I chuckle humorlessly and continue sliding my arms beneath her. She lets out a strangled noise when I lift, a gasp of pain, but her gun stays true and it’s where it remains as I walk out the barn with her in my arms, my dogs following close to my heels.
“Where am I?” She asks weakly.
“Carter Cattle Ranch,” I answer on instinct, remembering the days when I was younger and did tours for the folks travelling through. We had a whole tourist set up, horses to learn to ride on, cabins in the woods for those wanting to experience ranch life. That all went away, along with the money.
“I recognize that name,” She breathes.
I don’t answer her, and we remain silent as I walk the rest of the way to the house, the lights shining out the window. I see Judge up at the window, watching us.
“Go on home,” I call to Koda and Lettie, releasing them from the work. They ignore me, choosing to follow me onto the porch where they promptly lay down, knowing they’re not to come intothe house.
I use the toe of my boot to pull open the screen and then bend slightly to turn the handle on the door, but the move jostles her.
“Fuck!” She snaps, “Would you watch it!”
“Listen, if you want hospital treatment, I’ll drop you in town, but I’m guessing you hiding in my barn means you don’t want to be in public right now. So I’m your best bet, but you keep pushing me with that smart fucking mouth, I’ll leave you out here for the coyotes. You hearing me?”
“And here I thought you cowboys were friendly,” She sneers right back.
“A common misconception,” I step into the house and Judge beelines for us, smelling the dirt and the blood on her.
I take her through to the kitchen and lay her down onto the old wooden table, the top of it scarred and worn from the years of use, what’s a little blood to add to the character? The gun stays on me, though no longer pointed at my head.
“I’m going to take a look,” I tell her, filling a jug with water.
She stays quiet but watches me with eyes the color of storm clouds. In the light, I can see her beauty, her raven black hair and plump red lips. She’s young, far younger than me, at least.
Her skin is damp with sweat, yet she still shivers.
“This’ll hurt,” I warn her as I pour the water onto clear the area of blood and dirt and then use my fingers to push open the wound, looking for a glint of metal. She screams, the sound rushing through my veins like ice. It’s the kind of scream that resonates in your bones, churns your gut. But I see what I need to see.
“It’s in there.” I let her go and she drops onto the table, her chest moving rapidly, the gun in her hand dangling off the edge of the table. “I need to get it out. After that…”
“After that?” She presses.
“We’ll cauterize it.”
“Wonderful,” She sighs, lifting the gun to rest on her stomach. I reach under the sink for the medical supplies before I head through to the lounge for the bottle of whiskey I was about to pour from before all this shit went down.
Can’t catch a damn break.
I hand it to her. “Drink.” She rises onto her elbows and shifts her weight to balance on one of them, snatching the bottle from my hand, her icy eyes glaring. She swigs and then she swigs some more, taking several large gulps before she comes up for air and then slumps back onto her spine.
I’ll give it to her, she looks like a city girl, a little sweet but from what I’ve seen, she’ll give even the toughest of cowboys a run for their money.
“Let’s go,” She swirls her finger in the air, her words slurring with the whiskey working quick.
Now or never, I suppose. I pour some of the whiskey onto her thigh, making her hiss, but don’t give her a reprieve as I push the forceps into the wound to open it and then use the larger clamps to get a grip on the bullet.
Things I didn’t expect to be doing on a Monday evening; surgery on my kitchen table.
I pull the bullet out of her to the sound of her flesh moving and her gasps of pain, letting it drop onto the kitchen floor. I’m quick to get pressure on it, but we need to get it closed quickly.
Her head rolls to the side as the pain and the alcohol do a number on her.
“Don’t die on me, darlin’. You’ll only get an unmarked grave out here and that just doesn’t seem fitting for you.”
I start from the room to get the steel branding iron used for branding cattle, though it’s not been used since we switched to the freeze method of marking livestock. She’ll have to live with the large C mark on her thigh, but that’s better than being dead.
