about opening the door and checking on him, but she hadn’t been gone that long and she wasn’t sure she was up to another encounter with him. She didn’t fear him, but she was wary of the way she reacted to him.
Instead, she put the saddlebags and bedroll on a table and opened the bedroll first. She wasn’t spying, she assured herself. He needed some clean clothes after all.
A heavy jacket fell out, along with a rain slicker. Then she looked through the saddlebags. A pair of leg and wrist manacles. They felt hard and cold and ugly in her hands. She carefully placed them on the table and continued looking. There was a pair of pants, an extra shirt, socks and one set of clean underwear. A container of matches wrapped in oilskin. Then she found a well-worn book by someone named Victor Hugo.
Books were precious to her. She looked at the title. Reese had never mentioned this one. She put it down and continued her search. Some hardtack and coffee. No photographs or miniatures. No other personal items.
She folded the clothes and put the manacles back in the saddlebags. They might just need the latter.
Archie would be up with Mac, just as he had been these past few days. The two usually argued constantly, but they were close friends, and she knew Mac probably would have died had Archie not pushed him into living. And kept pushing.
She sat down at the table and closed her eyes. Everything hit her then. She had nearly killed a man. If the marshal died of blood poisoning, she would have succeeded. Now she knew what Mac meant about killing. A target was one thing, but a man…that was something else.
What if he died?
She shouldn’t care. But hell’s blazes, she did. He had grit for sure. Any other man would have been screaming when Archie poked around for the bullet, then pressed the white-hot knife against the wound.
And something…something had passed between them for the briefest second as she was cleaning the wound, when his gaze met hers. An awareness that had nothing to do with the fact she’d shot him. It had been like a lightning bolt—and a remnant still burned inside her.
Dawg came over, rested his big head in her lap and whined in sympathy. She leaned down and put her arms around him, soaking in the comfort he was offering.
A crash jerked her back to the moment. Dawg’s ears pricked and he ran to the back room.
She hurried after him and opened the door. She hadn’t locked it, thinking the marshal was far too weak to move. Anyone else would still be unconscious.
He lay sprawled on the floor. It was obvious he’d tried to stand. Darn fool. His leg was bleeding again. Blood spread across the bandage.
She heard a noise behind her and spun around. Archie was in the doorway.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He must have tried to get up.”
“More trouble than he’s worth,” Archie mumbled.
She couldn’t have agreed more. Yet there was something about the man—the uncompromising set of his mouth, the hank of dark hair that fell over his forehead.
He was unconscious. And naked except for a scrap of bloody long johns.
Archie took one of his arms and she took the other. Together they got him back on the bed. She quickly pulled the sheet over his near-nakedness.
She averted her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the warmth creeping up her neck. And other places. It’s just the summer heat. It had been warm all day and was particularly so in the small, windowless room.
“Maybe he needed water,” she said.
“Damn fool shoulda waited.”
Archie unwrapped the bandage from his leg and frowned. The burn looked wicked and blood seeped around it. He muttered about wasted effort and damn fools.
“I’ll make a poultice,” Sam said.
Archie rewrapped the marshal’s leg.
He signaled her to go outside. He followed and closed the door behind him. “Best make it two,” he said.
“Is Mac worse?” she asked.
“He ain’t no better. He’s having those nightmares again. Some one has to be with him all the time or he might start thrashing about and hurting hisself again. I don’t even want to be gone now, but I heard the crash. You gonna have to see to the marshal yourself.” He paused and looked at the saddlebags on the table. “Anything in ’em?”
“A shirt and a pair of trousers. Undershirt. Wrist and leg irons. A book.”
“Get that shirt on ’im. And keep him covered with that sheet. Don’t like him being so naked.”
“I’ve seen men before,” she said. “You let me help you doctor them.”
“Mebbe so, but that was then and this is now,” he said grumpily, and looked at Dawg, who was at her heels. “And take Dawg with you. Hound ain’t good for nothing ’cept looking after you.”
She nodded. She didn’t tell Archie that Dawg had already made an overture to the marshal. It wouldn’t sit well at all.
“Manacles may come in handy,” Archie continued. “He ain’t going no place now, but we might need them later. He seems like a mighty determined man.” His frown deepened. “I don’t like leaving you with him but Mac needs me. You watch out for yourself.” He took a step toward the stairs, then turned back. “You don’t tell him nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. If he lives through this, I don’t want him to be able to find us.”
She nodded, a chill settling in her. She was an outlaw now, too, and she’d made Archie one, as well. She’d shot a marshal and was holding him captive. She swallowed hard. “I’ll let you know if he worsens.”
Archie gave her a long, measured look. “You might want to put a drop or so of laudanum in the whiskey.”
She stared at him in surprise. She knew they were running low.
“It will keep him quiet,” Archie said. “That’s what he needs, and what we need.” She nodded.
He gave her a sharp look. “We shouldn’t have kept you here, girl.”
She made a face. “You didn’t keep me. My decision, remember.”
“Mac should have insisted you go off to one of them fancy schools in Denver,” he grumbled.
But Mac hadn’t, not when she threatened to jump off the train and come back. She’d gotten all the schooling she needed from Reese and Mac.
“They would have tried to turn me into a lady.”
He muttered something inaudible, then sighed heavily. “If he tries anything…”
She nodded. She was probably safer than Archie would be with the marshal. Archie had never been good with a gun. He could use a whip like it was part of his arm, but he’d never liked guns. He wasn’t a fast draw or, with his fading sight, a good
