on the woman’s face, and his eyes met hers. Golden eyes. A light golden-brown, almost amber with flecks of gold. And the expression? Regret? Something more than that? An instant awareness flowed between them. Its power stunned him, left him dazed. The wound. It was the wound and the loss of blood.
But for an instant, her fingers froze on his leg. He knew from the intake of her breath she felt that odd pull, too. She hesitated, then breathed in deeply. Shaking her head slightly as if denying any reaction, she took a knife from a sheath on her gun belt and cut the trouser leg until she saw the wound.
He followed her glance. The bullet had driven cloth from his trousers into the flesh. He fought a wave of unconsciousness, even as he noticed her hands were callused. And gentle.
“The bullet’s still inside,” she said, confirming what he’d already suspected. Her voice trembled a bit, and he realized she wasn’t as sure of herself as she tried to project. And her eyes weren’t hard now. They were…worried.
For him?
Hard to believe.
He leaned on his arm, trying to muster his strength. He wanted to pull her down to him and demand answers. She couldn’t have been aiming for his leg; it would be far too dangerous. He could have killed her. And why was she now determined to help him? He tried to sit up but nothing was cooperating.
“Stay still,” she said sharply.
He struggled to focus. The golden eyes were hard to read, and he was usually very good at judging people. Her hat was gone, and short tendrils of damp fawn-colored hair clung to her face, softening it. Pretty, he thought. How could he ever have taken her for a lad? Even for a moment.
He hurt too damn much to notice anything else. Neither was he in a position to question her help at the moment. The leg burned like hell, and he was fading.
“What the Sam Hill happened here?” Another shadow appeared in the late-afternoon sun. An old man sidled next to the woman and brushed her aside to examine the wound. Time had worn trails in his cheeks and forehead. A gray beard reached to the collar of his red shirt. He scowled as his rheumy eyes inspected the wound.
Jared tried to sit, but he fell back. He could barely keep his eyes open. How much blood had he lost in those few seconds?
“Damnation, girl, what did you go and do?” the old man asked.
Her face flushed. “He came for Mac,” she said simply, as if that were answer enough.
“Mac ain’t gonna like this,” the old man said as if she hadn’t spoken. He loosened the tourniquet, and the bleeding started again.
Jared wondered whether he meant the woman should have killed him. Or that he intended to do it himself.
“I’m a U.S. Marshal,” he said. “The Denver sheriff knows where I was going. If I don’t return, you’ll have a posse up here.”
“I’m real afeared,” the old man said, as if swatting off a fly. He waited a few seconds after loosening the tourniquet, then tightened it again and muttered something indecipherable. He turned back to the woman. “Git some sheets and cut them into strips. Clean ones. Then hitch up Brandy. We can’t leave the marshal here, and he’s a big ’un. You and I will have to haul him to the saloon.”
“The saloon?” the woman asked.
“Where else? Lessen you want to leave him to die out here?”
“But…” She stopped suddenly.
“This one ain’t goin’ nowhere for a while. Plenty of time to decide what to do with him. What did Mac tell you ’bout shooting? Make it good, or don’t even think about it.”
“I…I…”
If he didn’t hurt so damn much and hadn’t been the subject of the conversation, Jared would have been fascinated by the interplay between the old man and the girl. He supposed making it “good” meant killing him.
She left at a run, and the old man turned to him, grumbling as he did so. He studied the badge on Jared’s shirt, then muttered an obscenity. “What’s the name?” he finally asked.
“Jared…Evans.” No use in denying it. Papers were in his pocket and saddlebags.
“Evans?” The man frowned. He apparently knew the name, but then many outlaws did. Jared traveled a lot, sent by territorial governors to wherever he was needed. No doubt any number of outlaws would like to see him dead.
Which might well include these two. He forced himself to a sitting position and felt the blood drain from his face. He glanced down at the knife he carried in his belt.
“Don’t even think about it,” the old man said as he eased the weapon out of its sheath. “Lessen you want to bleed to death.” He paused, then asked, “Why are you here?”
The woman already knew why Jared was here. No sense in trying to lie. “Thornton. I have a warrant for him.”
The old fellow’s eyes sharpened. “I should leave you here to die.”
“You a…a friend of his?” Jared was beginning to fade again. Too many hours on horseback. Too little food. Now too little blood.
“Yeah, and I can tell you one thing. You ain’t taking him.”
“The…woman?”
“Sam? You don’t need to know nothing about her, and you have to swear you’ll forget you ever saw her if I fix you up.”
“Can’t…do that.”
The old man stood. “Then you can bleed to death. Won’t bother me none.”
Jared knew he would do exactly that if he couldn’t keep the tourniquet tight. He also knew he needed help. The bullet would have to come out. The wound would have to be cauterized. Even then he might well lose the leg to infection. Being a one-legged lawman didn’t appeal much to him. Still, he wasn’t going to lie, or violate his oath.
“Might matter to the…lady,” he said harshly. “One thing to wound a lawman. Another to kill one.”
The old man stood motionless for a moment, then sighed in surrender. “You know what we gotta do?”
“I know.”
“You hurt her…I’ll kill you. And if I don’t, someone else will.”
Jared didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to make promises he wouldn’t keep. Not even to save his life.
The old man knelt again. This time Jared noted the stiffness in his movements. An old man and a young woman. They obviously knew MacDonald and where he was. Knew him well enough to kill for.
To die for.
SAM HURRIEDLY GRABBED a threadbare but clean sheet she’d washed yesterday. She stopped suddenly and leaned against a table. Her body started shaking. She’d almost killed a man. Maybe even had, if Archie couldn’t control the bleeding. She would never forget the surprise on the marshal’s face when he started to fall.
She
