The Winter Widow (8 page)

Fafner lowered his head and shook it from side to side, searching for her. He exploded into motion, a mass of thunder hurling down, dead on, so all she was aware of was the hugeness of his head, the flare of nostrils pouring out streams of vapor, the gleaming brass nose ring, and the precision pounding of his knees as they rose high up against his chest with each stride.

She'd better do something, and fast, before she was paralyzed with fear. She feinted to her left and when the great head and shoulders swerved to follow, she cut the other way and Fafner ran straight on, straight at a man who appeared around the corner of the barn. She yelled.

Everything happened so quickly, the events all packed into fast hard actual movements, but her mind separated each action into individual components, almost as if the bull galloped in slow motion. She could watch his legs reach and push, his neck thrust forward with the effort of acceleration.

Head down and tipped to one side, he plunged a horn into vulnerable human flesh, just above the belt buckle. He raised his great head, the man dangling from the horn, and, with an angry toss, flung him away. Blood spurted in a crimson arc.

She opened her mouth to scream, but heard no sound, yanked frantically on her jacket. Her arm caught in a sleeve. She tore at it, finally slid her arm free, and started toward the bull, waving the jacket. She could feel the slow impact in her ankles as she ran; each step took long moments to leave the ground and long moments to touch down.

Bellowing with rage, the bull trampled on the fallen man. Blood bubbled in the gaping wound, spilled out over his abdomen and dripped onto the ground. With scrabbling fingernails, he tried to drag himself away. He twisted his head toward her, eyes beseeching. A horrifying burbling chuckle came from his distorted mouth. His eyes rolled up until only the whites were visible.

She yelled, waved the jacket in an arc around her head and smacked it across the bull's rump. He snorted and whirled. She backed. His head was blood-spattered. He shook it, pawed the ground, seemed uncertain for a moment, then he charged.

She dodged to one side and he overshot her. Keeping her eyes on him, she ran backwards and stumbled. He stopped, turned, hesitated, then bore down. Clawing and scrambling, she made for a concrete horse trough and wriggled under it.

Suddenly, there was a great deal of commotion: running footsteps and men shouting.

“Hey! My God, the bull's loose!”

“Sam's been hurt.”

“Pitchforks! Hurry!”

Two dogs, black-and-white collie types, barked furiously and streaked toward the bull. Circling, one on one side and one on the other, they made repeated attacks at him. He lowered his head and swung toward one dog who retreated, only to come at him again when he swung toward the other.

Over the deafening clamor, the barking dogs, the roaring bull, the yelling men, she heard Otto Guthman's strong voice. “Spread out,” he shouted. “Get behind him. Keep those pitchforks ready.”

She could just see him standing to her left, and the rifle he held brought enormous relief. Using knees and elbows, she started to inch out from the trough. A hand clamped her wrist in a vise grip and jerked her out, painfully scraping her back.

Parkhurst yanked her upright and gave one very hard shake that made her head snap. “You could have been killed.” His fingers dug into her shoulders. “What's the matter with you?”

He pulled her around behind the trough, then abruptly released her. She staggered. He started to reach for her, then dropped his hand. “You all right?” he asked, voice totally devoid of emotion.

“Fine,” she replied, her voice just as clipped and flat as his, and rubbed the back of her neck. She watched several men with pitchforks advance warily toward Fafner, intent on gently urging him toward the barn.

Guthman shouted, “Not too close. Don't let him hurt himself.”

Fafner eyed the half-circle of men, pawed the ground and seemed ready to charge. Guthman raised the rifle. The bull turned to menace one of the dogs. The men moved closer. Fafner started toward one man who halted. The others edged in. Fafner bellowed, whirled, and galloped toward the road with the dogs racing after him. Two men sprinted behind the dogs.

“Get those horses saddled,” Guthman yelled, striding toward Susan. Face grim with anger, he planted himself in front of her. “This is all your doing.”

She felt the scrape on her cheek sting.

“Meddling in what you don't know.”

Ella came running from the house carrying towels and blankets. Parkhurst trotted to the injured man and knelt beside him, took the towels and pressed one against the wound. The white cloth rapidly turned red. Ella crouched and covered the man with blankets. Saddled horses were brought from the barn and the men mounted.

Guthman ran to the riderless horse, swung astride and led the pack down the road at a fast gallop. Susan went to stand beside Ella.

“They're coming,” Ella said. “The ambulance.”

“What's his name?” Susan asked.

“Sam, Sam Rivers. Oh, why don't they get here?”

Sam's face was gray and he lay silent, unmoving, only the blood soaking into the folded sheet under Parkhurst's hand showed his heart was still beating.

“Oh dear, oh dear, now this,” Ella whispered, hands clasped tightly against her chest. “What will happen next?”

They waited. Susan felt awkward and helpless.

The ambulance, siren wailing, lights flashing, rolled up the road, swayed at the turn past the house and came to a sudden stop. Young paramedics, two male, one female, jogged toward them with stretcher and medical bags. One young man got on his knees, slapped a blood pressure cuff around Sam's arm, put the ends of the stethoscope in his ears and pumped up the cuff. The young woman applied sterile bandages to the wound and started intravenous fluid.

With a hiss, pressure was released from the cuff and pumped up again, then released; the young man hooked the stethoscope around his neck. “We'd better move,” he said softly, and ripped off the cuff.

The two males lifted Sam onto the stretcher and the young woman trotted alongside holding up a plastic bag of clear fluid as they moved to the ambulance and slid the stretcher inside. She climbed in beside it. The males raced to the front and the ambulance sped backwards in a half-turn, stopped and tore off.

Ella, shivering in the cold air, watched the ambulance leave and muttered in a low voice.

Susan gave her a sharp look. It sounded as though she'd said, “I hate him.”

“The bull,” Ella said. “Always the bull.”

“Mrs. Guthman,” Parkhurst said. When she didn't respond, he touched her shoulder and told her to go inside, it was cold. Ella nodded and plodded to the house.

“Well,
Chief
Wren,” Parkhurst said. “City people don't always realize the dangers inherent in a rural setting.”

“
You're
‘city people.'”

“For your protection, a few facts. Farming is way up there among the most hazardous occupations, with a high incidence of serious and fatal accidents.” His hands were bloody with dark streaks on the blunt fingers, dried and caked around the nails. “You shouldn't be involved in any of this, but the least you could do is stay out of trouble. I'll never get anywhere if I have to babysit you.”

“My safety is not your concern.”

“Otto's livid. If anything happens to that bull, anything at all, there'll be hell to pay.”

“That's why he didn't shoot? More concerned about a bull than an injured man?”

Parkhurst grunted. “Fafner brings in three million a year. How quick would you be to shoot?”

“Three million? How could any animal be worth that much?”

“Right now there are higher priorities than your education.” He turned to leave.

“One moment.”

He stopped, turned back.

“I would appreciate it,” she said, “if you would find out who was in the barn just before Fafner got loose.”

“This is a working ranch. People go into barns.”

“Yes, even city people are able to figure that out. Whoever it was hid from me.”

He listened impassively as she explained what had happened.

“Those stall doors were unlatched, deliberately unlatched, by someone who didn't want to be seen.” She rubbed a hand across her cheek. “I think he was hiding in the adjacent stall.”

“Why unlatch doors?”

“It got me out of the barn, didn't it? And created enough commotion for an army to sneak away unnoticed.”

“Why didn't he want to be seen?”

“I do believe you have finally asked the important question. Find out if anyone admits to being in there.”

“Giving orders?”

She took a breath and let it out. “Comes of natural leadership abilities.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He touched a finger to his forehead. “With your permission, right now I'd like to see that the bull is caught and nobody else is hurt. Then I'll do that very thing.”

She watched him walk away and hoped he was going to wash his bloody hands, then tromped back into the barn. It was warmer inside but not much, and the acrid odor of cattle stung her nostrils. Whoever had been here was gone, she told herself, but her shoulders still tensed and she looked around warily. The light was dim. There were shadowy corners everywhere. The loft above, stacked with bales of hay, was a perfectly good hiding place.

The same two cows placidly munched hay, bovine jaws relentlessly grinding. The last box stall, the one she hadn't gotten a chance to look into, still had both halves of the dutch door closed. With a shaky hand, she opened the top and peered in, then drew a breath. It was empty.

She eyed the stall where Fafner had been. Even though he was no longer there, she felt the menace of his presence and had to force herself to go inside. The soiled straw made her nose wrinkle. The space seemed much larger with the bull gone. She paced back and forth examining the floor, looking for a rock or a dart, a wire, something that might have been used to enrage the animal.

She found nothing and went into the stall on the left. Straw was spread on the floor, but at least it was clean. Nothing here either.

She went to the stall on the right of Fafner's. A pitchfork lay in the corner. Used to goad the bull, she thought, kneeling and tapping a finger against the point of a tine. Again she paced back and forth, kicking at the straw. She found a clump of mud, still damp, that had fallen from somebody's boot.

Picking it up, she leaned against the rough wall and gazed at it. Somebody had hidden in this stall and jabbed the bull with the pitchfork. Why couldn't he or she afford to be seen? She pictured the injured man, ashen-faced, with blood soaking into the white towel. Whoever she was dealing with didn't care who got hurt.

Hearing footsteps, she raised her head.

Someone ambled into the barn, carrying a pitchfork. He wore blue jeans, an unbuttoned checked jacket, a bright green shirt. He walked with a free, easy stride.

He was a kid, about sixteen, she thought, with a pale, pinched face. A clump of tawny hair beneath a billed cap, slightly askew with ear flaps dangling, hung in his eyes.

“Hello,” she said, walking toward him.

He froze, then turned with taut wariness to face her, his soft brown eyes wild and suspicious like those of a deer hearing a twig snap, ears strained to assess the danger, muscles bunched in readiness. She stopped four feet away, afraid he would whirl and bound out the door.

“I'm Susan Wren.”

“Seen you,” he mumbled. “Name's Nat.” He tossed his head, throwing the hair from his eyes.

Speak softly, she told herself, and make no sudden movements. “Do you work for Mr. Guthman?”

He nodded. “Should have been here. Came as soon as I heard.”

“About the bull?” Backing to a partition, she raised herself to sit on it, put a hand palm-down on either side and let her legs dangle.

“Wouldn't have happened if I'd been here. I can make him quiet. He trusts me. Poor old Fafner, he can hurt himself. Get caught up in wire. He's gonna be scared. Might try to jump a ditch. Fall and break his leg. Nothin' be done for him, he break his leg.”

“Why weren't you here?”

Nat ducked his head, embarrassed. “She wouldn't let me.”

“Who?”

“Betty. Sister. Said I had the flu. Had to stay in bed. He's gonna need me when they bring him back.”

“You must know Lucille.”

Head tilted to one side, he looked at her as though he couldn't believe anyone was that dumb. “She lives here, doesn't she?”

“Did you see her yesterday?”

“Betty said I had to stay in bed.” His glance slid away.

Ah, she thought, he disobeyed the sister. “So you stayed in bed?”

He nodded and gazed with longing toward Fafner's stall. “I need to get it ready for him.”

“You stayed in bed all day?”

He hesitated, then nodded again.

“All day you stayed in bed. What about at night?”

He shot her an uneasy look.

“Last night,” she said persuasively. “Weren't you here last night?”

He tossed his head and restlessly shifted his feet. She smiled encouragingly.

He moved the handle of the pitchfork to his other hand. “Sometimes I do, just to see he's all right. Old Fafner, he misses me. Gets edgy.”

She nodded as though she understood perfectly. “Last night,” she repeated. “You came to see him?”

Nat hesitated, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Did you see Lucille?”

He looked away as though searching for some escape. Susan wondered what sister Betty was like.

“I only saw her drive away,” he said.

“What time was that?”

“Don't know. Late. After midnight. I think— It looked like she was crying.”

“You often come to see Fafner at night?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Sometimes I see her driving away real late.”