Jennifer thought a second. “About ten hours. Last night was kind of a blur.”
“What happened to her mother?”
Jennifer relayed the events of the delivery, and Allison listened as she nursed, filling Madison up without having to switch her to the other breast. “Hope Caleb doesn’t mind sharing. He’s used to a monopoly on these things,” she said as she repositioned her robe.
“Thank you again,” Jennifer said as she took the baby back. “Is your husband here?”
“No. It’s his day with the militia. He won’t be home ’til later. He’s sure going to be surprised. So what kind of help can I get? I was barely hanging on with two kids. Adding another is going to push me over the edge.”
“My family will help,” Jennifer quickly offered. “In fact, I was thinking that maybe your family could move in with us at Carol’s. It would be a little crowded, but we could make it work. I need to be with my kids, and my daughter, Emma, is too young to stay here by herself, but if we’re all there together, my kids and I can help with your kids, and we have wood, a warm house, and Carol and Grace to help as well. I know it’s not perfect, but I can’t think of a better option right now.”
“Let me talk to Curtis before I agree to anything. I don’t even know how long I can do this. Leave Madison here for now, but any help would be appreciated.”
Jennifer stood to leave. “I’ll go talk to Gabe and some others from the council. Maybe they’ll have some ideas.”
CHAPTER 34
Friday, February 10th
Northwestern Montana
The first shot sailed over Kyle’s left shoulder, whistling by so closely he thought it might have nicked his ear. Before he could react, a second shot caught him in the chest, six inches below his left shoulder, knocking him backwards off his horse and into the snow and growth on the side of the road. Kyle blacked out momentarily before coming to in severe pain and struggling for breath. He watched as Garfield, spooked and confused, ran wildly in the direction of the shots.
Finding that his left arm was useless, Kyle rolled onto his back and brought his right arm around. He felt a clean hole in his jacket where the bullet, the cause of such unbelievable pain, had struck.
He’d started out early that morning after spending the night in the barn of an abandoned house near the river. He’d cooked pheasant for breakfast, filled his water containers, and headed off just after sunrise, hoping to reach his parents’ place by noon the next day, assuming Garfield held up and nothing unexpected happened. Now he unexpectedly lay on his back in the weeds, dizzy, struggling to breathe, arm numb, and unsure of why he’d been shot and by whom.
That the snow wasn’t stained crimson with blood he owed to Frank Emory and his safety lecture, and the Kevlar vest Frank had given him. Because the vest was bulky and uncomfortable, Kyle hadn’t worn it once he’d cleared Missoula, but after being held at gunpoint by the survivalists, he’d changed his mind and begun wearing it again. Staring up at a gray sky and waiting to catch his breath, Kyle was grateful he’d changed his mind. Frank had warned him that if he were shot while wearing it the impact would hurt like hell, and it did, and that it’d probably break some ribs, but at least he’d be breathing and not bleeding out all over the ground.
Whoever shot him was good. The flash had come from at least six hundred yards ahead, and to be so close on the first shot and nail him on the second, the shooter was practiced and comfortable with their weapon. Kyle tried to clench his left hand, but his fingers responded minimally, quivering and barely balling into a loose fist. He forced himself to let his head fall back in the snow and to relax, to focus on the trees swaying back and forth overhead in the breeze and on the branches and the birds that flew lazily by, anything to help him think about something other than the pain.
It seemed like an hour, but was more like just a minute or two, before he was sure he was going to live. Kyle rolled slowly onto his stomach and started to assess his situation. He edged gingerly up the bank and peered down the road. Garfield was about eighty yards away on the side of the road, still antsy and unsettled and moving further away. He scanned the direction the shots had come from, but saw nothing in the way of people or movement.
Kyle slid back down the shoulder of the road and did a quick inventory, finding he didn’t have much more than a knife, his handgun, and a short length of rope on him. Everything else he’d brought on his journey was tied to his saddle or in the backpack secured to the horse, now eighty yards away and moving towards the shooter.
Kyle continued to work his left arm, clenching his fingers and flexing at the elbow. It was still numb, but feeling and movement were slowly returning, to the extent that his arm no longer felt like a dead appendage hanging uselessly from his shoulder. Taking his pistol from the ankle holster, he ejected the magazine and counted the bullets. He’d used it that morning to scare off a coyote, firing a couple of warning shots before the young animal dashed off into the bushes. That left him with eight rounds to work with. He plugged the magazine back in the gun, released the safety, and began to plan.
Since he had fallen between the road and the river, Kyle needed to get across to the forested hillside where the trees would provide cover. He ducked low and backtracked, working in the direction he’d come from to a curve in the road that would shield him from view. Once he was sure he was out of sight, he dashed across the road to the protection of the trees.
The forest was thick with pine trees, but only a thin undergrowth of patchy scrubs and nameless ferns covered the forest floor, enabling Kyle to move freely through the trees, though his vision was limited. Kyle knew that with only a handgun he was at a disadvantage, so he ran uphill to try and at least get on higher ground than whoever had shot him and improve the odds somewhat.
Once he felt he was high enough, Kyle turned north and hurried along the mountainside, running as fast as he dared while trying to minimize noise. Because the forest was densely treed, he’d lost sight of the roadway, forcing him to guess at his location relative to his horse and the shooter. The further he went, the more uncertain he became, until he eventually slowed his pace, stopping every few seconds to listen. His mind raced. What if, he thought, the shooter was doing the same thing – circling up high and trying to come in behind him?
A branch snapped up ahead, and Kyle froze in his tracks, holding his breath for a long time, even as his lungs screamed for air. He waited, eyes and ears straining for any hint of movement. After a long, silent moment of nothing, Kyle slowly let out his breath and stepped closer to a tree, watching and waiting. His thoughts flashed back to Colorado, when the tattooed man had trapped him on the side of the road. The same tensions and emotions flooded over him. Kill or be killed. Lose and die forgotten. Or win, and all you get is the chance to do it all again the next day. He hated what life had become.
Kyle cautiously resumed his advance, moving more carefully now, wary of any sound or movement. He descended at an angle, a thirty-degree drop from his highpoint, towards the general area of where the shooter might be. Proceeding from tree to tree, and using the skills he’d been taught in the Deer Creek Militia as a counter offensive to an assault from the tree line, although with only one man and one pistol, the strategy was greatly modified. Reach the cover of a tree, drop down, wait, peer out quickly for signs of threat, count three, peer quickly from the other side, wait, then carefully move around the tree, exposing yourself slowly as you looked more thoroughly for the enemy. If everything was clear, then select the next place of cover, check for obstacles, and make the move.