The Last Ride. Thomas Eidson

       FOUR

      Maggie did not surprise him. She was dignified and under control, though he knew she was dying inside from the strain. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she pressed the compress hard against her husband’s wound and then wrapped the bandage tightly around his chest. He held the rancher upright on the bed, then together they laid him back carefully on the pillow.

      Baldwin was unconscious. But he had a chance, Jones figured. Maggie had not acknowledged him. Not when he rode up to the porch, or even now as they worked side by side. The only word she’d spoken, she was again mouthing softly: ‘Lily.’ It was an old mantra of mourning that he had heard hundreds of times before in different tongues, but it was always the same. There was nothing he could do to console her.

      He watched as she pulled a chair close beside the bed, dragging her medicine bag onto her lap, holding it as if willing its contents to save her husband. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. He had felt this same clawing urge for the past thirty years. But now with her near, it was almost overpowering. Sometimes when he had held one of the other children in his arms when they were small, he had closed his eyes and pretended he was holding her. It had been a self-deception that had made him cry.