The Secret Bliss of Calliope Ipswich (11 page)

Fox and Dex exchanged glances. “Yeah. How old are you, Rowdy? You’ve never said.”

Rowdy shrugged broad shoulders and easily clarified, “I never said
’cause it never came up in conversation.”

Rowdy knew he hadn’t answered their question
, and he waited to see who would press the issue further.

He wasn’t at all surprised when it was Fox that prodded, “Oh
, come on, Rowdy. You can’t be more’n a few years older than us.”

“Well, you’re right.
I ain’t,” Rowdy said.

Tate Chesterfield frowned. “You ain’t what, Rowdy?”

“He ain’t more than a few years older than us,” Dex explained. “So somewhere in the range of twenty-five, maybe twenty-six?”

“Yep,” was the only answer Rowdy would give. He grinned, knowing it drove the other men at the mill plum loco when he would avoid giving them direct and specific answers about himself when they asked questions. It was a bit impish of him to ring them around the way he did
, but he couldn’t help it. It offered him such a measure of amusement that he couldn’t seem to keep himself from the mischief of it.

Tate Chesterfield shook his head. “You’re a hard man to figure, boss,” he said.

“I try to be,” Rowdy admitted, feeling he needed to give the newcomer a little stretch of slack in the reins. “And you can call me Rowdy, Tate. As long as you remember who’s boss, you don’t need to be callin’ me boss, all right?”

Tate nodded. A moment later, however, the young man gasped
and then burst into laughter as a long white and black trail of bird mess fell directly onto Rowdy’s left shoulder.

“Dammit to hell!” Rowdy exclaimed in a growl as he looked at the large glob of bird manure that had begun to dribble from its landing place on his shoulder, down over his chest.

Dex, Fox, and Tate, however, were roaring with laughter.

“Rowdy
, them birds just do not like you!” Fox announced as he continued to whoop and howl with amusement.

Rowdy shook his head
, reining in his temper. Angrily he pulled his suspenders from his shoulders, unbuttoning the front of his shirt before stripping it off. Seeing the moisture left on his shoulder from the watery bird manure having already soaked through his shirt, he turned his head and sniffed at his shoulder, swearing under his breath.

“It already soaked through,” he grumbled. “I gotta go rinse this off in the pond. You boys get that twenty-two that’s behind the desk over yonder and shoot them dang pigeons!”

“Sure thing, Rowdy,” Dex agreed, still laughing.

Wadding up his shirt in one hand
—for he figured he might as well rinse the bird mess out of his shirt before it dried stiff while he was at the pond—Rowdy stormed off toward the door. Yet he had a good enough sense of humor that, by the time he’d stepped outside, he was chuckling as well. After all, it was fairly amusing that the pigeons only ever seemed to hit him with their stinky bird-mess.

*

Calliope gasped as she saw Rowdy Gates stride across the inside of the mill toward the door, intent on heading to down to the millpond. What if he found her spying on him through the loosened board? What would she say if he simply saw her alone out by the mill?

Quickly she hopped up from the place she’d been kneeling in the grass. Glancing around, she knew that she couldn’t go the way she’d come, for if she did, Rowdy would certainly see her as he made his
way out the door of the mill. She realized there was nothing to do but make her way around to the slope that led down to the pond, even though it was the same route Rowdy would take. At least that way, when he saw her, she could say that she’s simply been out on a leisurely stroll down to the pond herself—just to enjoy the lovely spring day.

Yet as she began to walk along the edge of the high bank surrounding the millpond on her way to the slope, she heard Rowdy call from behind her, “Good afternoon, Miss Calliope. What finds you out this way?”

Whirling around to face him, Calliope was astonished to see that Rowdy was almost directly behind her already. He must’ve been in a hurry to wash off his shoulder indeed, for she’d only just left the side of the mill where the loose board hung.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You startled me, Mr. Gates. I just thought
…well, that I’d take a stroll out away from town this afternoon, and…”

“Be careful, Miss Calliope,” Rowdy warned, frowning at her. “The spring rains have softened the edge of the
—”

But Rowdy’s warning came too late—for in that very moment, Calliope felt her heels begin to slip. Her back was turned toward the edge of the high bank above the millpond—the high bank that was in the very least thirty feet above the water.

As she screamed, flailing her arms in an ineffectual effort to regain her balance, she felt the moist soil of the edge of the bank beginning to slip away beneath her.

Without pause Rowdy tossed his wadded-up shirt aside and rushed forward. He knew that if Calliope Ipswich slipped down the side of the high bank, she would be torn to shreds by the sharp rocks jutting out of the bank on her way down. Therefore, his reflexes and instincts knew that, though it was a high distance to fall, it would be far better for her to hit the water and avoid the side of the bank altogether.

He
heard the young woman scream as he grabbed her under her arms, pulled her against him, and pushed against the wet, slippery ground with every ounce of strength in his legs. With any luck, he’d pushed hard enough to throw them both clear of the jagged rocks protruding from the high bank. Twisting in the air as his arms locked around Calliope, Rowdy next felt the air be forced from his lungs as his back hit the water’s surface, plunging he and Calliope into the millpond.

He felt something sharp strike the back of his head and right side of his face an instant before he pushed against the bottom of the millpond to send him and Calliope rising toward the water’s surface.

As their heads simultaneously broke the millpond’s surface, he heard Calliope gasp for breath. His own breath was more difficult to inhale. The punch of hitting the water so hard on his back had rendered his lungs empty and too stunned to take an easy breath. But in another moment, he inhaled and began swimming them toward the opposing bank of the millpond where the ground was level with the water.

As Rowdy Gates pulled her up onto the bank of the millpond, Calliope found she was dizzy. Everything had happened so fast! It was only moments ago—literally only moments ago—that she’d felt the soft soil of the high bank begin to give way beneath her feet. Instinctively, she’d gasped and held her breath when she realized that she and Rowdy were falling through the air on their way into the millpond, and she was thankful for the instinct. Otherwise she might have inhaled water after plunging into the pond, rather than already having her lungs filled with air.

“Are you all right?” she heard Rowdy cough.

She nodded as she wiped water from her eyes.

“Are you sure? You’re not hurt at all?” he repeated. She heard him cough again and then spit.

“I’m all right,” she panted as she struggled to push her wet hair out of her face.

All at once
, however, she felt something else on her face—something warm. When she felt it next on her lip, she licked her lip and recognized the salty taste of blood. Calliope didn’t feel any pain, other than a grueling soreness that was beginning to overtake her arms and legs. Therefore, she angrily pushed her wet hair from her eyes and looked up to where Rowdy Gates was hovering over her.

“You’re bleeding!” she cried out then. And it was true! Blood was everywhere over Rowdy’s face. And though she could see that some of it originated from a large wound on his right cheek, she knew there was far too much blood pouring over his forehead
and dripping off the tip of his nose to be from that wound.

“I just bumped my head a little,” he answered
, however, wiping blood from his forehead with the back of his hand—as if it were no more than a little perspiration.

“Bumped your head?” Calliope squealed with horror. “You’re bleeding to death! We have to get you to the doctor in town, Mr. Gates!”

Hurriedly, Calliope sat up, pulled up the hem of her sopping wet skirt, and tore a length of ruffled cotton from her petticoat.

As tears began to stream over her cheeks
, she whimpered, “I almost killed you! Maybe I did! You still might bleed to death! I can’t believe I—”

“I’m fine, Miss Calliope,” Rowdy interrupted
, however. “It’s just a scratch. Head wounds bleed like hell. It ain’t as bad as it looks. I promise.”

“Hold this against it,” Calliope wept, handing him the length of sopping petticoat ruffle. “It won’t absorb the blood
, but push hard on the wound, and it might slow down the bleeding until we can get you into town.”

“What in tarnation?” Fox hollered as he and the other men from the mill hurried across the narrow bridge that spanned the millpond just behind the mill. “Calliope? Is that you?” he shouted.

“Mr. Gates has been terribly hurt, Fox!” Calliope called. “Someone run into town and bring Doctor Gregory! Hurry!”

“I’m fine,” Rowdy hollered up, however. “But come down and help me get Miss Ipswich back to town.”

It didn’t take long for Fox, Dex, and Tate to reach the place where Calliope and Rowdy sat on the bank of the pond. Blood was still streaming from Rowdy’s face and head when they arrived.

“What the hell happened?” Fox asked angrily as he helped Calliope to her feet.

“I-I was walking along the higher bank…and the ground started to give way,” she stammered. “Mr. Gates saved my life! But now he’s bleeding to death, and we have to get him to town.”

“I ain’t bleedin’ to death,” Rowdy grumbled.

Dex and Tate exchanged glances a moment, however, and then Dex said, “Well, from the looks of it, I beg to differ on that, Rowdy.”

“Me too,” Tate agreed. “We best get you into town to the doctor.”

“Are
you
all right, Calliope?” Fox pressed Calliope, even so.

“I’m fine!” she nearly shouted. “Nothing hurts but my pride. Just get Mr. Gates to town, Fox
…please!”

“I can walk it,” Rowdy said, struggling to his feet. But as more blood gushed from the wound at the back of his head, he stumbled a bit.

Dex and Tate both reached out to help steady Rowdy.

“You’re losin’ blood mighty fast, Rowdy,” Dex needlessly stated.

“You best let us get you back to the mill and mounted on your horse,” Tate suggested.

“I’ll run up ahead and bring Rowdy’s horse down to meet us,” Fox said. He dashed up the incline toward the mill.

Tate and Dex each draped one of Rowdy’s large, muscular arms across their shoulders. “Let’s get you back up to the hill here, Rowdy,” Dex said.

The problem was that
, since none of the men assisting Rowdy was wearing his shirt, blood from the wound at Rowdy’s head was still streaming over his face and shoulders, causing his body to be very slick and difficult to move.

Lifting her skirt hem once more, Calliope tore a very long strip of fabric from it. “Just a minute,” she called to Dex and Tate. The
y stopped, and Calliope used the wet strip of fabric to bind Rowdy’s head wound. She wrapped the cotton around his head and forehead, and though the wound still seeped blood, she secured it tightly, with enough pressure to slow the bleeding.

“You sure you’re all right, Miss Calliope?” Rowdy asked as Dex and Tate helped him stumble toward the mill.

“I’m fine,” Calliope assured him as renewed tears streamed over her cheeks.

As she watched Fox coming down the hill with Rowdy’s horse—watched Tate, Dex
, and Fox struggle to get him mounted—Calliope began to sob, whispering to herself in utter despair, “I may have just killed the only man I’ll ever truly love!”

“Head wounds bleed much worse than others,” Doctor Gregory told Calliope as she sat in his office watching him stitch Rowdy’s lacerations.
“But he’ll be fine, Miss Ipswich. I assure you of that.” Doctor Gregory paused to offer a reassuring smile to Calliope. “I wouldn’t want to see you come down with pneumonia or some such thing. You oughta run on home and get dried off yourself. ”

“I will,” she responded
, “as soon as I see the bleeding is stopped.” She shook her head and wiped a tear from one corner of her eye. “This is all my fault you see, Doctor Gregory. I—”

“It ain’t her fault, Doc,” Rowdy mumbled. “It ain’t nobody’s fault, Miss Calliope.
Things just happen sometimes, that’s all. And I’m fine. I’m a tough old dog.” He glanced over to her, grinning with encouragement. “You best run on home, before your family starts to worry.”

“I will
…when I’m certain you’ll be well,” she countered.

“Well, I’ve got this head wound stitched up nice and tight, Rowdy,” Doctor Gregory sighed.
He was a young man for a doctor—tall and lean, with sandy-colored hair and green eyes. “We’ll bandage up your head and then shave off that beard to get to the one on your face there.”