But not pumping blood.
Clara exhaled.
“Good.”
The ranch hand looked horrified.
“Good?”
“Good compared with dead.”
She looked toward Ethan.
“Boil water.”
He obeyed.
“Clean cloth.”
He brought it.
“Needle.”
Another trip.
“Whiskey.”
Ethan paused.
“For the boy?”
“For us if this goes badly.”
The ranch hand almost smiled.
The boy groaned.
Clara took his hand.
“What’s your name?”
“Billy.”
“Billy, look at me.”
He did.
“You’re going to squeeze my hand.”
“How hard?”
“As hard as you need.”
He looked at her large hand inside his much smaller one.
“Won’t hurt you?”
“No.”
That was partly a lie.
The boy squeezed hard once Ethan began cleaning the wound.
Clara did not pull away.
She talked.
Not about the injury.
About horses.
About how she still did not understand why anyone wanted to sit on an animal when wagons existed.
Billy protested weakly.
“Horses are faster.”
“Then why did yours put you through ice?”
He almost laughed.
Ethan stitched.
Not perfectly.
Enough until the doctor could see him.
The storm made town impossible.
They wrapped the leg.
Moved Billy close to the fire.
Clara changed from the white dress only after everything was stable.
When she returned in a plain brown house dress, Ethan was sitting near the boy.
The ranch hand had fallen asleep against the wall.
Clara handed Ethan coffee.
He looked up.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I’m watching him.”
“So am I.”
Ethan accepted the cup.
Billy’s coat lay across a chair.
A folded piece of paper protruded from the pocket.
Clara noticed only because blood had soaked one corner.
She pulled it free carefully.
The heading stopped her.
NOTICE OF DELINQUENT PROPERTY ASSESSMENT
The paper belonged to Billy’s mother.
A widow named Ruth Palmer.
Clara knew her slightly.
A quiet woman who owned eighty acres north of Ethan’s land and raised three children after her husband died of fever.
Clara read the amount.
Then frowned.
“Ethan.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“How much property tax do you pay?”
He gave the approximate number.
Clara looked again at the notice.
“Ruth owns less land than you.”
“Yes.”
“She has fewer cattle.”
“Yes.”
“Smaller house.”
“Yes.”
“Then why is her assessment almost the same?”
Ethan stood.
“What?”
She handed him the paper.
He read.
His expression changed.
“Commercial water classification.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just looked like you did.”
“I know the words.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He continued reading.
Clara watched him.
“What?”
“There was talk last autumn.”
“What kind?”
“Railway survey.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You never told me.”
“It was rumor.”
“You tell me when the chickens stop laying but not when a railroad might cross the valley?”