Walking her horse up the arroyo, Jemimah Hodge heard a shot, the third one in the last half hour. As soon as she reached flat ground, she mounted her Appaloosa, keeping her feet hard in the stirrups as the horse loped along the fence toward the San Lazaro pueblo ruins. She had already worked up a sweat, and the morning breezes were cool on her overheated skin. She kept an eye out for a running spring to water her thirsty horse.
Ahead, she saw McCabe’s shiny silver Hummer.
Near Medicine Rock, a pile of clothes lay on the shale, as if someone was in a hurry to shuffle out of them. There was no pool around to dive into, and running naked in the broiling sun was not a good way to escape the heat.
No, that was not just a pile of clothes. There was a body inside. And although the face was turned away, she was pretty sure she recognized McCabe’s frame.
A noisy jaybird in a mesquite tree brought Jemimah to a halt. Dismounting her horse, she looped the reins over a fence post and hurried toward the ruins. She knelt and placed her fingers on his neck. A faint pulse. What could she do? She wasn’t any good at mouth-to-mouth. Don’t panic, stay calm, she whispered to herself.
Her cell phone was still plugged into the battery back at the ranch. She checked McCabe’s pockets. Nothing. Her heart raced as she sprinted toward his vehicle. Maybe his cell phone was in the Hummer. And hopefully it would pick up a signal. Cellular service out here in the boondocks was sporadic at best.
She yanked open the Hummer door, eyeing the seat, the floorboard, the sun visors, before she spotted the phone on the dashboard next to the radio. She breathed deeply to steady her shaking hands and pressed 911 into the keypad.
“Come on, dammit,” she muttered. “Answer!”
The operator came on the line. “What is your emergency?”
Jemimah practically screamed into the cell.
“There’s a guy here on the ground and he seems to be dying—” God, what a screw-up she was. Calm down, Jem.
“Where is here?”
“Just south of Cerrillos, next to the Indian ruins at the end of 55A—”
“Is he breathing?”
“He’s not moving. He may have been shot.”
“Ma’am, is he breathing? Do you know how to take his pulse?”
“Can you send someone in a hurry? Maybe a helicopter? He’s not going to last much longer.”
“Look. Calm down. Can you tell me if he is breathing?”
“Yes. I took his pulse. It’s weak, but fast. Tachycardia, I think.”
“Are you a doctor, ma’am?”
“Not an MD, no, but my training is clinical psychology. I’ve taken a number of First Aid courses but I’ve forgotten some of them.”
“I’m contacting an officer right now.”
“Listen, I need to get back to McCabe right now and see if I can help him.”
“Just a couple more questions. What is your name and can you remain there until we send help?”
“Yes, of course. And my name is Jem—that’s jay, ee, em—Hodge. I own the Peach Springs Ranch at the base of the Ortiz Mountains.” She didn’t add, ‘… and a border collie named Molly, a long-haired tabby cat named Gato’ or that there was a barn for her two horses.
“Lieutenant Romero is in the vicinity of the Corrections Facility. He’s on his way. Give him twenty minutes. Ambulance also on the way.”
Jemimah punched off the cell phone and stashed it in her pocket. She rifled through McCabe’s Hummer, grabbed a blanket and a First Aid Kit, and ran back to his side to check his pulse again. Fearing she would make his injuries worse, she debated then decided against turning him on his back. Then she changed her mind and gently eased him flat on the rock, rolling up the blanket and putting it under his head for a pillow. He moaned and tried to lift his head.
“Take it easy, McCabe.” She gently stroked his brow. “You’ve been shot, but I don’t think it’s a critical wound. Just hang in there. Help is coming.”
McCabe mumbled something unintelligible.
“Yes, yes,” she soothed. “The ambulance is on the way. Don’t try to talk. I’m right here.”
Unbuttoning his shirt, she applied a handful of gauze pads to the wound. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. Not knowing what else to do, she stroked his temples and held fast to one hand. Once, he opened his eyes and gave her a forlorn look before passing out again. Damn, she hated being so helpless.
She looked down the road, hoping to see the rising cloud of dust that would mean help had arrived. Nothing. She turned her attention back to McCabe. His face was drained of color. He had lost a lot of blood. She wondered again about giving him mouth-to-mouth but suspected his lungs might be too messed up to receive it. A tinge of fear shot through her as she looked around the ruins. The shooter could still be out there.