felt Tanner’s body tighten against her, felt his hesitation. “Why bother?” he asked. “In the time it takes the marshal to get here, those ruffians could be halfway to the next county.”
“But what if they try to rob somebody else?”
“They’re unarmed, Mary. And they know we can identify them. Trust me, all they’ll want to do is hightail it out of here, as far away as they can get.”
Beside him, Clara studied the chiseled profile, the narrowed eyes and tense jaw. Where she stood against his side, she could feel the pounding of his heart. If her grandmother called the marshal, she sensed Tanner would slip away and be gone—along with his beautiful stallion, and a wound that could be fatal if left untreated.
He had just rescued them, possibly saving their lives. Would it be so wrong to keep him here a little longer?
“Tanner’s right, Grandma,” she said. “Once those men are outside the marshal’s jurisdiction, there’s nothing he can do. Why waste his time?”
His eyes flashed toward her, caught her gaze and held it. In those fathomless blue depths she read gratitude, suspicion and a world of questions.
Mary sighed. “Oh, that makes sense, I suppose. But I hate the thought of that awful pair getting away. I’d have aimed lower but I didn’t want to hit that poor horse.” She opened the screen door and hurried into the house.
Clara supported Tanner as they covered the short distance toward the porch. “You don’t need to hold me up,” he muttered. “My legs are fine.”
“Don’t be so proud!” she scolded him. “You’re in shock. You look as if you could pass out any second, and you’re about to drop that pistol.” She took the heavy .38, which was barely dangling from his fingers. “Here, sit on the steps. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“I’m guessing there’s no whiskey.” He sank onto the middle step with a grunt of pain. His left hand clutched his right arm, the fingers tight below the wound.
“My grandmother does keep a little—strictly for medicinal purposes. Will you be all right while I get it?”
“Just get the blasted whiskey!”
“Hang on.” She dashed into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.
Only after she’d gone did Jace give vent to the pain that pooled like molten lead around the knife in his shoulder. A string of obscenities purpled the air. If nothing else, the muttered oaths braced his courage. The wound itself didn’t appear that serious, but if that blade was as filthy as the bastard who’d thrown it, he could be in danger of blood poisoning.
The girl had surprised him, standing there like a defiant little cat pitted against a pair of mongrel curs. He’d been in the woodshed looking for gate timbers when the two ruffians appeared. It had taken him precious minutes to circle around and retrieve the pistol he’d hidden in his bedroll. He’d returned to find her with her shirt gaping open as she threatened two armed criminals with that silly little paring knife.
His mouth had gone dry at the sight of her.
He’d be smart to banish the image from his mind, Jace lectured himself. Clara Seavers was a lady. Her courage and fighting spirit merited his respect. But the memory of her standing there on the porch, her proud little breasts straining against the wispy fabric that covered them, would fuel his erotic dreams for nights to come.
Damn!
He shifted his weight on the step. The movement shot pain all the way down to his fingertips. Biting back a moan, he focused his gaze on the circling flight of a red-tailed hawk. Beyond the pasture, where the road stretched into open country, the two intruders had long since vanished from sight.
What would have happened if he hadn’t been here? The thought sent a dark chill down his spine. He found himself wanting to catch up with the miscreants and rip them limb from limb. If either of them had so much as laid a hand on her …
Jace shook his head, silently cursing his own helplessness. He should be counting his blessings that the idiots had gotten away. If he and Mary had been able to hold them, the marshal would have been called in, and he’d have found himself dragged to jail along with them. Even now, he had to wonder if the men, if apprehended, would be able to identify him. Now would be the smart time to climb on his horse and ride away. But he was in no condition to go anywhere.
Why had Clara backed his argument against calling the marshal? Was she just talking common sense, or had those big sarsaparilla eyes seen through his facade to the fugitive he was? And if she suspected the truth, why had she helped him? Was it some kind of trick, meant to lull him into a false sense of security?
Were the women calling in the law even as he waited?
Jace’s hands had clenched into fists. Slowly he forced his fingers to relax, forced his mind away from the searing pain in his shoulder. Damn it, where was that whiskey? His ears strained for the patter of Clara’s light footsteps crossing the floor. He remembered the cool touch of her fingers, the pressure of her body against his side. He could feel himself swaying, getting light-headed. The pain was intoxicating. Maybe he should just grab the knife, yank it out and try to get to his horse. His hand crept toward knife handle.
“No!”
She was here now, rushing across the porch with Mary on her heels. As the screen door slammed shut, she dropped to her knees beside him. One hand clutched a pillow. The other clasped a bottle of cheap whiskey. “Give me that,” he growled, reaching to twist it out of her hand.
“No.” She moved the bottle aside. “There’s only a little bit left, and we’ll need it to disinfect the wound.”
“Hell’s bells, what happened to the rest? Have you been imbibing, Mary?”
The older woman’s mouth twitched. “I’ll have you know I’ve had that same bottle for six years, and it’s only been used for medicinal purposes.”
“Now, you I’d believe.” Jace’s head was swimming. He fought to stay alert. For all he knew, he could pass out and wake up in handcuffs, on his way to jail.
“Be still and lie down.” Clara maneuvered him onto the pillow. “You can talk after we get this knife out of you and dress the wound.”
Jace lay with his head cushioned, trying to imagine her bending over him under very different circumstances. His fantasy didn’t help much. The blade was buried a good six inches in his shoulder. This already hurt like hell. And it was just going to get worse.
“Here, bite on this.” Mary was pushing something between his teeth. It felt like a table knife wrapped in layers of cloth.
“Just get it over with,” he muttered around the obstruction in his mouth.
“Ready?” Clara knelt beside him, the whiskey bottle beside her on the porch. Her nimble fingers ripped away his shirtsleeve, exposing the flesh around the wound. Then her hands closed around the knife. Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw tensed.
“Now!” In one swift move she pulled the blade free.
Jace gasped, muttered and passed into darkness.
The
