Page 21 of In Honor’s Defense

“I’ll send to Huntsville for a doctor,” she continued when he took too long to answer. “I came through there on the railroad on my way from Missouri. It struck me as a good-sized town. They’re bound to have a physician. He can be here tomorrow, I’m sure. He’ll put you to rights, you’ll see.”

Was she trying to convince him or herself? It didn’t matter. No strange fellow from Huntsville was gonna doctor him. Not when he had the best doc in the world on retainer.

Luke gave a small wag of his head. “Wire Dr. Jo Hanger. San Antone. Say Preach is . . . calling in . . . the favor.”

“But Huntsville is much closer,” she argued. “A doctor from there would get here much faster.”

“No. Wire Dr. Jo.” He felt himself weakening. Fading. “Promise.”

She held his gaze, her brown eyes misting as her judgment warred with his wishes. Finally, she nodded. “I promise.”

Confident he could trust her word, Luke surrendered to the darkness once more.

“Hello? I need to send a telegram. It’s an emergency!” Damaris pounded on the post office door, praying her voice would carry to the postmaster’s personal chambers at the back of the building.

Never in her life had she made such a spectacle of herself, pounding on a door in the middle of the night and hollering like a shrew. No one back in St. Louis would believe her even capable of such a commotion. Invisible people did not carry on in such a way. They were demure, sedate, beneath one’s notice.

Well, she couldn’t afford to be beneath anyone’s notice tonight. Not with a dying man in her bed.

She pounded harder, moving her knuckles from wood to the rectangular glass pane inset at the top of the door. “Open up. Please. A man’s life is at stake!”

A few buildings down, a dog started barking. Damaris cringed and glanced around. An upstairs light turned on at the dress shop next door. The curtain twitched, revealing someone at the window watching. Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to wake the entire block. Just the postmaster. Too bad he was an older gentleman with less-than-acute hearing. But if she had to wake the entire town of Madisonville, she would. Mr. Davenport was depending on her.

Maybe there was a back door. Damaris bent to retrieve the lantern she’d set at her feet but halted when a light appeared somewhere inside. She straightened quickly and renewed her pounding. “Hurry, please!”

“I’m coming,” a scratchy voice said from inside. “Quit your banging.”

She complied at once, retrieving her lantern as she watched the door for signs of movement.

It finally opened, revealing a gray-haired man dressed in a nightshirt and hastily donned trousers. Suspenders drooped loosely at his hips. A sleeping cap sat atop his head, and a pair of spectacles teetered precariously on the bridge of his nose. She didn’t look much better, she knew. After she and Nathaniel had transferred Mr. Davenport to her bed, she’d rushed back to the wagon and driven to town, taking no time to change her clothes or tidy her hair. Fetching the doctor had taken precedence over all else.

“What’s so important it couldn’t wait ’til morning?”

“I need to wire a doctor.” Damaris fought the urge to push the door wide and stride in. Every second she stood still decreased Mr. Davenport’s odds of survival. Or at least it felt that way. “Please, sir. A man was attacked near my home, and he’s barely clinging to life. A doctor must be summoned at once.”

The postmaster frowned up at her. “Clyde Weathers does the doctorin’ around here. You should be bangin’ on his door.”

“Clyde Weathers is an undertaker. Mr. Davenport’s injuries are of a critical nature. He requires someone with actual medical training, not someone who will start measuring him for a coffin.” Damaris reached out and clasped the man’s arm. “Please. I promised him I’d send for Dr. Joe Hanger in San Antonio. I believe that’s his personal physician.”

The postmaster’s bushy brows arched upward. “Hanger, you say? This Davenport fellow . . . his first name don’t happen to be Luke, does it?”

“Yes! Luke Davenport. Do you know him?”

“Lady, everybody in Texas knows him. He’s one of Hanger’s Horsemen. A couple of years ago the papers were full of their exploits. Taking down bandits and outlaws, fighting for justice for the common man. They’re heroes.” He stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come on in. If one of the Horsemen needs help, I can sacrifice a few winks of shut-eye.”

After sending the telegram, Damaris returned home and immediately took up residence at Mr. Davenport’s bedside. Nathaniel had managed to remove the Horseman’s boots and socks along with portions of his clothes. Seeing one long, hairy limb exposed at the edge of the mattress brought a flush to Damaris’s cheeks.

“What did you do to his trousers?” she whispered.

Nathaniel stood by the washstand, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “He told me to cut the leg off. Said it’d be easier to doctor with the material out of the way. I took the scissors to his sleeve too, cuttin’ it off at the elbow after we got him out of his coat. He passed out again after that. But before he did, he told me to clean out the wounds with soapy water and pour whiskey on ’em. I couldn’t find any liquor in the house, though, so I just wrapped ’em in new bandages.” He stopped his fidgeting and met her eyes. “Those wounds are really deep, Aunt Maris. And they’re still bleeding. Someone’s gonna have to stitch ’em.”

Stitch them? Good heavens.

The room swayed, and Damaris reached for the bedpost before her knees completely gave way.

“Aunt Maris?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a tight smile to her lips even as her heart raced at an alarming speed. If she didn’t get control of herself soon, Mr. Davenport wasn’t going to be the only one lying around insensate. “There’s a cookbook on the top shelf in the kitchen,” she said, desperate to get Nathaniel out of the room, even if only for a minute, so she could breathe and try to gather her wits. “I think it has a section on home remedies. Perhaps we’ll find something in there to help us treat Mr. Davenport.”