Page 50 of Calder Country

Joseph sat across from her, helping to balance the stretcher for the ride. While waiting for the doctor, he’d told Britta what he’d done and what had happened. “This is all my fault,” he said again. “If he dies, I’ll never forgive myself.”

The doctor’s office was in a remodeled home with the surgery room in back. Laid out on the operating table, his bloodied clothes cut away, the sheriff was sedated with ether while the doctor probed for the two bullets.

Gloved and masked, Britta had been pressed into assisting. Away from the office, she and Kristin were longtime friends. But this was a life-or-death situation. Kristin the doctor was giving orders to be obeyed without question.

This was no time for emotion. But every time Britta glanced at Jake’s pale face, she felt a wrenching tug at her heart. Why hadn’t she summoned her courage, faced the gossip, and gone to the dance with him?

What if she’d been so afraid of public opinion that she’d missed her last chance to tell Jake she loved him?

The sterilized forceps probed deep, then deeper. The bullet from the shoulder wound had come to rest beneath his collarbone. By a near miracle, it had missed vital organs and blood vessels. With some careful maneuvering, it was out.

But the lower wound was another story. Britta watched the perspiration bead on her friend’s forehead as she probed the wound, following the trail of the bullet. As a former military doctor, she’d treated soldiers during the Great War. She was acquainted with all kinds of gunshot wounds. Now Britta could see that she was worried. Jake was in the best possible hands, but the signs didn’t look good.

Britta found Jake’s hand and gripped it hard as the probe went deeper. A shudder passed through his body as the doctor found the bullet, worked it free with the forceps, and brought it out. With a long exhalation, she dropped the slug into a metal dish. Britta sponged her perspiring forehead with a pad of gauze.

“What now?” Britta ventured to ask.

“All we can do is clean him up, dress his wounds, and hope for the best.”

“Will he be all right?” Britta spoke through the tightness in her throat.

“The bullet didn’t penetrate the abdominal cavity. But as nearly as I could tell, it nicked the hip joint and struck the spine. We won’t know how much damage it did until he wakes up.”

Britta went cold. “Are you saying he might be paralyzed?”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” the doctor said. “All we can do is wait and hope.”

* * *

Sick with worry and remorse, Joseph was waiting in the front room when his aunt Kristin walked in. She’d removed her mask and gloves but still wore her blood-spattered surgical gown.

He rose from the armchair to meet her. “Will the sheriff be all right?” he asked.

She looked exhausted after nearly two hours in surgery. “He’ll probably live, if that’s what you mean. But one bullet did a lot of damage. We won’t know the full extent until he wakes up. We’ve moved him into the bedroom. Britta is with him now.”

Joseph’s eyes burned from dust and weeping. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You’ve already done quite enough.” Her gaze was stern. “Britta told me about the girl and the money. How could you have been so irresponsible, Joseph?”

“I . . . thought I was doing the right thing,” he replied, feeling more wretched than he could ever remember in his life. “She told me—”

“Never mind,” Kristin said. “Britta called your mother after we arrived here and told her what happened. She said she’d tell your father. He’ll be walking in that door any minute. You can tell him your side of the story, and he can decide what to do with you. I’m going to get cleaned up and check on my patient.” She turned and walked out of the room.

Joseph sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands. It wasn’t his fault that Lucy’s secret beau had shot the sheriff, was it? If Annabeth hadn’t warned him, the couple would have made a clean getaway. No one would have been shot. But who was he kidding? Annabeth had done what any responsible person would do. He had no one to blame for this mess but himself.

What was he going to say to his father?

As if the thought had summoned Blake Dollarhide, Joseph heard the roar of a large truck engine outside. Since his father had lent him the Model T for tonight, Blake had commandeered one of the new delivery trucks from the sawmill to get here.

The engine went silent. Joseph heard the slamming of a metal door and the heavy tread of footsteps coming up the walk to the front stoop. The door opened without a knock.

Blake, dressed in dusty work clothes, stepped through the door and closed it behind him. His expression was rigid, his eyes like the flash of sheet lightning before a storm—contained fury, deadly but distant, hinting at the full storm that was due to break any moment.

The look on his father’s face—a look Joseph had never seen before—struck terror into his heart. He stood, trembling before his father’s cold anger.

“How is the sheriff?” Blake’s tone was flat, without emotion.

“Aunt Kristin says he’s going to live. We’ll know more when he wakes up.” Joseph forced himself to meet Blake’s chilling gaze. “Did they catch the man who shot him . . . and the girl?”

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