Trouble At Lone Spur (26 page)

L
IZ WORKED
as though in a thick fog. As she’d crawled hand over hand, she’d repeated the steps Jarvis had given her so many times in her head that now she went through each one precisely and methodically.

Her courage slipped farther, if that was possible, when she finally wriggled into the opening, reached up and tugged on Dusty’s outstretched legs, only to have him moan but refuse to budge. Lord, was he caught on something? Had she hurt him? Alarm bubbled in her throat. Cold sweat beaded her brow and dripped between her breasts. Just breathing sapped her strength.

“Dusty,” she gasped hoarsely. “It’s Liz. H-hang on, I’ll get you out.”

He grunted, or she thought he did. Liz wanted to shout for joy. Instead, knowing she needed to save her breath, she grabbed hold of his jeans and yanked as hard as she could. All her efforts would be in vain if she didn’t jar him loose. Doctors could fix cuts or broken bones.

At first he tensed up, as if he was afraid of falling. “I’ll catch you,” she promised. Next yank he slid free, and Liz almost cried. Except that her eyes stung painfully, and she discovered she had no fluid for tears.

Her reward came when in the dim light cast by her hat, Liz saw his feeble attempt to smile. Gil’s lopsided grin. Hallelujah! Did she imagine it, or was that a shout from above? A chorus of shouts? Had something gone wrong? Terror squeezed out her joy.

Doubts plagued her again as she realized she’d have to squeeze out of the hole in the pipe first, then pull him out onto the backboard. No. That was wrong. Jarvis had distinctly said she should
push
him ahead of her through the tunnel. The man they’d stationed in the hold would be watching. The minute he felt two jerks on the rope, he’d help pull Dustin out. The rope. Damn, she’d lost the
rope. Liz clutched Dustin tightly as the old phobia returned with a vengeance.

As if sensing something was wrong, Dustin started to whimper. “I’m s-sorry, Lizbeth,” he mumbled over and over in a broken raspy whisper.

He sounded almost like Gil when he said her name, and since he’d only ever called her Mrs. Robbins before, she choked up. “It’s okay, honey.” Her attempt to comfort him sounded breathless, and the words ran together. They might have been indecipherable, but Dustin relaxed as she stroked his grimy face with a finger she’d managed to wiggle close to his cheek.

Was he okay? Dusty couldn’t seem to move his left arm. Maybe it was because her light was feeble, but the fingers on his left hand looked puffy and blue to Liz.
Just get him out,
a little voice nagged in her ear.

“Out,” she repeated, drawing confidence from her own voice. Gil was out there waiting. Somehow, some way, she’d get his son to safety. Oh, God, she had to. Despite Gil’s earlier assurances that no one was to blame, it
was
her fault that Dustin had wandered off. She should have questioned the sudden change in his attitude.

The contortions Liz engaged in to get Dustin through the hole first would have put an acrobat to shame. By the time she had him strapped on the board, Liz swore and begged and pleaded for air. She knew she was in bad shape when she shoved with all her might and the backboard slid all of two inches across jutting rocks.

She sobbed, but not a sound came out. And the real trial didn’t start until she was stretched flat in the tunnel. The battery pack on her hard hat fizzled and the light blinked out. Terror slammed into Liz. Sweat slicked her body as darkness settled around, ominous and debilitating.

The screams, trapped in her lungs along with stale air, threatened to strangle her. She couldn’t move. They would die here the way Corbett had in that chute. Gil had put his faith in the wrong person. He’d put his trust in a coward. Lying on her stomach, fighting for sanity, Liz felt the fiery imprint of Gil’s lucky piece pressing relentlessly against her hipbone. Luck—it was for fools.

F
OR THE RESCUERS
milling about on the platform, the minutes ticked by with maddening slowness—especially once the initial exultation had passed of knowing that Liz had reached the trapped child.

Doubly impatient, Gil paced a circle around the rescue shaft. Every five seconds he asked the time. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones. He tried conjuring up a vision of Lizbeth and his son. It scared the hell out of him when the vision refused to form. He reached for the winch and would have raised the monkey board if Jarvis hadn’t restrained him. “Let go. I’m heading down.”

“Be sensible, man. We need a trained paramedic down there.”

Releasing the winch, Gil twisted from his grasp and again asked the time.

“Eight-fifty,” droned a voice from the darkness. Ten minutes sounded like a life sentence to Gil. The others, reacting to his increasing anxiety, fell silent. With each passing minute, worry deepened, and the group grew more restive. When nine came and went, not a soul spoke.

Suddenly they heard a shout from below. “I’ve got him,” yelled the paramedic. “Thank God, thank God, he’s moving and breathing.” Then with less exuberance and more professional detachment, he reported Dustin’s
condition. “He’s suffering some hypothermia. Get the doctor and ready a chopper. We may be dealing with gangrene in his left arm. Make way above—I’m putting him on a sling and sending him up.”

Gil met the sling. Relief weakened his knees with his first look at that dirt-caked little face. Overwhelming joy held him upright while cameras whirred and confusion ran rampant around him. All the workers wanted to see the child for themselves, and Gil wouldn’t deny them. Amid unabashed tears, the physicians who’d stood by monitoring Dusty’s vitals throughout the long ordeal, prepared him for transport. Two subordinate members of the medical team raced for the chopper, calling for Gil to follow. He ran automatically, then all at once it dawned on him that Lizbeth was still below ground.

Stopping, he turned back to check. From behind, a massive hand attached itself to his upper arm and literally shoved him in the direction of the waiting helicopter. Gazing helplessly back over his shoulder, Gil strained to see any sign of dark curls swinging up and out of the shaft. But the winch remained still. Then before he knew what was happening, someone placed a flat hand on the back of his neck, bent him double and landed him in the chopper. As he scrambled to catch his breath, other hands buckled him in next to his son’s stretcher.

With a whump-whump and a roar, they suddenly rose above the crowd and were whisked away into the starry night. Away from Lizbeth and Rusty. Gil pressed his nose to the glass, trying to see. Too soon darkness engulfed them, and Dustin cried out. Gil turned back to the son who needed him.

I
N THE PIT
, things looked bad for Lizbeth. She was cut, bleeding, in shock. “I need supplies down here,” the paramedic shouted. “Drop me a Ringer’s and O2.”

Those were the last words Liz heard.

She woke up in a sterile emergency room, retching and fighting the oxygen mask that covered her nose. She felt as if her lungs were seared. Breathing the oxygen was like trying to swallow a cactus. She had no idea what was happening.

The first face she saw and recognized was that of Nan Littlefield, who hurriedly told her that Melody was just outside the room with Morris. Slowly, memory of the grueling experience came back to Liz. “Dusty? Gil?” she whispered, stretching forth a bandaged hand.

“Safe.” Nan patted a patch of skin above the gauze and smiled. “They flew Dustin to the Children’s Hospital in San Antonio. We just got word—his left arm may need skin grafts and plastic surgery because his circulation was cut off for so long. But, Liz, his fingers are going to be all right. And it’s all thanks to you.”

Liz burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I should be happy. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Child, you’re exhausted,” Nan said. “The doctor wants to keep you in the hospital overnight for observation. We’ll take Melody home with us, if that’s all right.”

Liz suffered a moment’s panic. “Hospital? No. I want to leave. I’m all right.” She struggled to sit.

Morris Littlefield poked his head into the room and strode with Melody to the foot of the bed. “Let them pamper you tonight, darlin’. Gil just called to see how you are. He insists you stay.”

“Okay—but where’s Rusty?” Liz’s brow crinkled.

“Uh…” Nan made faces over top of Melody’s head. “WWW took him.”

Morris wagged a finger at his wife and Liz continued to look blank.

“Wicked Witch of the West,” Nan said with a wink.

“I see.” But Liz didn’t. She couldn’t understand why Gil had let that woman take his son anywhere. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled, but she was too tired to formulate clear thoughts. Then an orderly came to take her to the room where she would spend the night, and there was no need to think at all.

The next day, when the doctor redressed her scrapes and let her leave with Nan, Liz was even more confused by the sense of dread that was somehow attached to going home. Yet she turned down Nancy’s offer to stay with them for a few days.

As Nancy drove beneath the iron arch on the Lone Spur, the first thing Liz saw was Ginger’s Caddy parked, big as you please, in Gil’s driveway. The owner of that car sat on Gil’s porch swing, painting her nails.

Things became decidedly clearer after supper when Gil called. “Ah, good, you’re home.” His voice sounded weary and strained. “The doctor thinks you should have complete rest for a few days.”

“Really? He didn’t say that to me.”

“Well, he told me. I let Rafe know. Listen, I haven’t even thanked you properly for saving Dustin’s life. It doesn’t seem right, doing it long-distance.”

“How is he?” Liz wrapped the cord around her finger. Gil’s earnest husky tone sent shivers up her spine.

“Minimal tissue damage. When I think of the time it would have taken to drill through that rock if you hadn’t—Liz…I—”

“Don’t, Gil. It was a nightmare and it’s over. Just hurry home, okay?”

“It’ll be a week or two. Remember how you said I needed to spend more time with the boys? Well, I’m staying here until they let Dustin come home.”

“And what about Rusty?”

“Ginger volunteered to watch him. I know she made a bit of an ass of herself, Lizbeth, but did you see Rusty’s face? This is the first interest she’s ever shown in the boys. Lizbeth, are you there? Hey, you’re the one who said the twins should get to know their mother.”

Prickles of denial sent goose bumps up Liz’s arms—more or less the same sensation she’d had on learning Dustin had fallen into a well.

“I miss you, Lizbeth. Take care of yourself.”

“I will. You, too. Bye, Gil.” She held the receiver a long time after he clicked off and gazed at his lucky piece that lay on her nightstand. There’d been no way to give it to Dustin as she’d intended. She ran a fingertip lightly around the sparkling rowel and felt a sense of peace. Until Gil returned home, she at least had his talisman to keep her company.

That night Gil invaded Liz’s dreams. Dreams so real she felt the warmth and comfort of his arms, and she barely stirred the entire night. On awakening, fully refreshed, Liz marveled at the absence of the plaguing nightmares. Could it be that in facing her demons in the tunnel, she’d not only rescued Dustin but healed herself, as well? Liz couldn’t wait to discuss the possibility with Gil.

Except that he didn’t call the next night or the one after that. It was on the third day, when Yancy stopped by to see how she was doing, that she found out Dustin had undergone his first skin graft. Later that evening Luke brought her a horse to shoe and more disturbing news.

“Ginger hired a woman to cook and clean. Six-foot Amazon. Old battle-ax makes us come to the back door if we need to get anything from Gil’s office.”

Liz thought Luke might be stretching the truth until Rusty showed up in her kitchen after school the next day complaining about the same thing. She hadn’t seen him since the accident. Before week’s end, he’d become a regular again.

“Does your mom know where you are?” Liz asked the following Wednesday. It was nearly dark, and Rusty showed no sign of wanting to go home.

“She don’t care ‘bout me. All she does is fix her face and read those horse magazines of Dad’s. Buddy Hodges says it figures. His older brother told him all women are fic…fickle. I asked my teacher what that means. She said it’s like if a person says one thing and does another.”

“Rusty, if your mother didn’t care, she wouldn’t be here. Have you mentioned this to your dad?”

“Naw. ‘Sides, he likes Dustin better’n he likes me.”

Liz plunked down on her knees next to his chair, then winced because she still had bruises. “That I know is false. Your dad loves you equally, Rusty. It’s just that Dustin needs him more right now. Honey, parents don’t run out of love like we do milk or eggs or flour. What makes you think such a thing?”

Rusty sucked in a sigh. “Buddy…”

“Ah. I should have known. Another Buddyism. Russ, do me a favor. Go home and give this some time.”

He gathered the crumbs from his cupcake in a neat little pile and brushed them into his hand. After dumping them in the trash, he confided, “Mrs. Morley yells if I drop crumbs on the table.
She
does, too. It’s awful.”

“Hmm.” Liz assumed the
she
meant Ginger. A touchy subject at best. She didn’t want to interfere; however,
Rusty looked so pitiful and sad she hugged him the way she did Melody when someone had hurt her feelings. “You’re welcome to hang out here, sport. I don’t mind if you come with Melody, after school. You can both meet me wherever I’m shoeing.”

“Yippee!” Both kids danced around the kitchen table. Liz walked Rusty to the door and watched till he got home. She wondered if anyone met him at the door.

When she’d read Melody a story and tucked her into bed, Lizbeth tried calling Gil. He didn’t answer at the hotel. She phoned the hospital and was told he’d just left—for his ranch. Surely not. Just in case, Liz waited by the window. Sometime after midnight, she saw his Suburban pull into the lane; she knew that Rafe had taken it to him in San Antonio. Her heart tripped over itself when he stopped alongside the cottage.