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through a downed branch. Squinting into the sun, he watched
the wagon approach with a funny feeling in his gut. Snow
wasn't driving any faster, but the lines of his body were taut
and tense. And why wasn't Ben with him? Before his brain
could come up with a good reason not to, Obie was running to
meet the wagon. Sure enough, when he looked over the side,
Ben was reclining back on a pile of rope, scowling something
fierce. A kerchief was tied around his right thigh, its dark blue
fabric stained purple. Obie launched himself over the side, a
jumble of questions spilling out of his mouth.
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"What the hell happened? Who did this? Where's the
Bastard?"
"Settle down, Obediah." Ben let his hand graze against
Obie's for the briefest of seconds. "I'll live."
By now, a handful of others had gathered around the
wagon and followed it as it bypassed the barn and went
directly to the main house. Snow threw the brake and climbed
into the back, issuing orders. "Lonnie, run ahead and tell
Juanita we need hot water and bandages. Dex, you find
Porter and get him here now."
"Doctor," Obie chattered nervously. "Somebody needs to
get a doctor." Even though Ben was warm and alive right
there next to him, Obie had taken a chill deep inside he
couldn't seem to shake. He and Snow helped their boss off
the wagon and supported him between them as Ben hopped
on his good leg, up the porch steps and into the house.
Juanita was ready for them, having laid out clean bandages
and spread the bed with burlap sacks to catch the blood. "You
need a doctor," Obie said again as they settled him on the
bed.
"No I don't. Porter's a better hand at takin' out a bullet
than that young sawbones in town."
"He shot you," Obie spat, hovering over his lover. "Son of
a bitch, I knew he didn't like you, but damn!"
"Arne de Groot didn't shoot me," Ben refuted. He was
utterly calm, laying there with a damn bullet in his leg and
acting like they were having a Sunday picnic. It was making
Obie a little crazy. "I only got about halfway to the mill—you
know that spot before the turnoff to Sam's, where the
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thickets are heavy? I was passin' there, and somebody took a
shot at me from the brush. Probably would have killed me,
too, if the Bastard hadn't bucked. Threw me off and left me
there, the ill-mannered beast."
"I found him limpin' down the road, swearin' a blue streak
and complainin' about blood in his boot," Snow commented as
he untied the stained kerchief and gingerly pulled it away
from the wound.
Ben hissed a little but otherwise didn't react as Snow
tugged the boot off his foot and slit up the pant leg with his
knife. "Damnit, I like these pants."
"I'll sew your pants," Juanita said as she bustled into the
room with a basin of steaming water. "Such a baby."
"Where you figure that horse is now?" Snow asked casually
as he soaked a cloth in the water and dabbed at the wound.
"No idea. I reckon he'll come back on his own, when he's
damn good and ready and not before." Ben chuckled, and
suddenly Obie was angry as hell.
"What the hell are you laughing at? You've got a damn
bullet in your leg. Somebody tried to kill you. Wanna tell me
what's so damn funny here?" Just as he was working up to a
serious hissy fit, he glanced down at Ben's wound. With all
the blood cleaned away, it was a perfectly round hole, right
there in that strong thigh that Obie had touched, had kissed,
so many times. He looked at his lover's leg and only saw a
piece of meat with a chunk missing out of it, still oozing
blood, and his stomach flipped over.
"Oh my God," he moaned, and suddenly he could not stay
in the room one minute more. He spun on his heel and
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bolted, nearly plowing over Porter, who was on his way in. He
all but fell down the porch steps and kept right on running,
not heading anywhere in particular but needing like hell to get
away from the house.
Could've died, could've died. The words bubbled out of the
sick, churning mess in his brain, the one that tried to picture
his life without Ben Johnson and came up with nothing,
absolutely nothing. Obie lurched to a stop, bent over, and
threw up between the toes of his boots. He retched for a
moment, elbows on his knees, eyes watering. Finally his
stomach quieted and he spat until the foul taste had mostly
left his mouth. He straightened and wiped at his streaming
eyes, feeling sick and shaky. Get hold of yourself, he thought,
taking a few deep breaths. He's alive. He's all right. And he
probably thinks you're a lunatic.
Running his hand through his hair, he resettled his hat and
strode determinedly back toward the house. No more
running, he told himself. Time to stand.
Ben was still lying on the bed, propped up on a heap of
pillows. His thigh was snugly wrapped in a clean, white
bandage. Porter stood at the washstand, rinsing his bloody
hands, looking more like an undertaker than a doctor in his
usual black clothes.
Ben looked up when Obie came in, his face calm but his
eyes showing concern. Obie gave him a sheepish smile. "How
you doin'?"
"I'll live. How you doin'?"
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"I'm okay." Obie tossed his hat on the bureau and settled
next to his lover on the bed. "Sorry 'bout that. Just got to me
for a minute there."
Porter snorted, drying his hands on a scrap of burlap.
"First gunshot wound you've ever seen?"
"No," Obie shot back, feeling a little defensive. "Just the
first one... the first time...."
Ben's hand settled over his, and Obie knew he understood.
Porter snorted again and left the room, shaking his head
and muttering under his breath. When they were alone, Ben
tugged Obie closer until they were lying side by side. Hearing
Ben's heartbeat, feeling the heat coming off his body, calmed
Obie, and he snuggled in like a puppy. Long moments went
by without any words between them. Eventually Ben stirred
and laid a kiss on Obie's hair. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah."
"Good, 'cause I want you to do something for me. Go on
into town and tell the sheriff what happened."
"Aw, hell, what for? You know that fat old man won't do a
thing about it. Arne de Groot's got him bought and paid for."
"Henry don't like our kind, it's true, but he's still the law.
Even if he don't do nothing, we'll do what we're supposed to."
Obie sat up and regarded his lover with a worried frown.
"You really don't think Dutch plugged you?"
"No," Ben replied, gingerly shifting his injured leg.
Just like that, Obie was up and pacing again. "Just last
year he let those mill boys beat the tar outta you."
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"Arne's a blowhard, and he don't think twice about bustin'
heads, but he's no coward. He'd like to shoot me, all right,
but he'd do it to my face, not hidin' in the bushes."
"So who then?"
"I've got enemies enough," Ben said, but something in his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]