held the horses. This was a large, well-established horse ranch, and took up over 500 acres on its own. Normally she found the size to be a benefit – it kept strangers away from the house at the center, and gave her plenty of areas to find privacy. Today, though, the ranch’s size was a detriment. She put her heels to her mare’s sides, asking for more speed, and began to scream for her mother.
“Mama! Mama! Necesito! Necesito!(italics)” she shouted, her eyes flying over the courtyard that served as the center of the ranch. Her mother ran the ranch with other members of her husband’s family, and had years of experience in treating injured people. She would save the American they had found. But where would she be at this time of day? Pilar hauled her horse to a stop and jumped to the ground, turning in a circle as she called.
***
Elizabeth Arroyo came running from one of the barns, where she had been helping with one of the younger horses. The filly was several weeks old, and still having trouble nursing. She had been doing her best to teach the young horse to find her mother’s milk and nurse on her own. She had dropped the filly at the sound of her daughter’s screams, though, and rushed out. Several of the ranch hands followed her, alarmed at the sound of Pilar’s panic. Elizabeth spotted her daughter and raced toward her, scanning her body for signs of harm. When she reached the girl she pulled her into her arms, holding her close and searching every inch of her body for injury.
“Pilar, what is it?” she asked, pulling back and looking her daughter in the face. “Why are you screaming? Where is your brother?”
Pilar visibly slowed her breathing and started to speak. “Mama, Santiago is on his way. We were in the cornfield, gathering the last of the corn…”
As Pilar told her story, Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face. A gunfight, so close to the ranch? And with her children there? Americans in the forest? What would they be doing so far south, and what did it mean that one had been killed, on her own property?
She turned quickly to the ranch hand standing next to her. “Miguel, ready one of the rooms in the hands’ house. This man will need a bed and a quiet place to sleep. Juan,” she continued, turning to another, “take my daughter back out to find Santiago. He has a wounded man. Bring him back here. And be careful – there may be other men out there that we do not know of. They may be armed, and they may be dangerous.”
Both men nodded and went quickly to their work. Elizabeth held a hand out to the second man, stopping him. “Juan. Take care of my children, please,” she muttered quietly. Turning, she followed Miguel to the hands’ house, where she housed her ranch hands and cowboys. She would need clean bedding, boiling water, needles and sutures, the tools of her trade, and her medications. One American had already died on her ranch. If she could save the second, she would.
***
The man in the wagon was well built, with dark, wavy hair and a handsome face. He was also disturbingly pale. Lifting the vest from his chest, Elizabeth could see why. The gunshot wound to his shoulder was deep, and he had lost a lot of blood. She turned her eyes to the wound on his thigh and breathed a sigh of some relief. That wound could have been worse, with the great vein that ran through the leg. The bullet had merely grazed the muscle, though, and passed cleanly by. That wound had lost some blood, and might delay his ability to walk, but was not as serious as the one to the shoulder.
“Move him to the bed we have prepared,” she told the two men at her side. “Quickly. Carefully. Very, very carefully.” She watched quietly as the men lifted the American from the wagon bed and carried him toward the house. He was badly wounded, but his wounds were not fatal. Not yet.
Once he was in the room and lying on the bed, Elizabeth sent the men from the room. Healing was women’s work, with men getting in the way and interfering more often than anything else. She had a skill for healing, and had been working with injuries since she was a young girl. If she needed help setting a bone, she would call the men back. Turning, she considered the man on the bed, and wondered. This was a good-looking man, with clear skin and breeding beneath the dirt on his face. He had been traveling for weeks, given the state of his clothing, and hadn’t been living well. That was to be expected, though, when men were in the wilds. His face and clothing were not meant for rough living. This was not a man meant for gunfights and death alone in a deserted forest. What was he doing here?
She bent over and carefully pulled the cloth from his chest, then used her scissors to slice his shirt up the front. As she pulled the pieces away, she gasped and pulled back. The wound to the shoulder was worse than she had anticipated. The bullet had ripped through the skin and muscles of his shoulder, leaving behind torn and broken flesh. It was lodged up against the bone, its side gleaming dully against the ripped and bloody muscle around it.
Elizabeth swallowed and sat back, pushing the wisps of her long, dark hair from her eyes. She’d seen wounds like this before, and she knew the consequences. The wound on the man’s thigh required nothing more than stitching, and would be relatively simple. This wound, on the other hand … she would have to pull the bullet out and cleanse the entire area, then stitch the torn muscle back together in layers to encourage healing. The flesh would either knit back together or not, and there was a chance that the man would die of blood loss or infection. He may not live through the surgery. He may never recover the use of his arm. If he did live, he would have to rest and avoid any movement for at least three months. If he did live, he would have to remain at her ranch for at least that long.
Elizabeth sighed again and took up her needle, reaching for the cat gut thread that would bind the wound. The man would not be convenient, but it was not in her nature to allow a man to die.
***
Elizabeth walked slowly out of the room several hours later, wiping her hands on a rag. She had done the best she could for the man, and thought that she may have done enough, but knew that time alone would tell. Looking into the courtyard, she saw that night was almost upon them; the sky had faded to a rosy purple, and the shadows were long on the ground. Her son and daughter were in the corral, working with one of the young horses from last year’s crop. The colt had been weaned for over a year but still pining for his mother, and required a gentle touch. He enjoyed the company of the children, and consented to eat and drink only when they were there. Elizabeth watched Pilar, who was more talented with the horses than her brother, and smiled. The girl would end up running the ranch one day, Elizabeth knew, and probably doing a better job than she herself did.
Pilar looked up and saw her mother at that moment, and came running.
“Mama, how is the American man?” she asked breathlessly.
Elizabeth shrugged eloquently. “He is alive, for the moment. I do not know if he will last, and I do not know how well he will heal if he lives, but I have done my best for him.”
“He will live,” the girl said confidently. “I am sure of it.”
Elizabeth let her eyes rest on her daughter, wondering. She believed her daughter that the man would live, she realized; Pilar had premonitions and feelings unlike any other person Elizabeth had ever met. It was unnerving, at times, but often accurate. She wondered if her daughter had been gifted with a sort of Second Sight, or if she was merely emotionally connected to the people around her. Either way, it was a good thing that they were isolated; that kind of premonition was too often taken for witchcraft in other areas of the world, and it would have put the girl in danger. Shaking her head, she turned to her son, who had joined them. This one, on the other hand, was as sturdy and practical as anyone; Elizabeth was often shocked that the two were related.
“Santiago, I need to know what else was at this camp of the Americans.
