Marilee hung back, her gaze settling on Seth. Elizabeth turned back as well. Seth was using her father’s shirt to stanch the flood of blood.
“Go,” she said softly to Marilee. “The puppy will get sick if he’s not fed. Put some milk in a glove and make a small hole in one of the fingers. See if she will suck on it. Can you do that?”
Marilee hesitated.
Then the puppy helpfully whimpered, and Marilee turned toward the kitchen, where a little milk remained from the morning.
Elizabeth turned back to her father and the man leaning over him.
“How bad is it?”
“Two wounds are flesh wounds. The third has a bullet still inside. He’s bleeding badly. We have to cauterize the wound but not until it’s cleaned and the bullet’s out.”
“Cauterize?”
His eyes met hers. “Yes.”
She leaned over the bed. “Papa. Talk to me. Papa.” She willed him to talk to her, to acknowledge her presence.
His eyes fluttered open. “Princess?”
She could tell he was fighting to open them and keep them open.
“Papa. What happened?”
“Masked… rebel cry,” he said. “Came…out…of… nowhere. Sinclair.”
His glazed eyes moved to the man standing about him. “Who…?”
Elizabeth looked up at Seth. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes hardened, became ice cold.
“Have you had any training?” she asked.
He laughed bitterly. “More than four years of it, Miss McGuire. We often didn’t have a doctor. We did a lot of our own mending. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.”
He had left it there for her to make a decision.
A low moan came from her father. His eyes opened slightly. He obviously understood a little of what was being said.
“Papa, you’re losing blood. Someone has to get the bullet out and cauterize the wound. This… gentleman said he will try.”
Her father’s painfilled face turned toward him, nodded slightly, then the eyes closed again.
“There used to be a medical box in the kitchen,” Sinclair said. “Is it still there?”
She was reminded once more that this had once been his home. She nodded.
“What about alcohol?”
She shook her head. She always threw it out when she found some in the ranch house.
She heard him swear quietly before continuing in a slightly louder voice, “There should be a pair of tongs and scalpel in the box. Bring the box and heat a knife. I’ll need two pans of hot water, soap, and clean cloth to bandage the wound.” He paused. “I think he’s unconscious again but he could wake up. It’s going to hurt like hell.” His eyes challenged her.
She leaned over the silent form again. “Papa?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, didn’t move. She hoped he would remain unconscious.
She went into the small area that served as a kitchen. She located the medical box, put kindling into the cookstove, and lit it. She found the scalpel in the medical box, and washed it with water from a pitcher. When the kindling began to flame, she shoved the steel of the knife inside, shivering as she did so. She poured water into a pan and put it on top of the stove.
It would take a few minutes for the water to heat. She had a moment to look in on Marilee. She must be frightened nearly to death and Elizabeth did not want her to wander into her father’s room while Seth was digging out a bullet.
Marilee sat on the bed, holding a glove. The puppy sucked at one of the fingers of the glove.
“She’s eating,” Marilee said solemnly.
“I see. She’s a survivor.”
“How’s Poppy?”
“He is very sick. But your brother thinks he can fix him.”
“He found the puppy.”
Finding a puppy and digging for a bullet were two different things, but she was not going to explain that at this moment. She only hoped her faith wasn’t misplaced. “Stay up here, love,” she said. “Take care of the puppy.”
Marilee nodded, cradling the puppy in one arm and holding the glove with the other.
Elizabeth returned to the kitchen and gathered clean towels. “Please God, don’t let him die. He’s all I have.” Her lips moved with the prayer, yet no sound escaped.
She recalled what he had said. Masked men. A rebel cry. The same description fit the ones who’d intentionally spooked her horse. Her father mentioned Sinclair. Dillon Sinclair. Could Seth be involved in some way? Was that why he had gone with her on the picnic? An alibi?
But then why was Seth trying to save her father? To claim being a good Samaritan?
Should she wait for the doctor? But she had seen how pale her father’s face had turned, how weak his voice was.
She took the medical box and towels to the room, setting them down on a table next to the bed, then hurriedly fetched the water. She planned to watch every movement Seth made.
He stood a few feet away, applying pressure to the wound on her father’s shoulder.
“Keep the pressure on,” he said. She moved to the side of the bed and her hands replaced his, brushing them.
Her gaze didn’t leave him as he opened the box. She had seen the contents before but now they looked sinister and ugly. He removed a pair of tongs and glanced at her.
“Wipe the blood from the wound,” he said. “Keep doing it.” He glanced up at her, challenge still in his eyes.
She nodded, leaned over, and wiped away blood with one of the towels she’d brought in.
Seth didn’t hesitate but slowly inserted the tongs into the wound. She prayed her father would remain unconscious.
Sweat ran down Seth’s face as he moved the tongs with obvious expertise. And care. She saw in his face when he found the bullet, and her gaze went back to his hand as he extracted the bullet.
Blood gushed behind it and without urging she pressed a clean cloth down on the wound.
“The knife?”
“In the stove.”
He left the room. In seconds, he was back, holding the handle of the knife with a towel.
“You might want to leave,” he said. “This won’t be pleasant.”
“No.”
He shrugged. “When I tell you to move your hands, do it.” His voice was matteroffact as if he had done this a hundred times. Without waiting for an answer, he added, “Now.”
She moved the towel and he pressed the blade against the wound. It sizzled and even in unconsciousness her father’s body seemed to jump. She felt the impact clear through her body.
He lifted the knife and looked down at the wound. The bleeding had stopped.
She heard the release of a withheld breath. She thought it her own until she looked at Seth’s face. It had been his. His lips were slightly parted, his usually cool eyes roiling with some emotion she didn’t understand.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet. He’s lost a lot of blood and there could be infection.”
“You tried. You didn’t have to.”
“I’ve seen enough death in the past few years,” he said curtly. “I don’t want to see more.” He paused. “No matter who it is.”
It was a direct slap at her. At the man he had just doctored.
She was the first to avert her gaze. “What should I do now?”
“He is going to hurt. The doctor should have something to help. So would alcohol. I would leave the wound unbandaged until the doctor comes.”
“You’re not leaving?”
“I have other business.”
“What if…”
“I’ve done everything I can do. Keep the wound clean. Make him as comfortable as possible.”
She started to protest, then she heard hoofbeats approaching. She moved quickly to the window. Howie and the doctor was her first thought.
It couldn’t be. Not this quickly.
She peered out the window and her heart dropped.
Major Delaney. He was looking at the buggy that was still hitched to the horses, at Seth’s horse.
Why? Why now?
She turned to Seth. “You have to hide.”