Chapter 75 - When All is Lost [https://cdn.midjourney.com/8cdffe61-b39e-4ede-8737-a78ba4bd49e8/0_3.png]

Laying next to Red in the truck's bed, Kennedy tried to cushion every bump and jar with her own body. Terry had covered them with a blanket and a tarp to keep Red’s body temperature stable. Jeremiah lay on his other side, keeping his cousin’s broken arm stabilized. A thousand times, just when she thought they had lost him, he would take another slow, labored breath. Terry had been childhood friends with Tim Johnson’s son. When the council was arguing, the man had stayed quiet, and he’d surprised Kennedy when he voted for her life. In the cab, their future was being discussed. She couldn’t focus on the blur of voices coming from the cab. Her entire world was the rise and fall of Red’s chest. He deserved to live.

…

By the time the truck came to a stop, she’d prayed to every god she could think of. She’d wished on all the stars and then she had called out to every individual one. Let him live. Let this brave man live. When the truck rattled to a stop, Red took a too long pause between breaths. Panic surged through her as Terry ripped the tarp back. She cried out, “He’s not breathing.” Gripping her by the ankle, Terry pulled her toward him, dragging her out of the way so Tim’s son, a doctor, could reach the wounded man. When he began doing chest compressions, she threw back her head and keened.

They lost him twice that night. Barely enough blood pumped through him to keep him alive. Tim’s son, Berl, had brought supplies to the farm. Blood bag after blood bag drained into him. They had cauterized every hole. The smell of his burning flesh was going to follow her into her nightmares and haunt her for the rest of her life. Red had too many broken bones to count. A bullet had shattered his right knee, and if he survived this night and the next, even if he healed well, he would need a cane. There would be months of physical therapy and a slow recovery. Terry’s cabin was cinders and ash, so retreating there was not an option. Kennedy couldn’t trust being in town.

Tim’s family considered themselves neighbors to the mountain community and through blood affiliated. They grew grapes instead of Red Ursa. The people at the farm kept themselves to the outside edge of belonging. The family history tied them through marriage and a history that stretched throughout the generations. They were a keep to themselves type of people, and Kennedy was grateful for them.

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Kennedy sat in the dirt, outside of the son’s small home office where he sometimes treated the mountain folks. They had made her leave Red’s side, but she had refused to go any further than where she was. This hidden place allowed him to practice medicine without the Townies asking questions. Rocking back and forth, she kept a metronome of wordless prayer and endless begging, looping like a Tibetan prayer wheel, offered to any god, every god. Don’t take him from us.

Quiet footed, a woman came to stand by her side smelling of sandalwood. A sister, or a wife, she didn’t know. The woman knew better than to touch her, and for that, Kennedy was relieved. Her voice was soft as warm cotton and kind. “Shepherds are hard to kill. I’m thinking your man might make it, and that he will want to see your face when he wakes up… your well rested, blood free face.”

Lifting her fingers to her cheeks, blood flaked from Kennedy’s skin. “I don’t want to leave him.”

“That is clear. Your men say they can’t get you to rest.”

She shook her head angrily. “Why should I rest? My stupidity brought this down on him. I don’t deserve to rest.”

“On that, I might agree with you, but that small life within you needs you to rest and feed yourself. How long has it been since you’ve had any water?”

Kennedy did not know. In the blur of her grief, she had lost track of time. She tried to think back. A day? Her mouth was paper and sand. She placed her hand on the swell of her belly.

“Let’s take care of him. Don’t you think? He is so small.”

“I can’t sleep. You won’t be safe.”

“We will be fine. Let’s start with some water.” She bent down and placed a bottle on the ground next to her knee. Kennedy accepted the gift and lifted the water to her cracked lips.

“We have a mother’s room in the barn. I bore my son there. My husband poured onto the earth in the same place, sliding slippery and new from his mother. If the bars held us, they will hold you. You have honored this man with your sentinel, but your sacrifice will not help his child. I’m thinking he might be the kind, to want you to take good care of his son.”

“Or daughter.”

“Son. I’ve helped enough babies come into the world to have a feel for such things. The way you are carrying him, low and already showing.”

For the first time in hours, she turned her face from the closed door. “Tell Red if he lives, he can name our son.”

With a nod, the kind woman bent down and eased her hand under Kennedy’s arm and helped her rise. “I will be sure to do that right after I get you settled. Can you stand long enough to wash yourself free of blood?”

Kennedy’s knees were unsteady under her and her back was stiff from being still for so long. “I don’t know.”

“Well, we will try.”