Stay With Me (8 page)

Now what? Bandages.

Oh, what she wouldn’t do for a Wal-Mart.

She opened the cupboard and looked for
towels. Empty. Looking around, she weighed her options. The cotton
curtains on the windows certainly weren’t sterile. The sheets on
the bed would be better. But then what would he sleep on? Next to
the bed sat the bag she’d brought home from Fred’ house the night
before.

Flipping over the canvas flap, she quickly
pulled out the entire contents. She sorted through the clothes,
pulling out two white petticoats.

She checked the water. Getting warm. She
added some more wood to the fire.

She grabbed the knife from the shelf and
within minutes, had carved up both garments into strips of cloth.
She laid them on the table next to the bed. Then she walked around
the cabin and gathered all three lanterns and placed them next to
the bed.

Hot water. Bandages. Light. She started to
feel a little better, as if she might not be a complete idiot after
all. She sat down on the bed and tried to remember how to do CPR.
Was it fifteen breaths and two thumps or two breaths and fifteen
thumps?

Either way, she realized with a sick feeling,
it didn’t matter. If he wasn’t breathing at this stage of the game,
no amount of thumping on his chest would make it happen.

She did not want John to be dead. Yes, he’d
been judgmental, sarcastic, and a bit of a prude. But he’d also
given her shelter and cared for her when she’d had literally
nowhere to go.

Now she had nothing to do but wait. It made
her feel helpless. More of what she’d been feeling for the last
month. Since the day she’d first met Miguel Lopez.

Sarah pulled out a chair and sat at the old
wood table, her elbows braced on the scratched surface, her chin
resting on her folded hands. She’d never forget that day. She’d
gotten a call from one of the second grade teachers, who was
concerned about a child. The boy had missed many days of school
owing to illness, and on the days he did come to class, he was
agitated, almost frantic to catch up. He was disrupting the
class.

It had taken Sarah two weeks and four
sessions to learn the truth. And if she’d lost her heart on that
first day that she’d sat across from the solemn boy with the dark
eyes and flyaway hair, she’d felt it break the day he finally
confessed his greatest fear.

Miguel Lopez was dying and he knew it. But
that wasn’t what he was scared of.

His family had come from Mexico. Just the
year before, his mother had brought Miguel and his two younger
sisters to the United States. When Miguel had started school, Rosa
Lopez had told her son to make her proud, to learn to read and
write English. That once he had learned, he could teach her.

Miguel was worried that he was going to die
before he got the chance.

Later that evening, when she’d gone to his
home and talked with Rosa Lopez, she’d realized that even when
things are bad, they can get worse. Not only was Miguel Lopez going
to die young, he was going to die alone.

At first Sarah hadn’t understood. Rosa had
explained that Miguel’s doctors had arranged for him to go to a
children’s hospital north of Los Angeles. Sarah had tried to tell
Rosa that Miguel would receive excellent care. Then Rosa had
explained that she didn’t drive, that she could perhaps find the
occasional ride or take the long bus trip but that would mean
leaving her young daughters with strangers.

When Rosa had told her that the doctors had
said that Miguel could be cared for at home with special equipment
and special nurses, Sarah had realized how important that was.
Miguel would have time with this mother, time to teach, time to
know that he’d made her proud. Rosa would keep her family together.
Then Rosa had told her, in her halting English, that there had been
a man who’d come to her house and sold her the insurance for her
family. He’d told her it would pay for someone to come to her home
to take care of her family. However, now the company was telling
her that they would not pay for home care; they would pay only if
he was in a hospital.

Sarah had been sure that she could help.
She’d contacted the company, speaking to everyone from the claims
examiner to the vice president. They’d all told her the same thing.
No. To set up care in the home would be more expensive and the
policy that Rosa Lopez had purchased didn’t cover it. She
understood perfectly what they hadn’t said. They weren’t interested
in paying for anything they didn’t have to. She’d reasoned, she’d
debated, she’d argued, and then finally begged—and she’d gotten
nowhere.

She’d been sure that she had failed until
she’d returned that man’s call. But she’d never gotten a chance to
tell Rosa. She’d been whisked off the beach and tumbled back in
time. She had to find a way back. Before it was too—

Morton’s bark interrupted her thoughts.
“Late,” she finished, her voice a whisper in the quiet cabin.
“Please, God. Don’t let us be too late tonight.” She grabbed the
lantern, opened the door, and watched the two horses walk slowly
back into the yard. Morton trotted alongside John’s horse.

At first she thought the horse was rider-less
but when they got another thirty feet closer, she could see John
sitting in the saddle, bent over the saddle horn, so that he was
almost lying on the horse. Fred had both sets of reins in his hand
as he led John’s horse.

“How bad is he hurt?” she asked, not able to
move off the porch.

“Sliced his head open and he’s got a hell of
a lump. Might have cracked it.”

Didn’t people die from fractured skulls?
“Cracked it?” she repeated, her voice small in the big, dark night.
“Are you sure?”

“Hell no, I’m not sure. All I know is he was
conscious when I found him. He’s been floating in and out most of
the way here.”

Concussion. Brain damage. Coma. They’d been
just words before. “Let me help you get him inside.” She hurried
toward the horse but stopped when John lifted his head a couple
inches.

“Hi,” she said. She wanted to weep but didn’t
think he’d like it or appreciate it. “I’ll bet you’ve got one heck
of a headache.”

“I’ve felt better,” he admitted. “You won’t
want to come too close,” he said, his voice rough.

“He smells a bit ripe,” Fred said.

He did. He smelled like vomit and sweat and
blood. She swallowed hard and took three more steps and raised the
lantern to get a better look. Blood covered the left side of his
head and neck. His hair, all that beautiful hair, now lay limp and
dark, plastered to his skull.

Sarah pressed her lips together tight, afraid
she might get sick too. Fred got off his horse and moved to her
side. He cupped her elbow with his hand. “He needs you, Sarah.”

She nodded and took a deep breath. “John, you
should be inside. Can you walk?”

No response but she watched as he slowly
pulled both feet out of the stirrups.

“Good,” she said. “If you can just slide
down, Fred will take one side and I’ll take the other.”

“Too heavy for you,” he said.

“I’ll just be there for balance,” she said.
“You can lean on Fred.”

He slowly slid sideways in the saddle, and
somehow, she and Fred managed to catch him before he hit the
ground. Fred, who stood a good six inches taller than John and more
than a foot taller than Sarah bent over and looped one of John’s
arms over his neck. Sarah reached for John’s other arm and flung it
over her own shoulder. Together, they managed to get him into the
house. They were six feet from the bed when Sarah realized they
were literally dragging him. He had passed out again.

They dumped him on the bed as gently as
possible. Sarah took a quick step back, sucking in gulps of
air.

“Heavy son-of-a-bitch, ain’t he?” Fred said,
trying to smile, awkwardly patting his friend’s leg.

He was. Six foot of pure muscle. “We need a
doctor,” Sarah said.

“Doc Mosley died two months ago,” Fred said.
“Nobody new has come yet.”

Sarah whirled toward him. “No,” she said.
“You are not frickin’ going to tell me there’s no doctor.”

Fred shrugged.

Sarah paced in front of the bed. “What kind
of god-forsaken place is this? No water, no telephones, no doctors.
What’s wrong with you people?”

Fred frowned at her. “Sarah?”

Sarah rubbed the palm of her hand across her
mouth. “Never mind,” she said. “Just never mind. Now what? If
there’s no doctor, what do we do?”

“We do the same thing we’d do if there was a
doctor. We wait. If he’s lucky, he’ll wake up with a hell of a
headache. If he’s not, well then, we’ll deal with that too.”

Damn him for being so cold. Damn John Beckett
for cracking his fool head open. Damn them all. “Okay,” she said,
walking over to the stove. “We wait. But in the meantime, I’m going
to get him cleaned up.”

“I’ll help you,” Fred said, taking off his
coat.

Sarah shook her head. “No. You need to get
home. Your children are by themselves. I can take care of
this.”

“He’s my best friend,” Fred said.

“And he’s my family,” Sarah lied. “You go
now. Come back in the morning. We’ll be fine.” As she said it, she
prayed it would be true.

“You’re sure? It could be a long night.”

“Positive. Don’t worry about me. I can wait
with the best of them,” she said, standing on tip-toe to brush a
kiss across Fred’s cheek. “My middle name is Patience.”

The big man looked a bit startled and then he
smiled. “I like you, Sarah,” he said. “You’re a strange one but I
like you.”

“I like you, Fred. Thank you for knowing what
it meant when you saw his horse. Thank you for going to get him and
bringing him home. If he…” she swallowed and started over. “When he
wakes tomorrow, he’ll have you to thank for it.”

Fred moved to stand close to the bed. He
placed his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’ll see
you tomorrow, John.” He turned toward Sarah. “Good luck,” he
said.

She needed a miracle but she wouldn’t turn
her nose up at luck.

After Fred left, Sarah dipped enough boiling
water out of the pan to fill two bowls. Leaving them to cool, she
picked a square tin container off the shelf and opened it. She had
to look through three more before she found what looked like
barley. She dumped a generous portion into the still-boiling pot.
She didn’t intend to waste the water. He’d be hungry when he woke
up.

She stuck a finger into one of the bowls. Too
hot still. She took the pitcher of water from the table and added
just a bit. She needed hot water to get the dried-on blood off but
she didn’t want to burn him.

She sat next to him on the bed and set the
bowl on the night table. She examined him, wondering where she
should start. Afraid to look at his head, she concentrated on his
face. He had dirt and blood on one cheek. She dipped her cloth into
the bowl, wrung in out, and carefully dabbed at the dirt. When she
got the grime off, she could see several scratches, as if he might
have been tossed into the sagebrush.

She dipped her cloth again and moved down to
his neck. Gently, she wiped off the blood that had dripped down the
side of his head. When she ran her cloth across the strong ridge of
his collarbone, he groaned.

It scared her so that she jerked back,
jarring the bed. He grunted and opened his eyes.

“Hello,” she said, feeling a bit out of
breath. “How do you feel?”

He closed his eyes. “Fine,” he said.

“Right. Just stay still,” she instructed.

“Trust me on this, Sarah. I’m not going
anywhere,” he said, his voice sounding strained.

“You’ve got a head injury,” she said.

“Goddamn horse,” he said.

She laughed, feeling absolute relief. If he
knew what had happened, he couldn’t be hurt too badly.

“Did your horse throw you?”

“Yes,” he said, like he couldn’t quite
believe it. “I haven’t been thrown off a horse since I was
fourteen.”

“Why today?”

“Rattler came across the path.”

“Rattler?” She swallowed hard. “As in
rattlesnake?”

“One and the same. We’d have been fine but he
had just shed his skin.”

“I don’t understand,” Sarah said.

“Rattlers are blind for about twenty-four
hours after they shed their skin. Most days they’ll see a horse or
a man and get the hell out of the way. But when they go blind,
they’ll strike at anything.”

“Your poor horse,” Sarah said.

John frowned at her. “It may be a couple days
before I can work up much sympathy for the animal.”

“He came home. That’s how we knew something
was wrong.”

“That may save him.”

Sarah laughed. “At least Morton stayed by
your side.”

“That’s why he gets to live in the house. By
the way, where’s Fred?” he asked.

“I sent him home to his children. He’ll be
back in the morning.”

“What time is it?” John opened his eyes and
tried to turn his head to the window. He groaned with the
effort.

“It’s probably about eleven,” she said.

“At night?”

“Yes.”

John scratched the sheet with his fingertips,
as if he’d suddenly realized where he was. “Just give me a minute
and I’ll go out to the barn. I just need a minute.”

“You idiot,” she said, thinking she might
beat him if he wasn’t already half-dead. “You’re barely conscious.
You’re not going anywhere.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to take your
bed.” He pulled his elbows back and tried to sit up. He got his
head about three inches off the pillow. Every speck of color left
his face and he closed his eyes.

“Lie down,” Sarah ordered, scared that he’d
slip away from her again. “Fine. You can sleep in the barn,” she
lied. “Just rest first.”

He didn’t respond but he did lower himself
back onto the bed. She breathed a sigh of relief.