Summer Winds by Austin, Andrews & Austin Page B

opened a small overhead cabinet.
    “When you cut baling wire, keep your left hand—”
    “I know how to do it. This was just a freak thing and the wire was really tight.”
    “Wear gloves.” I reached for the hydrogen peroxide.
    “No, not that, it’ll burn like hell!” she yelled as I poured it over her palm.
    “Better put a Band-Aid on it if you’re going to mess around out here.” I reached up on the shelf and located the box. “When was your last tetanus shot?” I could tell from her look and the way she backed up a couple of feet that she was long overdue and didn’t want one.
    “I’m running you up to Doc’s office.”
    “No, it’s nothing.”
    I ignored her on-going protests as we headed back up the path to the ranch and I dialed Doc Flanders on my cell phone. He was the town doctor and a squirrelly guy by any criteria. Not someone you wanted to sew up your face, but a tetanus shot was safe enough. I checked my watch; he shut his doors at four p.m. sharp on Fridays.
    He answered, telling me he was heading out and seeing no more patients today. I swore if he’d wait I’d be there in five minutes. Doc had a time fetish. Some said it was his Olympic medal race where he lost by one one-hundredth of a second. Others said he wasn’t even in the Olympics and concocted the whole story to mask a serious obsession with the clock. I’d never bothered to check one way or the other. He was the only doctor for miles so we had to deal with him, warts and all.
    We got in the truck and I immediately floored the gas pedal and careened out of the drive, spinning my wheels as I turned the corner onto the highway. The car ahead of me was pulling a tractor and I whipped around it, giving a friendly wave to the gaping driver. Cash pushed her back against the seat as if retreating from the windshield, her foot braced on the floorboard seeking a nonexistent brake.
    “Hey, no rush, the wire cut my hand, not my eyeball,” Cash said, but I didn’t slow down. Doc Flanders was so crazy he wouldn’t wait for anyone. He’d walked out while Mrs. Wiley was in labor with her twins—said they were taking too long.
    Minutes later I took a tight turn and skidded into the gravel drive of the medical office. Doc Flanders was on the porch locking the door. His six-foot-six frame was bent over, a shock of white rooster-comb hair unattended for what appeared to be weeks, and his baggy pants and sloppy shirt stained beyond color recognition.
    “We’re here, Doc. Five minutes,” I lied.
    “Seven,” he replied sternly.
    “Hey, no problem. We’ll come back another time.” Cash turned and I caught her arm, holding her in place while the doc made up his mind.
    “You want to get tetanus, young lady?” Now that he knew she didn’t want treatment, it appeared he was intent on giving it to her.
    Unlocking the door, he continued his dour lecture. “Not pretty, I can tell you that. Your jaw goes rigid, body convulses, eyes roll back, you foam at the mouth. Some live like that for months, entire jaw goes purple and pieces of your skin fall off.”
    “I don’t recall tetanus having exactly those symptoms,” Cash whispered as Doc led us across the waiting area’s faded yellow linoleum floor and pushed open a Formica door leading to his examining room. The long wooden table was littered with used cotton balls and blood-stained gauze.
    “This place is a mess, where’s Stella?” I asked of the old nurse who kept him organized.
    “Vacation. She’s on vacation every day of her life as far as I can tell.” He groused about the only woman in town who would work for him and deal with his insanity. She once confided in me that he got his patients confused and she had to be there to make sure he treated the right person for the right thing. New people in town wondered why we all still went to Doc Flanders. Beyond simple geography was the plain fact that he was ours—a local character, a man who survived out here making little money and