No flutter of her dark lashes. No pinch of her brow. Maybe she’d stay unconscious a little longer.
He inhaled a long breath and set to work. After positioning her skirts out of the way and slicing through her stockings, the knot in his chest eased a little to see that the bone hadn’t broken the skin. Her limb had already swollen to almost twice its size, and the knob raised a handbreadth above the knee showed exactly where the bone had broken and now pushed against the inner wall of the skin. Thankfully, the bump was on the outer side of the leg, so there was less chance he might nick the femoral artery when he set the bone. Still, he’d have to watch closely for signs of damage to that critical blood vessel.
He settled himself where he could pull the bone back into place. Not an easy position for either of them. At least she wasn’t awake to realize it.
With a firm grasp on her ankle, he clenched his jaw and pulled on the bone, shifting her leg, then easing the limb to the ground as the internal workings pulled the bone back into correct position. He let out a long exhale, then crawled back up to her head.
If possible, her face had lost more color. Since the pain hadn’t awakened her, the agony of what he’d just done must have forced her into a deeper sleep. He’d set more broken limbs than he could count in the seven years he’d spent doctoring in Indiana. This kind of intense pain could drive the patient either way. He’d have to work fast to brace her leg and get her back to his camp before she awoke. If she awoke. Healing the head injury might prove harder than setting the bone.
Within minutes, he had the limb wrapped in the blanket for comfort, then secured tightly to the boards along the length of her leg. He’d chosen wood that would hang past the end of her foot for good reason. Where the break was located, she’d not be able to bear weight for several weeks. If the brace kept her from pressing her foot against the ground, she’d be less inclined to try.
And there was still a strong chance that trauma this severe—both her head and her leg—might be more than her body could recover from. He might fail this patient. Just like he’d failed his own family. His gaze traveled to her face, which was beautiful, despite the dirt and bruising. So fragile. Like Ella and Rachel . . . His pulse thrummed in his ears, and his chest locked down tight.
Focus. He couldn’t give up yet. He steadied the shaking in his hands and readjusted her skirts to cover her ankles. Given her other injuries, he really needed to check for bruising in her midsection before he moved her. If she was bleeding inside, waiting to address the damage could seal her fate.
She wore a shirtwaist that tucked into her skirt, not a full dress with buttons in the back. He forced his mind not to play back old memories as he worked through the layers. At least he didn’t have to worry about pockmarks in this examination.
No swelling or dark bruising in her lower abdomen, which would signal damage to her vital organs. But an area farther up, just above the base of her ribs, boasted a dark, puffy circle. A broken rib, if he had to guess, which meant he’d have to be careful. Too much jarring could pierce a lung. The last thing she needed.
He readjusted her clothing and wrapped her cloak tighter around her. Moisture beaded on her brow again, intensifying the clammy feel of her skin. Her body seemed unsure whether to turn feverish or give out completely.
Pushing to his feet, Micah turned his focus to the mules. An icy prick of sleet stung his nose, and another his cheek. Time was running out. They had to move to shelter. He strode toward the mules, which now stood with their heads hanging, still in harness.
The uninjured animal looked up when Micah approached, and he stroked the mule’s face. Weary brown eyes stared back at him, a little glassy, but no longer showing the whites around the edges.
“It’s gonna get better, fella. Soon. It has to.” If only his words were true. He patted the mule on the neck as he reached under and unfastened the strap that held the animals together.
Stepping close to the hurt mule, he rubbed the animal’s neck to soothe him, then ran his hands down its back, working his way to that rear leg. A closer look at the swollen limb and the way the bottom part of the leg hung at a loose angle told him his suspicions had been right, but he still did his diligence.
The mule balked when his hand neared the injury, jumping sideways and hobbling off on three hooves. Not once did it put weight on the left rear. If it had tried, it likely would have driven the bone right through its flesh.
With a sigh, he turned back to the first mule. “We’ll get you tied someplace safe, then take care of your friend here.” Taking care of the injured animal entailed a task he did not relish.
The mules looked almost identical. Maybe brothers that had pulled together most of their lives. Working in tandem, knowing the other’s movements before each came, feeling and doing everything together. No wonder the healthy mule still looked miserable. Micah knew that feeling. Losing a longtime companion shattered one’s heart.
Micah forced a swallow past the lump in his throat. It had to be done. It was the only merciful thing.
He grasped the bridle of the healthy mule and pulled it forward, gathering the rein in a loop. The animal walked two steps, then stopped, turning to its companion. “I know, boy. Say good-bye.”
The mule loosed a bray, low and hoarse, as though already mourning.
Micah patted the animal’s neck, then pulled it toward a sturdy pine twenty strides off the trail. He tied the rein in several knots, then tested the strength of his work. That should do.
The animal stood with its head high, white showing around its eyes again. Micah stroked the bulge behind its ear. “Stay here a few minutes, then we’ll find a way to get that lady to a better place.”
Micah inhaled a strengthening breath and turned back to what had to be done. The injured mule still stood with its head down, that back hoof cocked so the toe barely rested on the ground.
Micah turned away and strode toward the edge of the trail where he’d left his rifle. He set his jaw and scooped up the gun, then turned and took aim. The quicker the better.
Just as he was lining up the sight, the wounded mule loosed a pathetic bray, sending a surge of burning up to Micah’s eyes. He spread his legs and fixed his finger on the set trigger, moving it into place.
The mule behind him released an ear-splitting answer to his friend. His lifelong companion. His brother.
Micah sighted on the injured mule’s side where his heart would be, then pulled the trigger, squeezing his eyes shut as the gun exploded.
three
A cry ripped through the air.
Micah whirled to see the healthy mule pulling furiously at the rein that held it to the tree. With a pop, the leather snapped, propelling the animal backward. It landed on its haunches, even as its front legs paddled to spin it around. The mule stumbled to its feet, swaying.
Micah strode toward it. “Hey, boy. Easy.” He spread both arms wide, shifting right to approach the wide-eyed mule head-on. If he let the animal get away, they’d really be in a mess. If only he’d taken time to make a halter out of the rope instead of relying on the bridle to hold it secure. Of course the sound of gunfire would make the animal bolt. He should have expected the reaction.
The mule released another piercing bray, then jerked its head sideways, swiveling away from Micah. He could close the distance in a half-dozen strides, if only the mule wouldn’t kick him in the approach.