Elizabeth Lane - The Stranger

“There’s no doctor within twenty miles of here,” she said. “Can you help me with the arm?”

He hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I’ve seen it done—had it done when I broke my own arm as a boy. There’s not much to it, but it’ll hurt.” He looked down at Robbie. “How brave are you, boy?”

Robbie’s eyes opened wide in his tear-stained face. “I’m not scared of anything. Not bugs or snakes or even our big red rooster. Not even trees,” he added with a wan little grin.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Caleb McCurdy’s mouth. He looked younger when he smiled, Laura thought. She had judged him to be in his thirties. Now she realized he might be closer to her own age. But he had clearly seen some hard living. Like her he was scarred. Inside, she suspected, as well as outside.

Reason told her he was the last man she should trust. But right now her son needed help, and Caleb McCurdy was all the help she had.

“Are you brave enough to let me straighten your arm?” he asked Robbie. “It’s going to hurt.”

“It hurts now,” Robbie said, grimacing. “I’ll be brave.”

“Good boy.” McCurdy brushed a knuckle against the boy’s flushed cheek. For Laura, the awkward caress was one more reminder of what Robbie had missed growing up without a father. She was doing her best with the boy. But there was only so much a lonely, frightened widow could do to raise a son to manhood. Every day the task became more daunting. The killer who’d gunned down Mark Shafton had shattered three lives—Mark’s, hers and Robbie’s.

Caleb McCurdy rose to his feet. “The sooner we get this over with the better,” he said. “I’ll need some thin, straight wood for the splint and something to wrap around it.”

“Try the woodpile,” Laura told him. “I’ve got an old nightgown I can tear into strips. That should do for wrapping.”

“Fine. Take your boy inside. Lay him down and get him as calm as you can. I’ll be in as soon as I get the wood ready.”

Cradling her son in her arms, Laura carried him through the back door and into the house. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of McCurdy rummaging through the woodpile. Less than an hour ago the man had been a complete stranger. Now he’d be coming into her home. She would be trusting him with her life and the life of her precious son.

The last time she’d opened her door to strangers was the day of her husband’s murder. The thought of doing it again sent a leaden wave of fear through her body. Not all men were evil, she reminded herself. So far, Caleb McCurdy had treated her with courtesy and kindness. But she couldn’t afford to lower her guard. Robbie’s life and her own could depend on her vigilance.

Robbie was whimpering with the pain of his broken arm. Laura laid him on her own bed, propped him with pillows and arranged the arm gently across his chest. She could see where the bone angled halfway between the wrist and elbow. The sight of it made her stomach clench.

Soaking a cloth with cold water from the pump, she laid it over the swelling flesh. Then she brought him some fresh cider to drink out of his special blue china cup. “My brave little man,” she whispered, kissing his damp forehead. “Close your eyes and rest. Everything’s going to be all right.”

She waited until his whimpering eased. Then she found the threadbare flannel nightgown, sat down on the foot of the bed and began tearing the fabric into strips.

Caleb chose a straight chunk of pine and split off two thin slabs with the hatchet. Then he sat down on the chopping block and began smoothing the pieces with his knife, rounding off the rough edges and shaping them to the contour of a child’s arm. Laura’s son would need to wear the splint for at least six weeks. He wanted it to be comfortable.

As he worked, his mind pictured Laura, seeing the terror in her eyes as she plunged toward her fallen child. What if the boy had been killed? Laura was so deeply scarred by the past that one more loss would have shattered her.

And the boy was not out of the woods yet. He could have internal injuries that might not show up right away. Days from now, he could start vomiting blood. Caleb had seen a man die that way in prison after a vicious kick to the gut. The same thing could happen to a child.

Caleb sighed as he shaved the last rough edge off the makeshift splint. How could he ride off and leave Laura alone at a time like this? Unless she ran him off her property with the shotgun, it would be a kindness to stay for a few more days, at least until her son was out of danger. There appeared to be plenty of work to do around the place. He could use that as an excuse, to avoid worrying her.

Brushing the wood shavings off his denims, he sheathed the knife and went around the house to the front door. Laura still viewed him as a stranger. She’d even left his food and gun belt on the porch so he wouldn’t have to come inside. Now he was about to invade her home. One misstep on his part could plunge her into panic. He would have to weigh his every move and measure his every word.

Cautiously he rapped on the door. He heard her light, quick footsteps coming from the back of the house. Then the door swung inward and she stood on the threshold, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Robbie’s resting on my bed,” she said. “I’ll hold him while you set the arm. Will it hurt a lot?”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can. But yes, it’ll hurt. He’ll likely scream, but it’s got to be done.” He followed her through the parlor. Except for the little wooden train cars scattered over the braided rug, the room was much as he remembered it. “If you’ve got some whiskey, we could use it to make him drowsy,” he said.

“No.” She didn’t look back at him. “I don’t keep whiskey in the house.”

She led him into her bedroom, where the boy lay in a nest of pillows. Clearly, Laura was more concerned about her son than she was about having a strange man in this, the most intimate room in her house.

Caleb knew he should keep his eyes on the boy, but he couldn’t help noticing the store-bought mahogany bed with its quilted muslin coverlet and the matching wardrobe and dresser. The wall behind the dresser, where a mirror would have hung, was bare. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any mirrors in the house at all.

A silver-framed photograph of Mark Shafton sat on the nightstand. At the sight of that clean-chiseled face, Caleb’s stomach contracted so violently that for an instant he feared he was going to be sick.

“That’s my papa,” the boy said. “He got killed by some bad men.”

“Lie still, Robbie,” Laura said. “Don’t try to talk.”

“His name was Mark Robert Shafton,” the child persisted. “Like my name, only backwards. My name’s Robert Mark. My mama’s name is Laura. What’s your name?”

“Caleb.”

“My mama says I should call men mister. Can I call you Mr. Caleb?”

“Fine. Now let’s take care of that arm.” Changing the subject, he showed the boy the two pieces of the splint. “Your mother’s going to hold you while I pull your arm and straighten out the bone. Then we’ll put these sticks around your arm and wrap them so it’ll heal straight. All right?”

“You said it would hurt.”

“It will. But only for a few seconds.”

“I won’t cry.”

“It might help if you do.” Caleb glanced at Laura. “Hold him.”

Laura gathered her son close, burying his face against her breast. He squirmed and twisted his head away, wanting to see. She let him, even though she doubted the wisdom of it.

“Brace his shoulder,” Caleb McCurdy said, leaning above them. “Ready?”

Laura gripped the small body, feeling the thin bones strain beneath her fingers. A tear trickled down her cheek. He was so small and so brave. “Ready,” she whispered.