The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

8

"That's why she fell?" Eldon whispered.

Wren shook her head and wiped at the tears cascading down her cheeks, "We only saw the cattle, baby goose... we didn't know Chet was at the barn waitin' to stir up more trouble until he shot Mama."

"But Emerson can patch her up," Eldon whimpered, tears flooding his eyes, "like he did Papa. Can't ya, Emerson?"

"There are some wounds," Emerson softly said before Wren could speak, "beyond even my skill, dear boy."

Eldon stared at his sister, his lower lip and chin trembling as a sob caught in his throat. "Ya mean Mama's gone to be with Miriam and Albert?"

Wren nodded and gave up trying to stem the flow of tears cascading from her eyes.

"But I want her here," Eldon wept, covering his face with his hands.

"I know, baby goose," she brokenly whispered, bending down and hugging him to her bosom. "I do too."

A little while later, Wren sat at the kitchen table in the old cabin with Eldon on her lap, his wounded leg resting on the seat of another chair, while Declan sat on the tabletop, naked from the waist up, having Emerson suture the bullet wound in his right arm.

"No heavy lifting for at least two weeks, not that I think you'll want to," Emerson murmured as he tied the last knot. Then after snipping the thread, he grabbed a roll of bandages and started wrapping the lower swell of Declan's shoulder, "And I'd advise using a sling, but I know you'll toss it in the fire—"

"They're a nuisance," Declan winced, lifting his arm to make it easier for Emerson to wrap just as Wolstan and Quincy—a loyal ranch hand as skinny and blonde as a stalk of ripe wheat and taller than a bean pole, who'd worked for Duke the past nine years—slowly rode to the barn, carrying odd-shaped burdens draped across their mounts.

Emerson arched a brow and heaved a sigh, "They serve a purpose in ensuring you don't use muscles that need to rest and repair—what?" Emerson finished in a bare whisper after Declan gave him a strange look.

"Wooly's back," Declan mouthed, holding his uncle's gaze, "Not with Duke." Then tipping his head in a silent question at his arm, he asked in his usual tone, "You finished?"

Emerson tied off the bandage and handed him his shirt, "Remember, no heavy lifting for two weeks."

"I'll try," Declan muttered, biting back an expletive as he stuffed his arms into his sleeves and pulled his shirt over his head while crossing to the front door just as Wolstan pushed it open, poked his head inside, and swallowed.

"I need to talk to you for a minute," he quietly said, his face pale, "out here."

Declan's stomach twisted, and his heart thudded dully in his chest, but he resisted the urge to glance at Wren and Eldon and followed his brother outside, closing the door firmly behind them.

"What is it?" he whispered, not wanting his voice to carry.

Wolstan rubbed the back of his neck and clenched his eyes shut, heaving a sigh before quietly saying, "Duke and Dorsey got caught in the stampede...."

Declan's gaze flew to the lumps draped over the two horses near Quincy, barely able to discern from where he stood the sharp angular shape of boots of the two men dangling on one side of the mounts and arms and heads on the other.

"But they weren't just trampled," Wolstan continued, following his gaze.

Declan turned to his brother. "What do you mean?"

"They both have fresh bullet wounds that would have killed 'em even if the cattle hadn't—" Wolstan paused and rubbed a hand over his face before hoarsely whispering, "They're a terrible mess... I don't think Wren or Eldon should see them."