Truth be told, she’d been avoiding him, as well. He was a reminder of her pa. A painful reminder of all she’d lost. Tears threatened once more, and she clenched her jaw. Pa was gone, and blubbering about it wasn’t going to bring him back. There was work to be done.
“Theo,” she said, turning back. “I’ll pay you fair market price for the bull. Throw a picnic for the rest of the boys. Tell ’em it’s from the Stone outfit.” She might as well spread some good will. Who knew what the future held. “The rest of you fan out and help with the cleanup. We’ve got injured folks.”
Another drover she recognized as a fellow named Dutch grumbled. “They’ve got their own folks who’ll see to the injured. It ain’t our responsibility.”
“It was our cattle that caused the ruckus.” Dutch wasn’t known for going out of his way, but he was a good man at heart. “If someone had been keeping watch, this never woulda happened. I think we owe these townsfolk some decency.”
Theo chucked the man on the shoulder. “Come on, Dutch.”
“If you say so, boss.”
Tomasina clenched her teeth. Dutch wasn’t opposed to taking orders, as long as those orders didn’t come from a woman.
“That’s right Christian of you, Dutch,” she grumbled. “I bet your momma would be real proud.”
“Aw, don’t get sore at me. I could use your help. You’re the best tracker we got. Can you come around tonight? The fellows on the last drive lost a few of their cattle along the creek bed.”
“I’ll help.”
She’d always be the lowest ranking drover. The men had never been much for taking orders from her even when her pa was alive. They didn’t treat her as a woman so much as an adolescent. They admired her skill and joked with her around the campfire, but she was never an equal. The distance had grown more pronounced following her pa’s death. The cycle had begun anew, and once more she had to prove herself. Another reason she had to ride better, shoot better and take the jobs the other men didn’t want.
Shoving those worries aside, she rounded up the remaining men and gathered bandages and supplies before setting off to assist with the injured. Most of the wounds were minor cuts and scrapes from getting pushed and shoved by the fleeing crowd, and most of those folks had dispersed already. If the doc was around, she didn’t see him.
She passed by the two cowboys tending the injured horse.
“It’s not bad,” the taller one said. “Just a scratch.”
Relieved, she marched on. Will knelt in front of a red-faced man clutching his ankle. She squared her shoulders and approached him. He didn’t look up. She cleared her throat and held out a roll of bandages.
When he continued to ignore her, she planted her hands on her hips. “You gonna be mad at me or you gonna let me help?”
Without lifting his head, he waved her nearer. “Hand me those bandages.”
Tomasina blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and knelt beside him. His acknowledgment wasn’t exactly a declaration of forgiveness, but at least it was a start.
After a quick examination they concluded the man’s ankle wasn’t broken, only badly sprained. During her ministrations, the man alternately cursed and gritted his teeth. She sat back and unfurled a length of bandage. Will supported the man’s leg while she tightly wound the bandages around the man’s ankle.
Will kept the man’s attention diverted with a steady stream of questions. Nonsense mostly. He even had the man laughing at one point. Their banter shut her out, and a strange little ache settled in her chest. No matter where she traveled, she was always the outsider. Even surrounded by dozens of cowboys she was alone. She was alone because she was different. As she completed her task, Will helped secure the wrapped end.
She served as the unofficial doc in the outfit for minor injuries; another duty that had somehow fallen on her. Until now she hadn’t realized how telling it was that the boys had assigned her that duty. They let a woman do the nursing.
“You’re a good medic, Mr. Canfield,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’ve done some doctoring before.”
A shuttered look came over his face. “In the war.”
A flush crept up her neck. Her own brush with the war had been brief but memorable. Mostly she and her pa had worked and stuck close to Texas. Her father had been too old to fight. Though he couldn’t serve, he’d done his bit to support the war effort.
An army traveled on its belly, and there was no better supply for the southern states than Texas longhorns. Her pa had gone to work for an outfit that raised and sold cattle to the army at a fair price. While driving a small herd east, they’d come across the remnants of a previous skirmish. Men lay dying on the blood-soaked field. The heat of the day had been excruciating, and the bloating bodies had heaped on the misery. The stench was nauseating. They’d done what they could, but it wasn’t enough. She’d never seen such a ghastly sight, and she prayed she never saw the like again.
The soldiers who survived that day had gone on to fight other battles. How did someone witness bloodshed over and over again without stitching the horror into their very souls? Did those stitches ever unravel?
Will wiped his palms on his trousers and stood. Hobbling, he kept his weight off his bad leg. Two men who’d been hovering nearby flanked the injured man Will had been assisting. They draped his arms over their shoulders, and the trio limped toward town.
She glanced around, noting the field had cleared. The cowboys had gathered most of the litter left behind and were attending the steer left in the corral.
“I think that’s everyone,” Tomasina said.
“I hope so.” Will shrugged into his jacket once more. “We got off lucky.”
The damage might have been worse, much worse.
She’d barely breathed a sigh of relief before another man approached, a child in his arms. “We need a doctor, Will.”
Her throat tightened. The man held a boy of no more than nine or ten years old. A child. The bandage wrapping the boy’s head oozed red.
Recognition flickered across Will’s face. “I’ve sent for the doc, Mr. O’Neill. Bring him over here.”
She caught sight of the doctor making his way toward them at a brisk clip, his leather bag clutched in his hand. She’d seen him checking the chalkboard outside his office on her walks through town. In his late fifties, the man was rail thin and small framed, and his kind gray eyes were bracketed by laugh lines. Waving her arms, she frantically motioned him over.
Together with Will, the man rested the boy’s still form on the ground. Shucking his coat once more, Will balled the material into a pillow, and Doc Fletcher knelt beside him.
The doc pulled out his stethoscope. “Are you the boy’s father?”
“Yes. The name is O’Neill. This here is Owen.”
“Did you see what happened, Mr. O’Neill?”
“We were all here for the show. Owen and I were standing on the north side of the corral when the commotion started. People started running. Someone knocked me aside and Owen fell. I think—” The man fisted one hand over his mouth. “I think he was kicked in the head.”
Looking grim, the doc nodded.
Will placed a hand on the father’s shoulder and led him a short distance away. Tomasina hesitated another long moment before turning away. There was nothing more she could do here. She pressed her hand against the pang of longing in her chest. They’d shut her out. She was the outsider.
Feeling as though her cowboy boots were made of lead, she melted into the background. Will already blamed her. There was no use sticking around