Page 21 of Calder Strong (The Calder Brand #5)

“You were shot. What do you remember?”

His forehead furrowed below the bandage that wrapped his head. “I don’t know … hurts like hell. You say I got shot.”

“In the side. I dug out the bullet myself. Another bullet creased your head.” She was talking too fast. She willed herself to calm down. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ll get you some water.”

“Water, hell. Get me something for the pain. There’s some moonshine in the car.”

So, the truth was just as she’d suspected. Not that it mattered anymore. “The car is gone. You must’ve left it with your friends. The truck you were driving was shot full of holes,” she said. “The moonshine’s gone, too. I’ll get you some water.”

She fled to the kitchen. The blood-soaked sheet still covered the table.

The sight of it would upset the children if they happened to get up.

She took a moment to strip it off, wad it into a ball along with Joseph’s singlet, and stuff them both into the trash barrel on the back porch.

After giving the table a quick wiping with a damp cloth, she filled a cup with water and carried it back down the hall to the bedroom.

So far, it appeared that Silas was going to live. Infection was the worry now. But Silas was strong, and he had her to care for him. She could only hope for the best and thank fate, or the angels, that Joseph had come along to save him.

What surprised her was the anger she felt—more anger, even, than relief. She wanted to rail at him—How could he do this to his family? He should have been at home with the people who loved and needed him, not lying to his wife, galivanting around in the dark, risking arrest and worse.

He drank the water she gave him but demanded something stronger, which she didn’t have. Back in the kitchen, she brewed some chamomile tea. While the tea was steeping, she went down the hall to check on the children.

She opened the door softly and tiptoed to their bedside. Thankfully, both of them appeared to be asleep. But as she turned to go, Lucas opened his eyes. “How’s Dad?” he asked in a whisper.

“A little better. We got the bullet out and put him to bed.”

“Is that man still here?”

“No. He’s gone.” Annabeth stroked his thick, silky hair, so like Joseph’s.

“You’re my good boy, Lucas. Close your eyes and go to sleep now.

I’ll be close by, taking care of your … father.

” She choked on the word. Lucas’s father had been here.

Now he was gone. And that was the way of things. The only way.

Joseph drove through the gate of the Hunter Ranch and pulled up to the house.

The place was dark except for the front porch light and a faint glow from the kitchen at the back of the house.

Maybe his aunt had gone out on an emergency.

But no, her truck, which doubled as an ambulance, was parked in the drive way. She would be at home.

He rang the doorbell. Showing up in the middle of the night wouldn’t be the most considerate thing to do, but this was an emergency.

Mere seconds passed before Kristin opened the door. Tousle-haired and hastily wrapped in her bathrobe, she ushered Joseph inside. “What is it, Joseph? Is Blake all right?” she demanded.

“Yes, he’s fine, as far as I know.” Joseph took a deep breath. “Aunt Kristin, a man I know was shot tonight. We got the bullet out. I don’t think it hit anything vital, but I need something for the pain and infection.”

“Why didn’t you bring him here?” Her sharp gaze suggested she’d already guessed the reason.

“I wanted to. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He said you’d have to report him to the law.”

She shook her head. “Joseph, what have you gotten yourself into? Come on inside. Logan’s been up with a sick mare. He’s making coffee. You look like you could use some, too.”

“I really don’t have much time,” Joseph said.

“Come on. I’m not giving you anything until I know what’s happening. We can talk at the table.”

She ushered him into her spacious kitchen. The light was on. Her husband, dressed in work clothes, was percolating coffee on the electric stove. The warm, fresh aroma filled the room.

“Sit, Joseph.” Kristin pointed to a chair on the far side of the table. She took a seat facing him. Logan filled three mugs with steaming coffee. He passed one to his wife and one to Joseph.

“How’s the mare?” Joseph asked.

“Better. Something finally came out the other end, and she’s nibbling on her feed. But I still need to keep an eye on her. Sorry I can’t stay. We’ve missed you, Joseph.” Logan took his mug and went out the back door.

Kristin studied Joseph across the table. “The truth. And you know better than to lie or leave anything out. Are you in trouble?”

“No. God’s truth.”

“But a man was shot. Is he a friend of yours?”

Joseph shook his head. “I barely know him. A neighbor. He was running moonshine. Somebody shot up his vehicle. They took his cargo and left him for dead. I saw the lights and heard the shots from the house.” Joseph took a sip of his coffee.

It was still steaming, but he swallowed it and felt the wet heat moving down his throat.

“I found him, did what I could to revive him, and drove him to his place.”

“Who took the bullet out? Was it you?”

“No. I held him, but it was his wife—an old-time friend of mine—who dug the bullet out. She did it with a spoon—sterilized with boiling water. But as I told you, she didn’t have anything for the pain, and he could still die from the infection. That’s why I’m here.”

She studied him over the rim of her mug, her gaze deep and knowing. “An old-time friend, you say? Are you talking about Annabeth Mosby?”

Joseph’s expression froze—a dead giveaway. Why had he mentioned that Annabeth was an old friend? “How do you know her?” he asked.

“I delivered Annabeth’s first baby,” Kristin said. “Her sister-in-law called me. The baby was breech, and Annabeth was in trouble. It was touch and go for a while, but she finally gave birth to a beautiful boy.”

Joseph stared at her, words failing to come.

“Yes, Joseph, I’ve known all along,” she said. “I knew she’d been your girl before she married that farmer. And when that little boy came out into my hands, I remembered holding you after you were born. He looked just like you.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“What good would that have done? She was married. You were better off not knowing—and now you do. Have you seen the boy?”

“Yes. He’s …” Joseph shook his head. He could think of no words to describe the miracle that was his son. With emotion threatening to overcome him, he changed the subject.

“So you’ll give me the medicine Annabeth’s husband needs? And you won’t report him?”

“I don’t have to report him if I didn’t see him.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “Stay here and finish your coffee while I get you what you need.”

She disappeared down the hall and came back with a glass jug and two small bottles, which she placed on the table.

“Aspirin for fever. And laudanum’s the strongest thing for pain.

The jug is carbolic acid. Use it to clean everything that touches that wound.

Wet his dressings in it and hope for the best. There’s no guarantee it’ll do enough to save him, but for now, there’s nothing better. ”

She put the medicines in a paper bag. “Just the other day I read an item in a medical journal. A Doctor Fleming in England has found a common mold—penicillium, it’s called—that stops bacteria from growing.

Maybe someday, in the future, it can be used to save lives.

But right now, carbolic is all we have.”

He took the bag from her. “Thanks. I’ve got to go.”

“You’re a good man, Joseph.” She gave him a brief hug. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

He left her and raced out to his car.

Annabeth sat on a hard wooden chair, watching her husband drift in and out of consciousness. A worry-filled hour had passed since Joseph had dressed his wounds and helped her move him to the bed. Had the bleeding stopped? Was infection already setting in? How serious was the head wound?

Worse, even, than the uncertainty was the total helplessness she felt.

She’d done everything she could for him.

When he was awake, she’d given him water and the chamomile tea, which he’d spat out because he hated the taste.

He’d cursed her in the most vile language she’d ever heard.

But Annabeth had forgiven him because she knew he must be out of his head and in terrible pain.

So far, he hadn’t mentioned Joseph. But his memory could return at any time. Could he accept the fact that Joseph had saved his life? Or would that only deepen his hatred?

A light knock on the door interrupted Annabeth’s musings.

At this hour, it could only mean trouble.

Maybe the sheriff had heard about the shooting or someone had found Silas’s borrowed truck.

Annabeth waited, hoping the person outside would give up and leave.

She’d turned off all the lights except a small lamp beside Silas’s bed.

But the knock came again, not loud but persistent.

Silas appeared to be dozing. Annabeth left the bedroom and shut the door behind her. After a quick check on her sleeping children, she walked through the darkened living room, took the shotgun down from its rack, and cracked open the front door.

She gasped as Joseph slipped out of the shadows. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. “You need to leave before somebody wakes up.”

“I’ll only be a minute. I brought you something.

” As she stepped out onto the porch and closed the door, she saw that he was holding a jug and a paper bag.

“Carbolic acid. The doctor says you’re to clean around the wounds and soak the dressings with it—the sooner the better, even if you have to wake him.

You’ll find aspirin and laudanum in the bag.

The directions are on the labels. Do you know how to use them? ”