“Not by me,” he said. “Let’s get him inside, see how bad it is.”
“We already know it’s bad. He needs a doctor.”
“He refused a doctor.”
“Refused? How could he refuse if he’s unconscious?”
“Where should I put him?”
“Back in his truck. I’ll drive him myself.”
He took a breath, then in a voice that brooked no argument said, “Where to?”
He seemed immovable. Realizing that further argument would be a waste of valuable time, she motioned. “The room behind the kitchen.”
Thatcher stepped inside and headed in that direction. She reached out to close the door, but a young woman with her arm in a sling was coming through. “The old man threatened to chop off Mr. Hutton’s pecker if he took him to a doctor.”
She scuttled past Laurel and followed Thatcher into Irv’s room. Laurel shut the door, then rushed to follow them, reaching the room just as the girl switched on the overhead light. Thatcher eased Irv off his shoulder and lowered him onto his back on the bed.
Out of sheer desperation, Laurel prayed, “God, please no.” She elbowed Thatcher aside and sat down on the edge of the mattress. She took hold of Irv’s hand, squeezed it tightly, and exhaled in relief when he opened his eyes.
“Hi, Laurel.”
“What in the world happened?”
“Ain’t Hutton told you?”
“You need a doctor.”
“It ain’t gonna be that bad.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Fetch that jar of ’shine from my dresser drawer.”
“Which drawer?” Thatcher asked.
“Bottom.”
On his way over to the dresser, he pulled the pistol out of his waistband and set it on the cushion atop Irv’s barrel, then took off his hat and placed it over the gun. He eased his braces off his shoulders and let them fall to form loops over his hips.
He found the jar of corn liquor, brought it over to the bed and screwed the lid off, then held it against Irv’s lips while he sipped.
After a few swallows, Irv relaxed his head on the pillow. “Don’t fret, Laurel. Pour some of this whiskey in the bullet hole, smear it with a little coal oil, and cover it with a bandage. In a day or two, I’ll be right as rain.”
“Coal oil?”
“Cures everything.” Irv gave her a woozy grin and helped himself to another sip of moonshine when Thatcher pressed the rim of the jar to his lips, then gave a grunt of satisfaction and closed his eyes. “Get on with it.”
Thatcher turned to the girl. “Corrine, think you can put a kettle on to boil?”
“Sure.”
“While you’re waiting on it, gather up some things. Towels, tweezers, rubbing alcohol, bandages, some—”
“I don’t have any bandages,” Laurel said, interrupting him. She resented his taking charge of her emergency with her father-in-law in her house. “You’ll have to cut strips of bedsheets,” she said to the girl. “Fresh ones are in the cupboard in the upstairs hallway.” She rattled off where the girl could find the other items.
The girl repeated the instructions to make sure she’d gotten them all, then turned to leave. In her haste through the door, she bumped into the jamb. Laurel had noticed that her right eye was swollen and partially closed. She was curious about her, but for the time being, she shelved her curiosity and asked the question uppermost in her mind.