Twilight in Texas (21 page)

Molly pointed the way, suddenly glad that she wouldn’t have to face whatever lay ahead alone.

T
WENTY YEARS OLD, THE SETTLEMENT OF
S
AN
M
ARCOS
grew up along a river rising from a mammoth springs. The water made the air smell sweet and feel cooler than anywhere else south of the Hill Country. The mission lay close against a stand of cottonwoods a few miles to the east of the stage depot. As they neared, Molly realized calling the place a mission was a grand overstatement. It was little more than a few buildings huddled together. A temporary refuge from weather or attack.

An aging priest met them at a huge wooden door that looked like it hadn’t been closed in years. He watched with hopeful eyes as she climbed from the wagon.

“You are here to help?” he asked in words flavored with foreign tones.

“I’ve come for my husband,” Molly answered, unable to miss the disappointment in his eyes. “I was told Captain Hayward is here.”

The priest nodded and seemed to accept the load he hoped might be lifted from his shoulders.

Molly asked Early if she would wait with Callie Ann until she knew the extent of Wolf’s injuries. Now that she was near, fear rose to the surface. Molly fought it down with determination.

Early tied the reins and helped Callie Ann from the wagon. As Molly entered the mission, she glanced back. The two were walking toward the shade of nearby trees. The few clouds that had darkened the land this morning had disappeared, leaving the air still and dry.

Following the priest through the door, Molly felt the walls of the mission close in around her. The dark and airless building had been constructed as a fortress against attacks. Narrow windows hugged the roofline, offering no view.

Within a few feet, a familiar smell greeted her. Thick as cobwebs, blood and death hung in the air. How many hundreds of times had she walked into a building or tent behind her father, with the odor of rotting flesh and dried blood bombarding them like an invisible tidal wave?

Instinct told her to run. Training told her there was far more than one man injured in this place.

She followed the priest through shadows to a main room no larger than Granny’s dining room. “What happened?”

“Raids two nights ago.” The old priest shuffled among cots so close together their occupants could easily touch. “Farms west of here were hit. A few were killed, but the Comanche wanted horses more than blood.”

He shook his head. “We were already full before folks wandered in here after the raid. Our mission provides a home for the elderly and those who have no family to take care of them. We’re not equipped to handle this many injured.”

He stared at her, his broken heart showing in his eyes. “All I can do is pray for them. Father
Michael was our doctor of sorts, but he died of a fever six months ago. The mission in San Antonio promised us help.”

As her gaze moved from cot to cot, Molly’s mind raced. Some of the occupants were old, crippled by life, their eyes vacant and unaware. A few could have been broken soldiers with no family to take care of them after the war. Placed in between them were temporary beds soaked in blood. Children in too much pain to cry, a few adults with open wounds seeping, a woman who cradled a child with bloody hands.

If medical help didn’t arrive soon, there would be few alive to doctor. She’d seen field hospitals better organized an hour after battle. These people had been suffering for two days.

“Where’s my husband?” Molly asked as she passed the beds. She wanted desperately to stop and help them, but she had to see Wolf first.

“He’s in the storage room. I put a bandage across his head and wrote the sheriff in Austin. I thought he might know what to do with a Texas Ranger.”

Molly hurried into a dark cramped place where Wolf lay stretched out on a table like a fallen warrior lying in state. Taking his face in her hands, she called his name, her heart aching at the sight of him. She didn’t care that he was covered in mud and blood. All that mattered was that he was still alive. “Come on,” she prayed. “Wake up, Captain.”

Slowly, he groaned and opened his eyes. “Morning, Molly, my girl.” His words were low, pushed through gritted teeth. He tried to smile as she unwrapped the filthy bandage and checked his wound, but his efforts failed.

Her fingers moved lightly over the wound, checking for infection, making sure the bullet had passed across and not lodged. Despite the dirt, the wound showed signs of healing.

“Wolf, I have to know, can you hang on a few hours? There are…”

“I know,” he answered gritting his teeth once more as she covered his injury. “I’ve heard them crying. Do what you can for them.” His voice faded. “I’ll just sleep awhile.”

Molly hesitated. She was here to help Wolf, but she couldn’t turn her back on the others. His wound was deep but he wasn’t losing enough blood for it to be life-threatening. From his few words and clear eyes she guessed there was no brain damage.

She kissed Wolf’s cheek and whispered, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She looked up at the priest. “I’ve never practiced medicine, but I do know how to help. Have you someone who can unload boxes from my wagon? I’ll be glad to share my supplies.”

The priest smiled as if his prayers had been answered. “I have a boy who can help. And Brother Luke. His mind is weak, but his back’s strong. I’ll get them both.”

“Good.” Molly pulled off her traveling jacket and rolled up her sleeves. “I’ll need water, lots of water, boiled and cooled to warm if possible. And light—all the lamps you have.”

The priest hurried out. She moved into the room where the injured waited. There was no time to think. No time to hesitate. Quickly, as her father had done many times, Molly surveyed the people. She tried to guess who needed to be treated first. After two days of suffering, it was more a guess than a decision. By the time Brother Luke arrived with the water, Molly was hard at work.

She asked that all the elderly and crippled who were not part of the raids be helped outside in the shade so that she’d have room to move. The boy didn’t want to get close to blood, but he was willing to tote and stay with the aged.

The priest rolled up his sleeves, as well, and followed her directions. Like many of his day, he’d thought leaving the blood around the wound was nature’s way. When Molly ordered him to start washing, he hesitated.

Her voice hardened with authority, and he began cleaning.

Again and again, she checked on Wolf. She put a cool, damp cloth on his wound to soften the scab that had started forming and catch blood that still seeped out. He seemed to be resting quietly.

The priest delivered word that Early and Callie Ann were in the kitchen. They kept a constant stream of water coming and made soup for everyone. Early told the priest to say she was sorry she couldn’t be there to help with the injured, but she didn’t want Callie Ann catching anything.

Molly smiled and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Bullet wounds were seldom contagious, but she understood Early’s desire to stay away. Some folks didn’t have the stomach for the work; others thought trouble was catching. Early was obviously trying to do her part.

The priest proved more helpful than she first thought he might be. He held the children in his arms while she doctored them. His low, caring voice was as soothing as medicine. Most of them were cut or scraped from falls when they’d run from the raid. One had a broken arm.

Two men needed bullets removed. One from his chest, not an inch away from his heart. The other had a gut wound. Molly did her best with both patients but knew their chances were slim.

The woman with a baby had only scratches and cuts from falling. Reluctantly, she allowed Molly to examine the tiny child in her arms.

Molly fought to whisper her words only to the priest. “The baby’s dead,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

For the first time, she saw the strength of the old man. “I can,” he answered. “This time I know what has to be done.”

As Molly moved away, she heard the woman’s cries and the priest’s soft words. No mixture of medicine could take away the mother’s pain.

It was almost dark when Molly treated the last patient, a little boy with scratches and a cut along his arm. He couldn’t be more than five and didn’t know the whereabouts of his parents. But he didn’t cry.

The grieving mother, who’d just finished washing her baby and dressing him for burial, looked over as Molly worked on the boy. “I know your ma and pa,” she said in a deep Southern accent. “You can stay with me until we find them.”

Molly lifted the boy and sat him beside her. The young mother set aside her sorrow long enough to comfort the child. Molly couldn’t stop her tears. She moved close to the now-empty boxes she’d brought so that no one would hear her crying.

As she pulled her emotions under control, she realized most of the medical supplies were gone.

The priest offered her a cup of soup, but she had one more injured to attend to first. Wolf. The nagging thought that she risked his life to save the others had been in her mind all afternoon. He would have wanted it that way, she knew. But what would she tell herself if she’d waited too long to treat him, or if his wound needed medicine she’d already handed out?

She entered the small room that reminded her of a cell in some dark, ancient prison. Wolf hadn’t moved since she’d checked on him an hour before. He looked like a giant spread across the table with his arms hanging off the sides. The priest had removed his boots and gun belt. They lay, covered in mud, next to him.

“Wolf?” she whispered, realizing how few times she’d said his name. It seemed strange to call him anything except Captain Hayward, but that didn’t sound right now that they were married.

She placed the lantern a few feet from his head. Light fell across clutter piled in every corner of the room. She thought she could smell onions and earthy potatoes. “Wolf?” she whispered again.

He moaned.

“I’m here.” Molly let her hand slide along his arm. “I’ll try to make it better.”

When she removed the blood-stained cloth and cleaned the wound, he didn’t open his eyes. As she’d thought, the bullet must have caught him at the temple and slid along the skull. She knew immediately the danger would be infection.

As she cleaned, he called her name once—a haunting cry as though he’d said it a thousand times. The cut was deep, and even with stitches, there would be a scar at the hairline.

“I’m here,” she whispered and was surprised when her voice calmed the giant.

While warm water dripped along his face and shoulders from a cloth moving in gentle strokes, Wolf relaxed. Unsure if he was asleep or unconscious, Molly worked as quickly as possible.

By the time he moaned again, she was bandaging his forehead. The cotton strip banded across his tan skin and dark hair. She knew pain now gripped him. She could see it in the clench of his jaw. There was nothing more she could do. Except fight the fever—the fever that might kill him when the bullet didn’t.

To settle him, Molly slowly rubbed a rag over his chest and arms, washing away layers of dirt. His strong chest reminded her of the dream she’d had of Benjamin. The two men must be near the same size, she guessed, only Benjamin had stayed young, not hardened to life like Wolf.

Benjamin was a dream, she reminded herself. Wolf was reality. Her reality. Their marriage might have been in name only, but from this point on, it would be more. She was bound to this man, not by a piece of paper he’d tucked away in his metal box, but by a promise. The preacher’s words came back to her. In sickness and in health. At the time she’d added, For six months, no more. But now, with Wolf hurt, the words might truly mean for the rest of his life. Until death.

He caught her hand suddenly, stopping her daydream.

“Molly.” His eyes stared directly at her. Feverish, but clear. “Get me out of this place.”

Most women would have asked why, or tried to talk him into staying. Any doctor would have advised against moving a man so ill. But Molly heard the desperation in his voice. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding.

She called for Brother Luke and the priest, who were busy helping the elderly in from where they’d enjoyed an afternoon outside. The two men braced Wolf’s weight as he shuffled into the night air.

For a long moment, Wolf closed his eyes and breathed. Brother Luke returned to his duties, leaving Wolf resting heavy against Molly’s shoulders. “If I am to die,” he whispered more to himself than to her, “then let me breathe fresh air until my last.”

They stumbled, nearly falling with his weight several times. Finally, Molly and the priest got him to the river’s edge. The boy ran ahead of them and spread a blanket beside Molly’s wagon. Callie Ann and Early slept inside the wagon, too tired to wake when they passed by.

Wolf sank onto the blanketed grass, exhausted by his journey.

Molly knelt beside him and glanced up at the priest. “I’ll check on the others in an hour. Call me if you need me, Father. Otherwise I’d like to stay beside my husband.”

The priest nodded. “You’ve done your work this day, my child. Rest.”