still beating, but I don’t know how long he’s been without oxygen.” Stark began palpating the horse’s windpipe and giving orders. “Quick. I need a trach kit. Right side of the bag. And lay out a sterile sheet. Blue.”
Kneeling in the stall, Meredith worked swiftly, pulling on gloves and following instructions to the letter while Stark suited up. They had the tube in place in less than two minutes. Immediately Soldier twitched his ears and rasped in air. Holding the tracheotomy tube with one hand, Stark reached up to mop his brow with the other wrist, but Meredith beat him to it, blotting his forehead with a gauze pad. When he looked down, she had the suture kit open. As soon as he picked up the curved needle with the sewing silk threaded through it, she squirted antiseptic around the incision holding the breathing tube. It was as if the woman could read his mind.
Working quickly, Stark secured the breathing tube, while a lightly sedated Soldier swayed on his hooves, occasionally flicking his ears. Finally, Stark stepped back, satisfied with the work and the result.
He peeled off his gloves and tore off the coverall, saying grimly, “Get your brother while I clean up.” Shucking her gloves, Meredith dropped them onto the blue plastic sheet. “Meri,” he said, as she edged past him. She paused. It cost him, but he had to say it. “Good work.” She shot him a smile. “That doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods,” he warned.
Nodding soberly, she took off at a trot. Stark used the stethoscope once more, listening to the faint rattle in Soldier’s lungs.
By the time Meredith returned to the stable with Rex, Stark had bundled up the detritus from the tracheotomy and deposited it in the trash. He’d also zipped up his kit and performed a more thorough examination of the horse.
“Swelling in the retropharyngeal lymph nodes.” He showed Rex the bulging on the undersides of the horse’s jaws. “It doesn’t always happen with encephalitis, but it’s not that unusual.”
“So what do we do now?” Meredith asked worriedly.
Stark rubbed his chin, rough with three days’ growth of beard. Meredith had been a great help. She’d kept a very cool head during what had been a true emergency and had anticipated his every need as he’d worked. He couldn’t help being impressed by that. Now he was going to have to count on her to tend the horse while he was away, because he simply could not be in two places at one time. That was a fact with which he often had to deal, but it was seldom more essential than now.
“Basically, we watch him like a hawk,” Stark said. “We were sure lucky you woke me when you did.”
Almost as one, the brother and sister said, “I don’t believe in luck.”
That rocked Stark back. “You don’t believe in luck?”
“Not a bit of it,” Meredith told him firmly. She smiled at her brother, saying, “We believe in divine providence.”
Smiling, Rex wrapped an arm around his little sister’s shoulders and hugged her. “I thank God you walked in when you did.”
Stark clamped his jaw. He was well aware of the Christian teaching of divine providence, but he didn’t believe it for a moment. To believe that God tended to the personal lives of the average person was to believe that God had allowed Stark’s family to die, and that Stark could not—would not—accept.
He licked his lips and said, “Be that as it may, we’re working with a heap of negatives here. Encephalitis. Lymph node inflammation severe enough to cut off the air passage. And, from the sound of his breathing, pneumonia.”
“Oh, no,” Rex said, pushing a hand over his face.
“So that’s it?” Meredith demanded pugnaciously, parking her hands at her waist, and quite a neat little waist it was, too. In fact, she curved nicely in all the right places, which just made Stark want to run right out of there. “You’re going to recommend putting him down, aren’t you?”
Stark was trying so hard not to look at her that he almost didn’t hear her. When her words finally registered, he welcomed them and the anger that they stirred. “No, Miss High-and-Mighty. I have to admit that his chances have diminished, but I’m not ready to give up on him yet. Are you?”
“Of course not,” she retorted, sounding both relieved and affronted.
“Good. Then you won’t mind babysitting him while I’m gone.” Stark reached down and snatched up his kit.
“H-how long will you be away?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he all but snarled, shouldering the kit. The woman sure had a way of getting under his skin. He took a deep breath. “It depends on how many other patients I have.” He pulled two syringes from his shirt pocket and held them out to her. “One in the IV plug every four hours. There’s an extra IV bag next to my bedroll. Change it out when this one is down to the last mark. These big bags are tricky to estimate, so pull the bottom out like this to make sure how much is in it.” He demonstrated with both hands. “Watch the flow rate. If it dumps too fast, it’ll wash out all the medication, so check periodically.”
Meredith nodded. “Got it.”
“Don’t try to feed or water him today. If he starts to struggle, coughs or collapses, call me at once. Think you can handle all that?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“I hope so, because the alternative is to try to get him to a clinic, and, frankly, I doubt he’d survive the trip.”
She looked stricken at that.
Rex said, “I don’t think we should tell Dad just how bad it is. Not yet.”
Meredith nodded, then looked at Stark as if asking for his input. The very idea made him break out in gooseflesh. He shook his head.
“None of my business. I take care of the horse. Wes is your father. Y’all take care of him.”
She looked to her brother, saying, “Whatever you think best.”
Those words slugged Stark in the chest, echoing down through the years.
Whatever you think best, sweetheart. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.
Stark practically ran after that, getting out of there as fast as he could. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t escape the memories. Throwing his gear into his truck, he all but dove behind the wheel. Then he sat there for several long minutes, shuddering at the sounds in his mind of screeching tires and clanging metal. When at last the empty silence returned, he started the truck and, with shaking hands, went doggedly on his way. His lonely, tortured way.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Dean argued quietly the next evening, his handsome blond head shaking. “I think you’re wrong.” A custom farmer, he’d come straight from the harvest to make his case, having neither showered nor eaten, so strongly did he feel. The weather forecast hinted at rain, which made for a long day for the harvesters. “When my granddad was ill, I learned quick that he resented more than anything for me and Grandma to try to protect him,” Dean said. “Grandpa said it robbed him of his pride and his manhood. Even though he was dying, I learned that the best thing I could do was sit down and talk man-to-man with him about whatever problems we were having.”
“And you were, what,” Ann asked, sitting beside him on the porch swing, “all of fifteen? Those must’ve been tough times for you, darling.” She brushed dust from his knee.
He nodded, wrapping his hand around hers. “They were. Now I have every hope that Wes is going to recover, but I’m not sure he’ll be happy if you keep this from him.”
“I have to agree,” Ann said, but then she was so in love with her husband that he could say the moon was made of seaweed and she would at least try to believe it.
Rex leaned against the porch railing, folding his arms. They’d convened this little family conference on the porch in order to be well out of Wes’s hearing,