Remembering August (Triple C Ranch Saga) Page 2

  “Is there anyone with her right now?”

  “Yes… some man. I don’t know who he is. Oh, God, please hurry.”

  “A unit is already on its way out, okay? You’re doing just fine. Can you see her from where you are?” the operator continued.

  “No. I can’t see anything from here. I better go see if I can—”

  “Stay with me, ma’am. The ambulance should be there shortly. Do you know if anyone else is in danger?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Is there a gate to the property? Can the ambulance get to where your daughter is?”

  “Yes. I mean no. The gate’s open. They can go to the end of the drive, and the show ring’s on the left. Can’t miss it,” Joan said, gaining her composure a bit. “How long will it take ’em to get here?”

  “Not long at all. They are less than a mile away at the station on Tierra Rejada. Can you give me some background information while we wait? You said she’s thirty-two?

  “Yes. She’s thirty-two, blonde hair, and about five feet seven.”

  “Okay, good. Can you hear the ambulance yet?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “They should be almost there. You can hang up and go to the driveway so you can show them where to go, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Joan. “Oh my God, thank you so much!”

  “You’re w—”

  Joan fumbled the thick plastic earpiece across the table. It passed the heavy base and tumbled to the floor. She nearly fell over her own feet as she rushed out the door and sprinted across the grass. Her speed would make anyone else her age jealous. Joan was a formidable woman at sixty-one.

  †

  “Let’s get you fixed up,” said the cowboy as he knelt over the curvaceous, 32-year-old widow. Blood gushed from her left calf. “Oh shit,” he muttered as he ripped open his shirt. He surveyed the jagged bone that protruded from her leg.

  Carlos continued his work on the filly. He ran his gloved hand over her saliva-spotted neck. “Easy, Camorrista,” he said, mixing his English and Spanish. He held her halter and gently caressed her withers. He looked over his shoulder to the cowboy. He was kneeling over Colleen. His muscular, tattooed back flexed as he tore his shirt into strips. He tied the first strip around his mangled hand, and then pulled the knot tight with his teeth.

  Colleen’s calf was blood-soaked, glistening like a ruby in the sun. The cowboy tied two pieces of the flannel together and formed a long bandage. He fed one end under her left knee and worked quickly with the same kind of knot as the one he used on his hand.

  Colleen let out a labored moan. Without skipping a beat, he fed another bandage further down where her shin would be if it weren’t protruding through her calf. He wrapped it around her leg twice. Once above the jagged bone, and once below. He finished with another knot on the outside of her calf.

  “There. That should take care of that,” he said. He brushed her hair aside and felt the base of her sweaty skull. He worked his fingers down her spine and paused every inch or so to feel for broken bones. He took what was left of his shirt, folded it in half, and gently lifted her head enough to make room for the makeshift pillow. Colleen let out an easy sigh for the first time since the filly knocked her down.

  Joan Caldwell covered the fifty yards of real estate in a matter of seconds. She thought she could hear the ambulance in the distance, but wasn’t sure. As she approached the drive she skidded and almost lost her footing.

  “Jesus, that’s all I need,” she said aloud.

  She paced the width of the driveway and stood on her toes each time she turned. She could no longer see the show ring past the new retaining wall that lined the northern edge.

  Carlos caressed the filly and continued the calming therapy. He patted her neck. Tiny clouds of dust billowed from her mane. Darker patches of sweat covered her flanks and rump. With the animal fully under his control, he glanced over to where Colleen still lay in the center of the ring. She was alone.

  “Señor?” he called, and then turned and looked the opposite direction. “Amigo?”

  The cowboy was gone. All that remained of him was the torn blue flannel shirt used as a bandage and pillow for Colleen.

  †

  “Thirty-two-year-old female… unconscious… airway unknown.” The speaker crackled as the female relayed Joan’s information.

  At the wheel of ambulance Unit 23 was veteran paramedic Duane “Dewey” Doyle, who knew the Triple C well.

  “Copy, dispatch. Headed west on Tierra Rejada… ETA forty-five seconds, copy?” he replied into the handset.

  “Copy, twenty-three. ETA forty-five. Proceed from Tierra Rejada to the end of the drive… victim’s mother will advise specific location.”

  “Copy, dispatch,” replied the forty-eight-year-old Doyle.

  Joan Caldwell paced hard and worked herself closer to another near-panic. But for the faint siren in the distance, the rest of the sprawling ranch was eerily quiet. Time stood still as Joan chewed first one thumbnail, then the other. She checked her watch and wondered how long it had been since the operator sent her to the driveway. “Way too long,” she said. The ambulance drew closer. “Almost here.”

  Carlos searched from where he stood for any signs of the cowboy, but found none. Suddenly the heavy gate clanged shut. The filly jerked her head sharply.

  “Easy, Camorrista,” Carlos whispered. The filly’s ears were pulled back and her eyes open wide, which meant another panic wasn’t far off.

  “Que paso?” called Jesus from his left.

  “Aqui!” Carlos said sternly without looking in his direction.

  “Que pa—” Jesus stopped in his tracks when he saw Colleen lying in the dirt.

  “Vamos!” Carlos sputtered as he tightened his grip on the filly’s harness. He heard a siren growing closer from the north.

  Jesus approached quickly but cautiously, slowing for the last few steps. Carlos let go of the halter as the forty-year-old assistant ranch foreman took control. The filly snorted and pointed her ears forward. The siren grew louder.

  Carlos made a beeline for Colleen, removed the worn leather glove from his right hand, dropped to one knee and touched her shoulder.

  “Dispatch twenty-three,” Dewey Doyle said as he approached the driveway.

  “Twenty-three go ahead.”

  “Twenty-three is code two, copy?” he said. Code two was commonly used when the driver knew they were entering a location with live animals. It meant they were proceeding with the emergency lights on, but without the siren.

  “Copy twenty-three. Code two.”

  Joan looked at her watch again. She moved a few paces toward the road when suddenly the siren stopped. Before she could take another step, the nose of the ambulance appeared on the paved street beyond the gate, paused for a second, and then turned down the drive. She could see the driver talking on the radio, and a young man sitting in the passenger seat.

  She waved her arms exaggeratedly as if she were directing an aircraft, and then took off toward the show ring.

  Doyle approached the end of the driveway and scanned the area for signs of immediate danger. The woman that was running thirty yards in front of him looked over her shoulder, waved her arms, and darted quickly out of sight to the left behind some shrubbery. “Where did she go?” he asked as he leaned closer to the windshield.

  “There she is. Up on the left,” replied his partner and rookie paramedic Josh Tyler.

  Joan stopped at the end of the massive show ring and shouted, “Help me!” to anyone within earshot.

  Carlos leapt into action. As he approached Joan, he saw that her hands were of no use to her in the state she was in. She fumbled with the latch, and only made matters worse as the ambulance arrived. He pried her fingers from the gate, flicked the latch and then grabbed the gate by its lowest rung.

  “Alzar!” he shouted in Spanish. “Lift!”

  Carlos bent his knees and lifted with all his might. The gate lodged a hollow,
gritty complaint as he coaxed the end from its concrete mooring. He started to shuffle backward, but met with resistance.

  “Joan! Let go!”

  Joan did as Carlos instructed and the gate swung freely inward. She looked up and stepped to the side as the ambulance passed and sped toward the center of the ring. The doors swung open, and both paramedics rushed to the back in a simultaneous dance. Joan passed them and rushed back toward Colleen.

  “Bring the back board and a cervical,” Doyle said to the rookie.

  “Copy,” said Josh as he jumped inside.

  “Gurney first.” Doyle already had his medical pack slung over his shoulder.

  “Copy that.”

  Carlos dropped the gate and called to Jesus to stay where he was. Jesus nodded.

  Doyle approached Colleen and dropped his bag. “What’s her name?”

  “Colleen… Caldwell,” Joan replied as if she were in a trance.

  “Right,” he said. “Colleen? Can you hear me? Colleen?” No response.

  Doyle scanned the length of her body. The field dressing on her left leg intrigued him. “Someone knew what they were doing,” he thought aloud. He brushed her hair to the side and checked for a pulse.

  “We got an airway?” asked Josh as he approached with his hands full.

  “Respirations shallow and about thirty-eight.” Doyle moved to the opposite side to make room for his trainee. “Pulse one twenty and strong. Check for spinal.”

  “Copy. Checking for spinal,” Josh repeated as if he was on the bridge of a ship and Doyle was Captain. He felt the base of her skull, just as the cowboy had done, and then continued until he reached the small of her back. “Spinal negative.”

  Doyle leaned in and pulled out a small pen light. “Pupil three millimeters and reactive,” he said matter-of-factly. “Check that leg.”

  “What does reactive mean?” asked Joan.

  “It means that’s normal. What happened here?”

  “I don’t know what happened, but—”

  “We got a fib protrusion,” Josh interrupted.

  “Let’s get her on her back,” said Doyle. “Joan, we’re gonna need some room here.”

  Joan moved back. “He just called me by name,” she thought. She tried to get a look at his face, but he was turned too far.

  “Careful,” he said. “You stabilize the leg and I’ll hold her neck.”

  “Copy.”

  “Carlos… that your name?

  “Yes.”

  “Come around this way and hold this close to her back.”

  Joan frantically searched for any recollection of the paramedic, but came up empty. He called everyone by name, and that unsettled her.

  Carlos lifted the long edge of the backboard by its handle. Josh held Colleen’s ankle with one hand and supported her knee with the other.

  “Easy,” Doyle said. “Hold it tight.”

  Colleen moaned as they turned her. Carlos stepped back again. Joan held her hands to her face. The filly whinnied in a high pitch that sent shivers down their spines.

  †

  Despite their difference in age and experience, the paramedics worked well together. The elder had seen more bloodshed in his career than he cared to recall, and the apprentice learned quickly from new adventures.

  “Where’s that cervical?”

  “Right here,” said Josh.

  “Slide it under while I hold her head.”

  Josh nodded but said nothing as he shuffled toward Colleen’s head. He slid the end of the collar under her neck, and Colleen moaned again.

  “Colleen?” Doyle called again. “Can you hear me?” No response. Josh strapped Colleen’s waist to the rigid board while Doyle did the same to her forehead. “All set?”

  “Ready,” replied Josh.

  “Carlos, help them!” said Joan.

  Carlos took a step forward but stopped when Doyle raised his hand to indicate that they wouldn’t need him. Joan took a deep breath as they lifted Colleen from the dirt and headed for the ambulance.

  “What hospital are you taking her to?”

  “Las Palmas,” replied Doyle. It’s on Lynn off the twenty-three.”

  “I’ve been there before,” Joan said. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Actually, it would be helpful to know if she’s on any medication or if she’s allergic to anything.”

  “She takes birth control pills. That I know, but I don’t think she takes anything else.”

  “No allergies, then?” Doyle repeated.

  “I don’t think she—”

  “We’ve got it, ma’am,” Josh interrupted.

  “You’ve got—”

  Joan suddenly looked at the young man as if he were speaking a foreign language. She didn’t realize that she had grabbed one of the board’s handles as they made their way to the gurney.

  “You can let go now.”

  Joan looked down at her hands and then jerked them away like she had just pulled a pan from a hot oven without a mitt.

  “Here we go,” Doyle said as he lifted his end higher.

  Joan took a step back and bumped lightly into Carlos, but didn’t turn toward him. “What am I gonna do?” she whimpered.

  “She’ll be okay,” said Carlos. “She’s strong.”

  Doyle guided the gurney and Josh followed with a careful push. The legs folded underneath as it slid into position with a heavy click.

  “We’re gonna close the doors but we’ll be here for a minute or two,” said Doyle as Josh disappeared inside. “Can you make sure we have a clear path to turn around?”

  “I will,” Carlos said.

  “Okay,” said Joan. “I’m headed to the hospital.”

  Carlos turned toward her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything here.”

  Joan paused for a moment and looked up into his worried eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

  †

  Carlos scanned the show ring for anything that might be in the way of the ambulance as Joan sprinted toward the house. Jesus patted the filly’s neck and spoke to her in Spanish. Colleen’s hat rested upside-down near the center of the ring. Carlos started toward the hat when his boot struck something in the dirt. There, shining through the fine dust was a bone-handled Bowie knife. He squatted and studied it for a moment.

  He nudged his hat higher on his forehead. He surveyed all of the boot prints and his thoughts turned to the cowboy. Who is he? Where had he come from? Where did he go? As he reached for the knife, he heard the garage door open in the distance.

  Colleen’s El Camino sparkled as Joan passed hurriedly in front of it and got in. It started with a roar, causing a stir with the potbellied pigs on the far side of the yard.

  “What’s taking them so long?” Joan said aloud as she gunned the engine. The stereo speakers hummed and increased in pitch as the engine raced. She glanced at the stereo’s digital display. The word ERROR scrolled across the screen. She gunned the engine again and fumbled with the volume knob. Shorter in stature than Colleen, she adjusted the bench seat and clasped the old belts together at her lap.

  †

  “Get her gloves off,” Dewey Doyle instructed.

  “Copy,” said Josh. He leaned forward and grabbed Colleen’s right wrist and worked Colleen’s hand free of the soft leather glove. Her fingernails were newly manicured in a bright red polish, which stood in contrast to her calloused fingers and palm. Josh thought her hands were that of a woman who knew hard work. He placed her hand back at her side and sat back in his original position as he removed her other glove.

  “Get me some vitals.”

  “Copy,” repeated Josh.

  Doyle reached into his bag and produced a pair of shiny scissors that had thick, rounded points. He gripped Colleen’s shirtsleeve and began cutting the flannel lengthwise until he revealed her entire arm to the shoulder. “Here,” he said as he presented the scissors to Josh.

  J
osh took the scissors and gripped the sleeve just as Doyle did and made a single cut. He then placed the scissors on Colleen’s stomach and grabbed the sleeve on both sides of the cut he just made.

  “Stop,” said Doyle. “Don’t cut and rip like they teach you in class. If you move her arm too much before you check for a fracture, you can do more damage.”

  “Oh,” said Josh as he picked up the scissors and resumed cutting. “Good tip.”

  Doyle shifted position and opened a cabinet on the wall. He pulled out a bag of clear IV fluids and hung it from the ceiling as tubing dangled below it.

  “Respirations shallow and thirty-six,” called Josh. “Pulse one twelve and strong.”

  “Copy,” said Doyle. “Gimme a BP.”

  “Workin’ on it.”

  “When you’ve got a BP, cut her shirt along the buttons, then the bra in the middle, but be careful when you do. She has a broken collarbone from the looks of it.”

  “Got it,” Josh said.

  Doyle was a master at starting IVs. In quick, calculated motions, he pulled an alcohol swab from a packet, wiped her arm, felt for a vein, and positioned the needle. Colleen moaned as Doyle pierced her skin. He assembled the rest of the apparatus and secured it all to her arm with tape.

  “BP one twenty-eight over eighty-two,” announced Josh.

  “Good. Keep the vitals coming, and I’ll get us on the road. Get her pulse-ox, too.”

  “Copy.”

  Joan took a deep breath as she waited for what seemed like an eternity. “She’s all right,” she said. “Come onnnnn.”

  Doyle made his way toward the driver’s seat while Josh continued his work. “Dispatch, twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-three go ahead.”

  The veteran paramedic relayed all of Colleen’s vitals as well as his estimated time of arrival at Las Palmas, and the dispatcher repeated the information. Carlos waved Colleen’s hat as if to give the “all clear,” and Doyle navigated his way out of the show ring. Josh continued his work on Colleen, cutting her shirt as instructed.