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But not Miss Wylie.
At least he’d turned Scarcheek’s attention back toward him. If only it wasn’t too late…
Ry fired again. Or at least attempted to. Either the rifle chamber was empty or it had jammed.
Tossing the useless weapon aside, he dropped to one knee, barely dodging another bullet as he jerked out his derringer and fired.
This time there was a satisfying report.
Unfortunately, Scarcheek was a split second faster.
Jo shook her head, trying to clear it, as she pushed up from the ground with both hands. The fall had knocked the wind clear out of her. Her entire left side, from shoulder to hip, felt bruised and battered. Looking up, she spotted Licorice, tail high, galloping back toward home.
Bam! Bam!
She flattened again, twisting around to see where the shots had come from. She saw Mr. Lassiter’s back first and then Otis beyond him. How had the greenhorn got himself between her and that snake in the few seconds since Licorice had stumbled?
As she watched, Mr. Lassiter went down, hitting the ground with a jarring thud.
No! Her heart stopped and then stuttered painfully back to life.
Dear God, please, let him still be alive.
It took her a moment to realize Otis had turned his attention back her way.
“Well, now,” he said nastily, “first I get to give Pretty Boy the comeuppance he deserves, and now you land in my lap too. Must be my lucky day.”
The words cleared the last of the wool from Jo’s head and she frantically looked around for her dropped rifle.
He snickered. “Don’t even try to go for it or I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
There! The rifle was just a few feet away. “Don’t know that it matters much,” she said, trying to give herself time to think. “You’re just going to shoot me anyway.”
“Maybe. Hadn’t decided yet.” He moved closer, keeping the gun pointed at her. She winced when he paused to give Mr. Lassiter’s leg a vicious kick. “I thought we might have a little fun first.” He licked his lip in a disgusting manner. “See if there’s really a woman under all those man’s clothes.”
His leering words made the decision for her. She’d rather chance getting shot than endure the fate he was planning.
She scrambled on all fours toward the weapon, hearing Otis laugh as if at a bawdy joke, knowing she’d never reach it in time, but driven to try anyway.
As she dove the last few feet to the rifle, Jo braced for the bullet, prayed he’d miss, or if not, that it would kill her clean.
She flinched when she heard the anticipated shot, but felt nothing, not even the bullet’s impact.
Had he missed?
Her hand closed reflexively on the rifle to the sound of Otis’s screams and vile oaths.
She flipped onto her back with the weapon aimed and ready, but instead of finding the brute still bearing down on her, he stood clutching his side, blood streaming through his fingers, his rifle lying useless on the ground.
She looked past him and saw Mr. Lassiter, pale and unsteady on his knees, but blessedly alive and strong enough to aim his pistol at Otis. He’d apparently managed to get a shot off, one that had saved her life.
Relief washed through her in giddy waves as she got to her knees. If Otis had been able to carry out his threat—
She fought down the sour bile rising in her throat.
Otis, still spitting out a stream of curses, reached down for his rifle.
“Don’t,” Mr. Lassiter rasped.
Otis froze, his hand less than a foot from the weapon.
“The way I see it,” her wounded hero continued, “is that no matter how good a shot you are, between Miss Wylie and me, one of us is bound to get you before you can get both of us.”
Otis looked from one to the other of them, then slowly straightened, one hand still clutching his side.
“Smart move.” Mr. Lassiter made a sideways motion with his weapon. “Now step away from the gun.”
Otis moved back several paces.
“Far enough.” Mr. Lassiter’s eyes flickered her way briefly before returning to the low-down skunk still moaning over his wound. “Are you all right, Miss Wylie?”
“I’m fine.” The way he insisted on addressing her so respectful-like after all her carryings on today struck her as oddly sweet.
Now why was she thinking on things like that at a time like this? That fall must have rattled her more than she reckoned.
She stood, trying not to wince at the pain from her bruised muscles. Nothing broken at least, but she’d be moving gingerly for a few days. “Just bruised up a bit,” she reassured him.
“Think you can find something to tie up our friend with?”
“Be my pleasure.” She started toward Scout, but kept a watchful eye on Mr. Lassiter. He held his gun pointed at Otis, but he didn’t attempt to stand. His shirt was soaked with blood, his forehead was beaded with sweat, and as she watched he swayed, then leaned heavily back on his haunches.
The man had to be keeping himself upright by sheer willpower.
She pushed herself to move faster, trying to ignore the fire that licked at her ankle with each step. But she’d only covered half the distance when she saw his aim waver.
“Mr. Lassiter!” Changing course, she made a beeline toward him, but before she could reach him, his eyes fluttered closed. He swayed, then slowly crumpled to the ground.
Jo charged across the last few yards, her pulse pounding an urgent rhythm. This was her fault. She should have done more to warn him, should have intervened sooner.
He had to be okay. She would not have his death on her conscience.
An eternity of seconds later, Jo dropped to her knees beside him, braced for the worst. A part of her registered the sound of Otis’s retreat, but he’d left his rifle behind so she let him go. Right now Mr. Lassiter’s well-being was more important than getting vengeance on that bucket of pond scum.
Jo gently brushed the hair from his brow. The low moan that greeted her was the sweetest sound she’d heard in quite some time.
No time to savor her relief, though. He might be alive, but he was far from okay. He hadn’t opened his eyes and his breathing was thready. The red stain that drenched his shirt was getting darker by the minute. Even more worrisome was the blood that matted one side of his head.
Gorge rose in her throat but she sent up a prayer for strength. This wasn’t the time to act like some prim and proper twit—Mr. Lassiter needed help and right now she was all he had.
Jo gently probed his head where the blood seemed thickest. Yep, there was the wound. Nothing lodged there—best she could tell the bullet had grazed him, gouging a furrow as it went. No way to know how serious it was until Doc Whitman got a look at it.
Trying to remain alert in case Otis circled back, she turned her attention to Mr. Lassiter’s arm. Using her pocketknife, she cut open his sleeve to get a better look. The source of all that blood was quickly found—a nasty hole in his upper arm, an ugly, gaping thing that oozed a sluggish stream of blood.
Tightening her jaw, she gingerly examined the wound.
When Jo found the exit hole on the other side of his arm, she swiped her sleeve across her forehead and got her breathing back under control. At least she wouldn’t have to try to dig the blamed bullet out.
Now that the initial gut-churning shock was behind her, Jo’s control snapped back into place.
First order of business—stop the bleeding. Between the two wounds, and pushing himself to defend the two of them, he’d lost entirely too much blood.
Had he really thrown his already-injured-body between her and Otis? The man was either the flea-brained fool she’d called him earlier or one of the most heroic men she’d ever met.
Maybe both.
If he hadn’t stopped Otis—
Her mind rebelled, refusing to finish that thought.
Setting her jaw, she cut his now useless sleeve completely off, then did the same with his other one and both of hers. Taking a few precious minutes to wet one of the strips in the stream, she used it to clean his injuries as best she could. Then she formed pads with the remaining cloths and bound them in place.
Sitting back, Jo stretched her leg to ease the throbbing. She watched her unconscious hero closely for a few minutes, then nodded in satisfaction. The blood seemed staunched, for now at least. It would be nice, though, if he’d open those gunpowder gray eyes again, even if it was just for a moment. Long enough to assure her he’d be all right.
She took a quick glance around. They seemed to be out of any immediate danger. Otis was long gone and Clete hadn’t moved from where he’d fallen.
She squared her shoulders and slowly turned to her right. Like a coward, she’d been avoiding what she knew had to be done.
Rising heavily, she headed toward the fallen horse that had served as Mr. Lassiter’s living shield.
Chapter Five
Scout had quit struggling, but his muscles quivered with each labored breath. It was obvious the animal’s injuries were irreparable, his time left extremely painful. Jo felt the hot tears come as she knelt to stroke the horse’s neck.
The horse she’d raised from a colt gazed at her with pain-filled eyes as she gently finger combed the tangles from his mane.
Heavenly Father, help me through this ’cause I don’t think I can do it on my own.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. With a final pat, Jo wiped her eyes, stood and aimed the rifle.
A heartbeat later, it was over. She lowered the gun, still holding it with both hands. The weight seemed almost more than she could bear.
But mourning was a luxury she couldn’t afford right now—time to refocus on the needs of the living. She paused by Mr. Lassiter’s side long enough to assure herself he was still breathing, then, steeling her nerve, Jo limped over to where Clete lay. Doing her best to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she rolled the body over. A quick look was all it took. The beefy outlaw was quite dead.
Everything had happened so fast when she charged into the meadow. She hadn’t aimed, just fired, trying to draw attention from Mr. Lassiter. Could one of her bullets have done this?
That thought broke the last thread of her control and she found herself on all fours, heaving.
It was several minutes before she could straighten back up.
Determined to be practical, Jo averted her gaze from Clete’s unseeing stare and pulled out her pocketknife again. Making quick work of it, she cut large strips from his shirt. It felt like grave robbing, but it wasn’t as if Clete had any more use for the shirt, and it was a sure bet she’d need additional bandages for Mr. Lassiter before this was over. And with evening coming on she couldn’t afford to sacrifice any more of their own clothing.
She wadded up the swaths of cloth, then retrieved the dead man’s rifle, using it to ease herself back up with a groan. Yep, she’d be feeling the effects of that fall for several days.
Playing a hunch, she studied the wooded area where Clete and Otis had hidden earlier. Catching a glimpse of movement, she gave a satisfied smile. Sure enough, a few minutes later she found Clete’s horse, tethered to a low branch just inside the wood.
Thank goodness Otis hadn’t bothered to take the animal with him. With Licorice halfway back to Knotty Pine and Scout dead, this horse would give them some much needed options.
Once she had the mare tethered near the stream, Jo returned to Mr. Lassiter’s side, wiping his face with a damp cloth. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could think to do at the moment. His breathing seemed stronger, but he was still unconscious and pale as moonlight.
She hated feeling so all-fired useless. He needed more than puny old wet cloths. He needed a doctor, and the sooner the better. But all she could do for now was make him as comfortable as possible.
Jo rubbed her calf, trying to ease a bit of the throbbing. Too bad there wasn’t anyone here to see to her comfort.
Oh, well, like it or not, being the one to do the looking after had become her lot in life.
With a sigh, she stood and began gathering wood to make a fire, one that would not only ward off the coming chill of evening but would also create lots of smoke.
Whenever the search party came looking—she refused to believe that wouldn’t happen soon—she wanted to make finding them as easy as possible.
Ry stirred, then grimaced. His head throbbed as if a judge were pounding a gavel in his skull, and there seemed to be a branding iron pressed into his shoulder. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, then fisted his hands against the pain that shot through his leg. Thunderation! It felt like he’d been mule kicked.
Was that grass under his hand? Had his horse thrown him? He couldn’t think straight—his mind felt thick as sludge. He tried opening his eyes, but only managed slits.
Then the memory of what had happened came stampeding back and his heart slammed in his chest as he struggled to get up. He had to make sure Scarcheek didn’t get to Miss Wylie—
“Whoa there.” A hand pressed him gently but firmly down.
Relief surged through him. That had been her voice. She was okay. Thank You, Lord!
But where was Scarcheek? He renewed his efforts to get up. “My gun!” Was that croak really his voice? “Where—”
She cut off his words by pressing him down again, this time wiping his brow with a damp cloth.
“Easy. No need to get stirred up. We’re in the clear now.”
Had his last desperate shot found its mark? If only he could remember…
As if reading his mind she answered his unvoiced questions. “Clete won’t be bothering anyone—not ever again. And Otis is long gone. High-tailed it out of here, bleeding like a stuck pig, as soon as he saw you fall.”
Realizing he’d obviously blacked out, leaving her to deal with a hornet’s nest on her own, he wanted to howl in frustration and self-disgust. How long had he been unconscious?
Whatever had happened, it was a good thing the gun-wielding outlaw was gone. He couldn’t even sit up right now, much less fight off anything more threatening than a gnat.
He studied Miss Wylie, looking for signs of injury. “What about you? Your horse fell—”
“Got bruised up a mite, nothing serious.”
Her tone was light but the strain in her expression told a different story. Was she hurt worse than—
The memory of Scarcheek’s threat suddenly slammed back into him. He grabbed her wrist. “Did he touch you? So help me, if he did there’s no place far enough—”
“Whoa there, hero.” Her smile was more genuine this time. “Otis never laid a hand on me. Thanks entirely to you.”
Hero—hah! Ry suppressed a groan at her attempt to make him feel better. Still, he couldn’t help but admire her courage and fortitude.
This woman was unlike any he’d ever met. How could she find something to smile about after all she’d just been through? Most women he knew would be hysterical, would be looking for him to comfort them.
Aware that he was still squeezing her wrist, he released her and leaned back. He realized there was a bandage on his head and another on his otherwise bare arm.
A woman of many talents, it seemed, and one who didn’t let squeamishness get in the way of doing what had to be done.
She reached beside her and lifted a canteen. “How about a drink of water?”
At his nod she rested the canteen on his chest then twisted around, reaching for something he couldn’t quite see. “First, let’s try to get you propped up a bit.”
A second later he realized she was maneuvering a saddle into place behind him.
“Easy now.” She slipped a hand under his neck, supporting him while she nudged the makeshift prop under his shoulders. She was surprisingly strong. No doubt due to her work at the livery. Funny how nice those callused hands felt against his skin.
He tried to keep the wince from his expression as the movements dug the branding iron deeper into his shoulder. He wasn’t going to add to her already piled-high worries.
“There now,” she eased him back, “how does that feel?”
“Better, thanks.”
“Good.” She held the canteen to his lips, once more supporting his neck. The water tasted heavenly and felt even better going down. The liquid smoothed away the sawdust lining his mouth and throat. He couldn’t get enough of it, as if he were a parched bit of earth that hadn’t seen rain in months.
“Easy now,” she repeated, a touch of humor in her voice, “There’s a whole stream of this stuff over yonder so there’s no need to worry we’ll run out before you’re quenched.”
Her teasing surprised an answering grin from him. “Are you maligning my table manners, Miss Wylie?”
She shrugged, her expression bland. “Not me. I’m used to being around animals that drink from troughs, remember?”
Ry chuckled at her unexpected dry humor. At least the day’s events hadn’t robbed her of her spirit.
“And there’s no need to be so formal, especially considering the fix we’re in. Just call me Jo.”
He hesitated, not wanting to offend her, but not certain he wanted to comply. The use of Miss Wylie had been a deliberate effort to make up for his having mistaken her for a man, even if she wasn’t aware of his gaffe. Calling her Jo, a man’s name, just didn’t sit right with him after so ungentlemanly a blunder. But she didn’t seem like a Josephine either. “What if I call you Josie instead?”
A flash of surprise crossed her features. But her only response was an offhand “I reckon that’ll do.”
“And of course you can call me Ry.”
With a nod, she raised the canteen to his lips again. He took care to drink more slowly this time, taking the opportunity to look around. She’d built a fire while he was out, one that was emitting enough smoke to cure a side of bacon. A second saddle lay on the ground next to him and what looked to be the rest of the tack and gear from two horses was placed in neat piles nearby.
A whicker drew his gaze toward the stream. A horse stood tethered there. Not the horse she’d charged in on and certainly not Scout. How in the world had she managed to find another mount out here?
Then he spied what was unmistakably a body covered by a couple of horse blankets.
His gaze shot back to her.
Her smile was gone and her jaw tightened. “It’s Clete,” she said. “I thought covering him up was the decent thing to do.”
Ry leaned back against the saddle, glad for its support.
Her fingers fiddled with the cap of the now empty canteen. “I didn’t see him go down. I don’t know which one of us—”
“It was my shot,” he said quickly, realizing what she feared.
“Oh.” She searched his face for a moment, then the tension in her eased. She stood and waggled the canteen. “Better refill this.”
Ry shifted again, chafing at his weakened condition as he watched her limp toward the stream. She was hurt, yet she hadn’t spoken a word of complaint. How long had she been sitting there, wondering if she’d been responsible for taking a man’s life?
His opinion of her character rose another notch.
“How long was I out?”
“About thirty minutes or so,” she called back over her shoulder. “Had me worried for a while.”
Again, her light tone didn’t quite cover the underlying strain. He knew it wasn’t all due to the physical pain and exhaustion she must be feeling. The emotional turmoil she’d been through had taken its toll as well.
She paused to check on the horse before stooping with some difficulty at the stream to refill the canteen. Her action reminded him of what had happened to Scout. Had the animal died of its wounds, or had she been forced to deal with that, as well?
Either way, he had a lot to make up for. Starting now.
“Only thirty minutes, huh?” he said as she returned. “It appears you made good use of the time.”
She shrugged. “I’m used to keeping busy.”
That he could believe. “Well, you’ve set up a tight little camp here.” Pulling on every ounce of strength he had, Ry propped himself up on one elbow. “I ought to be comfortable enough while you head back to town.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Take that horse and ride to town. You can send a wagon back for me. There’s no point in us both just sitting here hoping someone will come along.”
“Uh-uh. Whether we like it or not, we’re in this together. I’m not leaving here without you, not after all the trouble I went through to save your hide.”
“And you can finish the job by sending a wagon back for me.”
“What if Otis comes back?”
Exactly. He had to make certain she was well out of harm’s way. “Look, Josie, you said yourself Otis was long gone. Besides, I’m not hurt so bad that I can’t hold my own for the time it’ll take you to get to town and send help back. Just leave me one of those rifles and I’ll be fine.”
She snorted. “Fine my left foot.” Thrusting a rifle at him, she walked off, positioning herself several yards behind him. “Okay, hero, I’m Otis. Defend yourself.”
Ry struggled to sit up and at the same time swivel his body to face her. He failed miserably. On both counts.
“Might as well quit trying.” The edge of irritation in her voice exacerbated the ache in his head. “If I was Otis you’d already be dead. And that’s with lots of warning to boot.”
She stood over him, glaring. “Hang it all, Mister, there’s no shame in admitting you’re hurt. It’s just plain selfish, too—making more work for me. Look at you. All that tomfool twisting and turning set your arm to bleeding again. At this rate we’re going to run out of bandages before we can get you to the doc.”
Even if he’d had the energy to take offense, Ry knew she was right. For a moment he didn’t even have the breath to speak.
He flopped back with a thud that amplified the pounding in his head. It was getting colder too. He couldn’t suppress the shiver that wracked his body.
Josie removed the rifle from his grasp, her brow furrowing. “How are you feeling?”
“Thoroughly useless.”
She patted his hand, as if he were some wet-behind-the-ears kid who needed comforting. “Sorry I lit into you that way—ain’t your fault you don’t like being stove up. My ma used to say that trying times were God’s way of keeping us humble and reminding us to look to Him for our strength.”
She leaned back. “Just think of it as taking a bit of time off from all that rushing around you’ve been doing.”
Belle! Hang it all, with everything that had happened he’d forgotten all about her cry for help. If only she hadn’t been so cryptic about what she needed from him.
“Can’t afford to take time off right now.” He shivered again. So cold. So tired. “Belle needs me.”
He closed his eyes to keep the spinning sky from drawing him into the maelstrom.
Belle. Josie. Different as night and day. In fact, the only thing they had in common was that they were facing big troubles.
And he was powerless to lift a finger to help either of them.
Chapter Six
Who was Belle?
Jo tried to ignore her curiosity and concentrate instead on keeping Mr. Lassiter from passing out.
His eyes drifted closed again and she chewed on her lip. How serious were his injuries?
“Come on, Mister—Ry—try to stay awake. Just until help comes. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
His eyes fluttered open. “Sorry. Feeling drowsy.”
“Talk to me. Where you traveling from?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Hah! I knew you weren’t a rancher.”
That got a reaction from him. “Not calling me a liar, are you? I said I was raised on a ranch. My family’s still there.”
“But not you.”
“My grandfather lives in Philadelphia. I stayed with him while I went to law school.”
“So which do you call home, the ranch or Philadelphia?”
His face creased in annoyance. “Too many questions.”