The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) Brad Dennison (top 10 books to read .txt) 📖

Dusty looked at him, was about to say something, then thought better of it, and continued digging.

They returned to the ranch as the afternoon was progressing into dusk. Josh asked if he or Dusty could take a turn sitting with Pa while the women got some rest, but Granny Tate scoffed. “Men-folk don’t know anything about tending the sick. You wouldn’t know what to do if anything happened. Never did know a man who was any use when it came to tending the sick.”

Bree had prepared a supper of steak, green beans and potatoes – she had not much felt like cooking, but Granny Tate had said they needed to eat to keep up their strength. The McCabes sat at the kitchen table with Zack, while Granny sat upstairs with Pa. But they found their appetites lacking, and simply stared at their food, or occasionally nibbled.

Zack built a small fire in the hearth, using only his right hand as his left shoulder was tightly bandaged and his arm was still in a sling. Once the fire was crackling away, he paced about impatiently as the windows darkened with nightfall. The fire cast orange light that flickered against the walls, and shadows danced and contorted. Josh sat in the chair usually reserved for Pa. Bree sat in Aunt Ginny’s rocker, and Dusty on the sofa.

Granny Tate and Aunt Ginny were with Johnny. Ginny had instructed Zack and the kids to remain downstairs. Even though they all wanted to be at Johnny’s bedside, she thought a crowded room would do no good for the patient.

Granny Tate leaned over the bed, pressing a finger against the inside of Johnny’s wrist while she watched the second hand on her pocket watch wind its way slowly around the face. “Ninety-one. And he’s warmer to the touch.”

“And” Ginny added from the wooden straight-back chair in which she sat, “his breathing’s more shallow.”

Granny put an ear to his chest. Oh, but for a stethoscope, she thought, but those things cost money she did not have. Yet, with only her unaided ear, she thought she could hear a rumbling as he inhaled. “Not good.”

“Will he live the night?”

Granny looked at her gravely. “I wouldn’t bet on it, child.”

The night wore on. Josh nodded off in his father’s chair. Dusty stretched out on the sofa. Zack went outside to take a walk, but gave instructions to call to him if anything happened.

Bree went upstairs to bring a cup of tea to Aunt Ginny, and she leaned over her father to give a light kiss to his forehead. “Good night, Daddy. See you in the morning,” and she went to her room to lie down. She didn’t want to sleep, but her body was forcing her to give in to the demand.

Granny Tate was in Dusty’s room sleeping lightly. Ginny was alone with Johnny.

She sipped her tea. “Oh, John. How could you have let this happen? You just have to pull through this. You just have to.”

She set the empty cup and saucer on a stand by the bed. The clock downstairs chimed ten. Her shift was over, and Bree’s was about to begin. But she did not want to leave his bedside.

Sleep, however, soon won its way with her, and her head began to drop forward, and she drifted away.

Johnny McCabe realized he was standing. He was in the middle of his bedroom, and Aunt Ginny was sitting in a chair before him. Her back was to him, and she was slumped forward. He could tell by her slow, rhythmic breathing that she was asleep.

His hair was tied behind his head, and he was fully dressed, in a gray shirt and trousers. Though, he didn’t remember owning clothes of exactly this color.

Odd, he thought. And he felt a little groggy. He couldn’t quite remember how he came to be standing in his room, or why Aunt Ginny was sitting in here, sleeping.

The window was dark. It must be late. Then, the clock downstairs chimed eleven, confirming this.

He realized his bed wasn’t empty. There was a man in it. Gaunt, his skin a sort of gray color in the pale light of the lamp mounted on the wall.

He realized with a start the man was himself. He was lying in the bed.

“What the hell?” he muttered aloud.

He approached the bed, and pulled back a cover to see the man – himself, bare chested, and with a bandage wrapped about his ribs and upper stomach.

Yes, he thought. He remembered. Gunshot wound. Two, in fact. One from the side, another from the front. Downstairs. The raiders attacked the house.

My God, he thought. What is going on here?

It did not look like the sick, wounded version of himself lying in the bed was breathing much at all.

Must be a nightmare, he thought. He had grown accustomed to them, since Lura died. Even though years had passed since she was shot, he still relived it in his dreams. Returning to the ranch house after a long day in the saddle, swinging out of the saddle, Lura waiting for him by the front door, the bullet seeming to come out of nowhere and striking her just below the collar bone. He catches her as she falls, and she looks at him with puzzlement and surprise, then with one final exhale she’s gone. The love of his life is gone, and he looks up at the heavens to scream, and jumps suddenly awake, finding himself in bed.

And yet, those nightmares had never been anything like this. Here, he was reliving nothing. It was as if he were witnessing a scene, a scene in which he himself was a participant.

He was quickly reminded of a book Ginny had brought with her from San Francisco, and which he had read during a series of cold December evenings a couple of years ago, written by some Englishman by the name of Dickens. He felt like Scrooge, looking at himself while escorted by the ghost of