will.”
Pulling the lapels of her indigo cape tighter, she left the shelter of the porch. Storm hadn’t stopped her alarm, which meant this was serious. She braced the Winchester in both hands. As she neared, a huge black shape took form, startling her. A horse.
“Storm, hush.”
The riderless horse shifted his weight and swung his face her direction. The white star between his intelligent black eyes strummed a memory. Her gaze shot to the snow-crusted saddle. Made of dark brown leather, it lacked ornamentation and tooling. Plain and serviceable. She didn’t recognize it.
Her dog’s barking shifted to a whine. Cautiously she moved around the big black, giving him plenty of space so as not to spook him, and her gaze fell on the object of Storm’s distress. Her heart leaped into her throat.
A man. Sprawled on his stomach and half-buried in snow. Dead? Unconscious? Sleeping off too much liquor?
Storm finally quieted and cocked her head, silently imploring Rebecca to do something.
Gun wavering in her suddenly nerveless fingers, she crept forward and extended a boot, lightly nudging the stranger’s ankle. No response. She tried again, harder this time. Nothing.
A Stetson lay a few feet from his head. Shaggy hair the color of India ink curled over the collar of his black duster. His boots, though worn-in, were in good condition, as were his fawn canvas trousers. He didn’t appear to be a drifter.
“Mister?” Creeping forward, she prodded his shoulder. “Hello?”
Please don’t be dead. Setting her rifle within grabbing distance, she crouched down and, yanking off a glove with her teeth, gingerly slipped her fingers beneath his blue-and-white-dotted neckerchief. Relief skittered through her at the faint pulse she detected there. Not dead.
But if she didn’t get him up and out of the elements, he would be soon.
Taking hold of his shoulder, she tugged, easing him onto his back. One glance at his face, and she landed on her rear.
“No.” The strangled denial brought Storm over, her sturdy, furry body leaning into Rebecca’s side.
This was no stranger. The jagged, inch-long pink lines fanning from his right eye marked him as the enemy. Caleb O’Malley. The man who’d single-handedly ruined her life.
Bitterness, as familiar as an old friend, wrapped its tentacles around her heart and squeezed, stifling all reason. She wanted him gone.
“Caleb.” Loath to touch him, she poked his shoulder. “Wake up. You need to go home.”
Dark stubble skimmed his lean jaw and pouty lips stiff with cold. Stiff and blue-tinged.
The first twinge of alarm pierced her hostility. Skimming his well-built body, she gasped at the sight of vivid red blood spatters on the sparkling white powder. He was bleeding. Hurt.
Scrambling to open his duster, her stomach lurched. His tattered pant leg was sodden with blood leaking from a gaping wound in his thigh. The gravity of the situation slammed into her. If she didn’t help him, he would die. And despite the heartache his actions had caused her, she wasn’t that callous.
Standing, she eyed his long, muscular length. There was no way she was getting him up on that horse. She’d have to drag him.
Hating to leave her weapon behind but seeing no other choice, Rebecca hooked her hands beneath his arms and began to pull. Adrenaline fueled her for the daunting task. By the time the cabin’s outline came into focus, her chest heaved from the exertion and her legs trembled with strain.
“Amy!” she hollered over her shoulder.
The door banged open, and her sister appeared on the porch. “It’s been exactly nine minutes since you left.” Her relief was short-lived. “Who’s that?”
“Hurry and put your coat on. I need your help getting him inside.”
Amy did as she was told, eggplant-colored coat scraping the ground and brown lace-up boots crunching. Her jaw dropped. “Is that Caleb O’Malley? What happened to him?”
“I don’t know.” Rebecca suspected a gunshot wound. “You think you can pick his feet up and help me carry him in?”
With a nod, she went and stood between his legs and took hold of his calves. “He looks different with a beard.”
“Let’s go.”
Though it was awkward, they managed to maneuver him inside and onto Amy’s bed, situated against the right wall, opposite the cast-iron stove, dry sink and pie safe.
Rebecca straightened and paused to catch her breath and weigh her options. She didn’t like the idea of sending her sister out into the storm, but Caleb’s wound needed attention now. His pallor and unresponsiveness bothered her. He hadn’t made a single sound during the jarring trek here. “Take Storm and retrieve Daisy. Settle Caleb’s horse in the barn. I’ll unsaddle him later.” Probably best Amy didn’t see the gruesome injury up close, anyway.
A hint of misgiving flitting across her round face, Amy glanced at Caleb’s inert form dwarfing her mattress and squared her shoulders. “I won’t be long.”
“Be careful.” As Rebecca retrieved a box containing herbs, medicines and supplies from their catch-all cabinet, she checked the mantel clock and made note of the time. “If you’re not back in fifteen, I’ll come looking for you.”
When the door clicked, blocking out the frosty, pristine world and shutting her in with her wounded nemesis, the cozy cabin transformed into a hostile space. Spying blood seeping onto the colorful quilt beneath him, she forced herself to focus on the present. To forget the past. The loss and grief.
He’s just a man in need of assistance. He can’t do anything more to hurt me.
His boots had to be wrestled off. Chucking them onto the floorboards, she gingerly removed the Colt pistols from his gun belt and used scissors to slit open his pant leg. The coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils, as did those of horse and earth and pine needles, typical for a man who spent most of his days roaming the mountains.
Dashing to the counter, she filled a bowl with cool water—there wasn’t time to heat it—and gathered rags. Folding one into a thick square, she returned to the bed and, covering the wound, pressed down hard to stem the flow. Caleb jerked. An anguished moan started way down in his gut and ripped through his lips. Rebecca’s gaze flew to his face, which was whiter than the pillow cradling his head, and compassion trickled into her bloodstream. Not enough to forgive him. Never that. But enough to want to lessen his pain.
Winding a long strip of cotton around his thigh to hold the cloth firmly in place, she tied it off and set to work cleaning his leg as best she could. She cut away the ruined material and tossed it onto the floor to dispose of later. Unable to remove his damp clothing without assistance, she settled for piling every available quilt on top of him.
After adding wood to the fireplace and kindling to the stove’s firebox, she set water on to boil. She’d fix him something hot to drink, and later, some thin broth.
“No!” The unexpected plea in his distinctive
