of Whirlwind, a young boy shooting with the McDougal gang. Bullets tearing through his arm and leg. His partner’s scream of surprise. Hays Gentry had been dead by the time Jericho dragged his own lead-riddled carcass over to his side.
Using a length of rope from his saddlebag, he had fashioned a tourniquet for his thigh. He had wrapped a bandanna around his bleeding arm, then clumsily secured his lanky partner onto Hays’s dun mare, and trailed the McDougal gang as far as he could while the tracks were fresh. Hours later, he’d lost them and returned to the scene of the ambush, picking up a single set of hoofprints. Hoofprints that had led him here.
His gaze shot to the open doorway and he tried to sit up. Agony clawed through his lower body and he cursed. Easing down, he panted with the effort not to cry out. A clean white bandage wrapped his right wrist up to the middle of his forearm.
He recalled waking a couple of times and a woman holding a cup of cool water to his lips. Cool dampness on his forehead and chest. He’d been shot in his gun arm. And his right leg. With his left hand, he weakly patted his way across the sheet and felt the bulk of bandages beneath.
His thigh was wrapped tightly and throbbing as if a coyote had made two meals out of it.
“Sir?” The sweet, lilting voice was tentative. The speaker sounded breathless, as if she’d hurried to him. “Oh, good. I thought I heard you.”
Jericho struggled to focus on the figure in the open doorway. Her voice. “You helped me.”
“Yes.” She moved toward him, concern drawing her finely arched brows together.
Sweat stung his eyes and he blinked. She was pretty. More than pretty. Was he conscious? Her long black hair was pulled back with a white kerchief and flowed over one shoulder like ebony silk. He registered strong features and porcelain skin before his vision hazed. She leaned over him, smelling of sunshine and soap. A low humming sounded in his ears. She was talking.
“Dr. Butler removed a bullet. There was one in your leg, but not in your arm. You were shot twice in the thigh.”
“What’s my leg look like?” The room spun and he felt himself sliding away. He’d seen men with the same injury lose their leg to rot. “Will it keep?”
“I think so. You seem to be fighting off the infection.” She smiled and he could see her eyes were blue. Clear blue like that fancy bird made of colored glass his ma had.
“I made it to Whirlwind.”
“Yes. You were tracking the McDougal gang.” Her hand fluttered over the bandage on his arm. “Dr. Butler will check your leg when he comes.”
Jericho’s head swam and he felt himself slipping away. “I came to your door.”
“Yes. You told me your name, then went unconscious.”
“How long have I been here?” The pain pulled at him, dragging him into a black hole of helplessness.
“Three days.”
He grunted. “Your name?”
“Catherine Donnelly.”
“Cath—” Everything went black.
The next time Jericho awoke, the sun was setting. His mouth was as dry as wool, the pain deep and gouging. He felt someone in the room and turned his head to the right, staring into the prettiest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Hello.” His voice sounded rusty and dry. He remembered her. “Miz Donald?”
“Donnelly.”
“Catherine.”
“Your fever broke.” Triumph underscored her words as she fussed with the blanket draped over his body.
Pain pushed the fog from his mind. He felt as weak as a newborn babe.
“Let me get you something to eat.”
“Was I out a long time?”
“You woke earlier today. Do you remember?”
He nodded. Three days he’d spent in this bed. Useless. Helpless.
“Dr. Butler will be pleased when he comes by to check on you.” She seemed to glide out of the room, her fluid movements economical and controlled.
The plain gray dress and white apron draped her body in long, sleek lines. Curved in all the right places, she had full breasts and a slim waist. If a man weren’t careful, her blue eyes could draw him in, distract him enough to forget why he was here.
She returned with a thick crockery bowl and a spoon. Pulling a ladder-back chair close to the side of the bed, she set the bowl on the bedside table. A fragrant steam drifted to him and made his mouth water.
“Do you think you can sit up?”
He tried, bracing his weight on his left arm. The movement had his thigh jerking in agony, but he managed to get his shoulders against the wooden headboard at his back. Sweat broke across his face.
The woman carefully spooned soup into his mouth. He hadn’t thought he was hungry, but the rich chicken broth made him ravenous. Still, being forced to let someone feed him made Jericho feel as useless as a teat on a boar hog. His good hand clenched into a fist. “I can feed myself.”
Her face didn’t change, but he felt her doubt. “I’ll hold the bowl if you want to try.”
He nodded, taking the spoon from her. His hand shook as if he had the palsy.
Regarding him steadily with a hint of wariness in her eyes, she held the bowl. He dipped the spoon into the broth and brought it to his mouth, dribbling half of it down his chest. “Damn.”
“Here.” She rose and leaned toward him, using her apron to blot up the liquid.
Her touch was brisk and impersonal, but as she swiped the cloth from his chest to his belly, Jericho felt a jolt of heat. His grip tightened on the spoon.
She sat down, her fresh scent teasing him. “You’re very weak. Please let me help you.”
He didn’t have any choice if he wanted to eat his food rather than wear it. What little energy he did have had been used to sit up. Frustration rolled through him, but he relinquished the spoon. “All right.”
He sounded grudging even to his own ears, but she didn’t seem to mind. She took the spoon and fed him another bite.
“My partner?”
“Sheriff Holt took care of the man who was with you. The sheriff said you were his cousin.”
“Davis Lee buried Hays?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” Jericho’s mouth tightened. If he and Hays hadn’t already been single-mindedly pursuing the murderous McDougals on special commission from the governor, yesterday’s ambush would’ve assured that Jericho
