

But this was no time for weakness. Even questions could wait.

She dashed to the linen cupboard, found a clean sheet, and spread it over the kitchen table.

Without being asked, she lifted Silas’s legs, supporting them as Joseph lowered his head and upper body to the tabletop.

Then she filled a dishpan with water, set it on an open burner, and added several coal chunks and kindling sticks to the firebox in the cookstove.

It never hurt to have hot water on hand.

Turning back to her husband, she found a clean kitchen rag, wet it at the sink, and began sponging the blood from his face.

His eyes were closed, his skin deathly pale.

Only the rasp of his labored breathing and the faint throb of a pulse at his throat told her he was alive.

The bandana around his head was stiff with drying blood. Caution told her to leave it in place.

Joseph had washed with soap at the sink and was peeling away the bloody wrapping from around Silas’s waist. His hands were sure and careful. His face revealed nothing.

“Tell me what happened, Joseph,” she demanded. “Did the two of you fight again? Did you shoot him?”

A look of shock flashed across his face. “You know I wouldn’t do that to your family,” he said. “He was ambushed on the back road. I saw the lights, heard the shots, and decided to investigate. I found him like this, in the truck. It was shot full of holes.

“He was talking for a while on the way here. I wanted to take him to the doctor. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He claimed that a doctor would have to report him, and he’d be sent to prison.”

Annabeth listened in silence as the picture came together.

It was just as she’d suspected. Silas, the fool, must’ve been smuggling moonshine for his friends.

A rival gang had cut him down and probably taken his cargo.

Blast the man. How long had he been doing this? How long had he been lying to her?

Joseph’s gaze locked with hers across Silas’s unconscious body. “He told me that you’d doctored animals. He said you could get the bullet out. Can you do it?”

She shook her head, a sick fear taking root in her stomach. “I’ve stitched up a few barbed wire cuts and delivered some calves. But no, nothing like this. Heaven help me, Joseph, what made him think I could do this? What if I kill him?” She gazed down at her shaking hands.

“He told me to leave him on the porch and go,” Joseph said. “But I couldn’t do that to you. I’ve never probed for a bullet, but I watched my aunt do it once, so I know what has to be done. Our best chance of saving him is with the two of us working together. All right?”

“Yes.” The fear was still there, but this was her responsibility. She couldn’t ask Joseph to do it alone.

“You’ll need something to push into the wound and lift the bullet out. I don’t suppose you’ve got forceps.”

“No.” She thought fast. “But this might work.” Opening a drawer, she took out a long-handled dessert spoon, narrow at the scoop end. “I don’t have anything better.”

He studied it and nodded. “Let’s hope it will work. My aunt would clean it with carbolic acid. I don’t suppose—”

“No, I had some, but I used the last of it in the barn, delivering a calf. This will have to do.” Annabeth dropped the spoon into the bubbling water to sterilize it.

While they waited, she found a worn bedsheet and began tearing it into strips, forcing her hands to the task.

Her heart was racing, but this was no time to be nervous.

“What about his head?” she asked, eyeing the blood crusted bandana. “It looks bad.”

“It felt like a scalp wound. We’ll know for sure when we clean it. For now, that’ll have to wait.” He opened his pocketknife and began cutting away the makeshift bandage to expose the ugly hip wound. Pausing, he met her gaze.

“Getting that bullet out is going to hurt like hell,” he said. “He’s unconscious now, but the pain could bring him around. If it does, he’ll be wild. You won’t be strong enough to hold him. You’ll need to get the bullet while I hold him steady. Can you do that?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Annabeth forced her hands to keep busy. She knew enough to wrap a cloth around a flat knife, which would be used to thrust between his teeth.

She gazed down at the man who had married her, loved her, lied to her, and abused her—the father of her children, in name, at least. Now it would be up to her to save his life. If her skill wasn’t up to the task, he could die. But she mustn’t think about that now. “I’m ready,” she said.

Joseph worked the wrapped knife between Silas’s teeth and moved around the table to make room for her. “You’ll want to find the bullet with your finger first,” he said. “That way you’ll know which way to probe with the spoon.”

Steeling herself, Annabeth studied the wound, trying to judge the best angle. She was about to begin when she heard a small voice behind her.

“What are you doing, Mama? What’s the matter with Dad?”

It was Lucas.