He turned without another word and walked out of the store. Bishop was still watching, his smile wider now. Caleb untied Buck, his movements stiff with anger. He knew he couldn't stay. There was nothing for him here today.
As he swung into the saddle, he felt a profound sense of isolation. It wasn't just him against Bishop anymore. It was him against the whole town. He rode out of Harmony Creek with his saddlebags empty and a cold knot of fury in his gut. What he found when he got back to the ranch would change everything.
He rode hard, the anger pushing him on. When he crested the last rise and saw his small valley spread out below, a sense of relief washed over him. But it was short-lived. Something was wrong. One of his horses, a young mare named Daisy, was limping badly in the corral, favoring her right foreleg.
He dismounted before Buck even came to a full stop and vaulted the fence. Daisy's leg was a mess. A deep, wicked gash ran from her knee to her fetlock, torn open on a loose strand of barbed wire he'd meant to fix. The wound was swollen, angry-looking, and already beginning to fester in the summer heat. His heart sank.
A horse with a ruined leg was a death sentence out here. He led the mare gently into the barn. His mind raced. He had to clean it, cauterize it. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a clean rag from his saddlebags.
He'd have to build up the fire, get one of the branding irons hot. It would be brutal for him and the horse. As he was laying out his crude medical supplies on a crate, a shadow fell across the doorway. The young woman stood there, her red dress immaculate. She looked at the horse, then at the whiskey and the branding iron in Caleb's hands.
Her brow furrowed. She stepped into the barn and walked slowly toward the frightened mare. She made a soft crooning sound in her throat, a sound Caleb had never heard before. Daisy, who had been tossing her head in pain, quieted. The woman reached out a hand and laid it gently on the horse's neck, stroking her with a slow, steady rhythm.
Then she turned to Caleb and shook her head, a small, firm gesture. She pointed at the branding iron and shook her head again. She held up her hands, then pointed toward the creek. Caleb hesitated. "I have to close the wound," he said, knowing she wouldn't understand the words.
"It's infected. " She ignored him. She left the barn and walked toward the creek bed. Caleb watched her go, a mix of frustration and curiosity warring within him. He couldn't just let her what? Gather weeds?
But the thought of putting a hot iron to Daisy's flesh made him sick. He decided to wait. She returned 20 minutes later, her hands full of broad green leaves and some kind of moss he didn't recognize. She also carried a piece of clean cloth he realized was a strip torn from her own petticoat. She knelt by the water bucket and began to crush the leaves with a smooth stone, mixing them with a little water until she had a thick, dark green poultice.