At Love's Command

by Karen Witemeyer

  She intercepted him. “Wait.”

  Charlie turned, his mouth set in a firm line. “I’m going, Jo.”

  “I know.”

  As much as she wanted to protect him from possible physical harm, she knew this was something he needed to do. She even admired him for it. Not only was he willing to risk his own safety to fetch reinforcements, but he was voluntarily facing their father. Alone. After betraying the family. That took more courage than riding through a yard of gunslinging outlaws.

  “I’m not stopping you,” she said, staunchly eradicating all sisterly compassion from her tone just as she would dirt from a wound. “I just want to wrap your ribs before you go. If you puncture a lung, you’ll do no one any good.”

  “Hurry up,” Preach grumbled as he turned away from the siblings and focused on the gunfire still echoing from the far side of the trees.

  Josephine lifted her skirt, grabbed a handful of petticoat from beneath, and tore off the entire bottom flounce. “Lift your shirt,” she ordered. Steeling herself not to react to the damage he revealed, she gave him a cursory examination and gently probed his ribs. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

  “Some,” he mumbled softly, as if not wanting Preach to overhear the admission, “but no more than it hurts to do anything else.”

  A rather weak endorsement of health, but considering his current state, it would suffice. She reached for the wide cotton strip she’d slung over her shoulder. “All right, then. Arms up.”

  He complied, his one visible eye rolling at her big-sister tone.

  She wrapped his ribs tightly enough to provide protection and support but not so tight as to impair his breathing. As she tied off the bandage, she looked him in the eye.

  “Be careful out there, Charlie. And remember . . .” She squeezed his hand. “No matter how angry Father may be, he loves you.”

  Charlie gave no response, just pulled his hand from hers, turned his back, and mounted. A moment later he disappeared from sight.

  “Mount up behind me, Doc.” Preach waved her forward. “We still gotta be ready to ride if things go south.” He pulled his left foot from the stirrup.

  Josephine fit her foot into the vacated stirrup, though she needn’t have bothered. As soon as the big man’s hand clamped over her forearm, she soared through the air like a sack of flour being tossed into a wagon bed. Or onto a horse’s rump, in this case.

  She held Preach’s shoulders for balance as she situated herself, then placed an arm loosely at his waist. He seemed the sort of man to take off at a gallop should he suddenly be called to action, and she doubted he’d provide sufficient warning. Best to have a handhold ready.

  Despite the lightness of her touch, she could feel the tension coiled within him. That tension proved contagious, for the longer she sat there listening to the battle, the more her trepidation built. Soon she flinched at every gunshot, worrying over where that bullet might have lodged.

  She tried to peer around Preach’s broad shoulders, but she saw nothing but trees. “Can you see anything?”

  A growled order to be quiet was the only answer she got.

  Josephine pressed her lips together. Maybe he could sense what was happening by the sounds filtering through the trees. He had served in countless battles, after all. Surely if he believed Matthew or one of the others was in trouble, he’d do something. Wouldn’t he?

  She recalled the look on his face when he’d called her his mission, the unbending set of his jaw, the cold steel of his eyes. No. He’d be just stubborn enough to follow orders even at the expense of the man who’d given them.

  Time crawled by. Minute after excruciating minute.

  How could he just sit there? Not knowing Matthew’s fate was killing her. Every shot that echoed off the trees slammed into her chest. She needed to see what was happening. Gather data. Assess. Analyze. Find a way to help.

  Be still.

  She didn’t want to be still. She wanted to help. To heal. To—

  Be still, and know that I am God.

  Her left hand fisted in the fabric of her skirt. Her eyes squeezed shut. A tear slid down her cheek. I’m afraid, Lord. Afraid to completely surrender. Afraid that if I have no control over the outcome, it won’t end the way I desire. Afraid you’ll take Matthew from me.

  Lean not unto thine own understanding.

  Josephine’s heart pricked. That was it, wasn’t it? She trusted her own understanding more than she trusted God’s unfathomable wisdom.

  Another tear leaked between her lashes. Forgive me. Slowly, her fingers unfurled, releasing their grip on her skirt. I surrender.

  Her mind went quiet after that. Or was it the actual air? Josephine’s eyes opened. Had the shooting stopped?

  The sound of horses approaching stiffened her spine. In a flash, Preach had his rifle aimed and ready.

  “It’s me!”

  Josephine recognized Mark Wallace’s voice a heartbeat before his horse cantered between the oaks shielding them from the battle.

  Preach dropped his weapon and nudged his mount forward to meet his compatriot. Josephine’s right arm tightened about his waist.

  “Taggart’s on the run,” Wallace announced as he reined his horse to a halt. “Over half the outlaws are down. Jonah is working his way through the camp, taking stock of injuries and disarming all enemy combatants.”

  “And the captain?”

  Josephine held her breath, her spirit crying out to God for mercy.

  Wallace flicked a glance at her before focusing again on Preach. “He went after Taggart.”

  “Alone?” The cry tore from Josephine’s chest. She grabbed Preach’s left arm and made to dismount. “Go after him.” She accented her order with a thump to his back as she slid off the horse. “The fight is done here. I’m safe. Mr. Wallace and Mr. Brooks can protect your precious mission while I tend the wounded.”

  Preach hesitated, his gaze searching Wallace’s face. She could feel his longing to do exactly as she suggested. Knew he was champing at the bit to get into the fight, to watch his captain’s back.

  But Wallace shook his head. “Orders are to secure the premises. A handful of outlaws fled. They could circle back. Captain wants us here, guarding the doctor.”

  Josephine fought the urge to scream as her feet hit the ground. “And who’s going to guard him?”

  “‘One man of you shall chase a thousand: for the Lord your God, he it is that fighteth for you, as he hath promised you.’ Joshua 23:10.” As the quiet words fell from Preach’s lips, hot tears fell from Josephine’s eyes.

  How quick she was to grab for the reins the instant the path the Lord led her down took a turn she didn’t favor. Where was her trust? Her surrender?

  Josephine covered her face with her hands. Control was nothing more than an illusion, a lie to trap the competent in their own capability. One that created such a dependence on self that it clogged the conduit of wisdom and power flowing from the Omnipotent until only a trickle of living water found its way through.

  Help me, Lord. Clear out the debris of pride and fear clogging my soul and let your river of living water flow through me unhindered. Help me trust that you are at work. That you will fight for Matthew, for justice. And should the worst happen, that you will fight for me too. That I might believe in your goodness even in the pit of despair.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Matt bent low over Phineas’s neck, urging him to greater speed as he locked his gaze on the rider in black two hundred yards ahead. Taggart had the fresher mount, and he’d managed to get a jump on Matt by sneaking out the back door of the farmhouse, but Matt’s bones burned with the fire of justice, driving him to the edge of recklessness. Taggart would not escape. Not this time.

  Little by little, Phineas closed the gap. Taggart twisted to glance behind. Drew his pistol. Fired two shots.

  Matt ducked. The shots missed, but not by much. Taggart had skill.

  Matt considered returning fire, but his ammunition
was low, and rising up to make the shot would give Taggart a bigger target. Plus it would slow him down, and Matt intended to run this outlaw to ground.

  Another shot kicked up dirt a few feet in front of Phin’s hooves. Phineas didn’t even break stride, just ran on, as determined as the man on his back to accomplish the mission.

  They closed the distance to a hundred yards. Then fifty.

  Matt kept Phineas slightly to Taggart’s right, making it nearly impossible for the outlaw to get an accurate shot off, since he had to stretch his arm across and around his body to the left to shoot behind him.

  “We got him now, Phin.”

  Thirty yards to go.

  This time when Taggart craned his neck to look behind him, Matt could make out his scowl. Along with the fear in his eyes.

  The gun appeared at Taggart’s left side again, farther around his back this time. But the curve of his arm was too steep, and when he fired, the bullet flew wildly right.

  He only had one shot left, by Matt’s count. Not even an experienced outlaw could reload his weapon while racing on horseback.

  Twenty yards.

  The gun barrel appeared over Taggart’s right shoulder, the weapon upside down. A blind shot. A desperate shot.

  Gunfire cracked the air.

  Phineas stumbled, and his front legs crumpled beneath him. Matt flew forward. Kicked free of the stirrups. Tucked. Braced for impact.

  His shoulder slammed into the earth. Then his spine. His hip. Pain exploded everywhere. He rolled. Drew his revolver. Ignored the pain screaming at him to stop.

  He came up in a crouch. One shot. Had to make it count.

  Forty yards. Fifty.

  Matt exhaled. Aimed.

  Sixty yards.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Taggart fell forward, but stayed in the saddle. Slumped, but mounted.

  Seventy-five yards.

  Matt shot again, but Taggart was out of pistol range. He needed the Winchester.

  He lurched to his feet and limped back to Phineas, steeling himself against the agonizing sight of his beloved horse writhing on the ground. Phin would have to wait. Matt snatched the rifle from the scabbard, turned, and took aim.

  As he sighted the target, however, it moved. Taggart’s horse jumped over something in its path, and the jarring landing unseated the outlaw. Taggart slid sideways. Matt lifted his gaze from the rifle sight and squinted at the black figure nearly a hundred yards out.

  Taggart listed farther left, grappling for a hold on the saddle. But his weight was too unevenly distributed. He tumbled from the horse.

  Matt dropped his rifle into a one-handed grip and started running. Limping, really, but his pain-filled, ungainly stride smoothed out the more he ran. And he ran for all he was worth. He had to get to Taggart before the outlaw had a chance to reload. He might be down, but he still posed a threat.

  Taggart scrambled backward on his rump and heels, his revolver cradled against his belly as he fumbled to pull bullets from his gun belt. His left arm hung useless from its socket, blood staining his black shirt.

  Matt ran harder. The stitches in his side tore open, but he refused to relent.

  Taggart got one bullet loaded. Then another. He snapped the cylinder into place. Raised his weapon as Matt descended upon him.

  Matt swung the stock of his rifle and knocked the gun from the outlaw’s hand. Taggart lunged for the fallen weapon, and Matt dove atop him, pinning him to the ground. He knocked the gun out of reach. Taggart head-butted him, and daggers stabbed the backs of Matt’s eyes. He reared up, silver specks dancing through his vision. Then a fist danced into view and slammed against his jaw. The blow snapped Matt’s head around but failed to dislodge him.

  In a swift motion, Matt brought his rifle around, clasped it lengthwise in both hands, and brought it down across Taggart’s collarbone, neatly trapping the outlaw’s right arm beneath the stock and pinning it to the ground beside his head.

  “It’s over, Taggart,” Matt gritted out as he pressed his body weight onto the rifle, causing the barrel to dig into Taggart’s windpipe.

  The outlaw cursed and tried to buck Matt off. In response, Matt planted his knee atop the bloodied fabric covering Taggart’s left bicep. Taggart howled, then stilled. Hatred glared from his eyes.

  “You’ll pay for this, Hanger,” he rasped.

  Matt shrugged off the threat, recognizing it for what it was—a toothless attempt at intimidation from a man newly stripped of power.

  “Probably.” He would certainly pay in blood and bruises. But the reward of knowing Josie was safe and the outlaw who’d taken her was behind bars would be well worth the personal cost.

  Matt shifted his hold on the rifle and grabbed Taggart’s good arm. Lifting up, he flipped the outlaw onto his belly, planted his knee in the small of his back, and twisted his arm behind him. He yanked the injured arm behind him as well, earning another string of curses. Taking a coil of thin rope from inside his vest pocket, he wound the binding around Taggart’s wrists, tied it off, then yanked the outlaw to his feet and dragged him toward the horse that had halted about a dozen yards away after losing its rider.

  “Just be glad I’m not shooting you and leaving you for dead,” Matt said, a touch of irony lacing his tone.

  Taggart, his face mottled with rage, tried to jerk away, but Matt’s grip proved too strong. “I should have put you down when I had the chance. Ridden up and put a bullet between your eyes while your woman watched.”

  “Yep. You should have.” Matt grinned. “Though if you think she would have been a passive spectator, you’re sadly mistaken. Josie’s never passive about anything.”

  “Jonah Brooks, quit fiddling with that pile of saddlebags and come here so I can tend that wound.” Josephine badgered the last Horseman to submit to her doctoring. She’d already seen to the others, after tending the more serious injuries sustained by the outlaws, but Mr. Brooks was proving elusive.

  Jonah didn’t look up from where he rifled through the outlaw bags piled atop a sawhorse table at the back of the barn. “Leave me be. I’m busy.”

  “Fine. I’ll come to you.” Josephine grabbed her medical bag and the last of the bandages Arnold had made for her from the moth-nibbled sheet he’d found in the farmhouse linen closet.

  The camp cook had hidden for most of the battle, dashing into neutral territory behind the bushes that guarded the camp latrine after delivering Charlie to the chuck wagon. Once the gunfire ceased, he’d emerged to lend a hand, becoming Josephine’s medical assistant. At the moment, he was making the rounds through the barn-turned-infirmary, taking water to the outlaw patients who were conscious.

  Amazingly, there had been only two fatalities. The red-bearded Dawson had died where he’d fallen next to the farmhouse, and Carver had succumbed to his wounds despite Josephine’s efforts to save him. He’d been the most critically injured and therefore the one she’d tended first. She’d thrust his wickedly large knife into the coals of the cook fire and used it to cauterize the wound in his chest as quickly as she could in order to stem the massive blood loss, but it had been too late.

  By Mark’s count, five of Taggart’s men had escaped, two had perished, and four lay secured to their bunks in various states of injury. Over the last two hours, she’d cleaned wounds, sutured tissue, and pulled lead out of the very men who’d tried to destroy her family. Not that she’d thought of them that way while she worked. They’d simply been patients in need of a doctor.

  Looking at them now as she strode past them to get to Jonah, her clinical frame of mind numbed her emotions and allowed her to see them with a level of objectivity. How many had started off as foolish young men running with the wrong crowd, just like Charlie? They’d hardened over time, crime and rough living callousing their consciences until they no longer cared who they hurt in pursuit of gold, drink, and loose women. But they’d been children once, little boys with skinned knees and runny noses. Did they have family praying for them somewhere? Mother
s? Sisters?

  Take away their hearts of stone, Lord, and replace them with hearts of flesh so that they might repent and turn their lives toward you.

  She’d seen the change in Charlie and prayed fervently that he would continue along redemption’s path. She prayed her father would not stand in the way, but would offer forgiveness and guidance instead of blame and anger.

  At least he hadn’t killed her brother outright, Josephine thought with a wry grin. They’d arrived twenty minutes ago, neither very talkative, but both still able to sit a horse.

  “Better watch out, Brooks. The doc’s grinnin’. No telling what kind of torture she’s cooked up for you,” Preach called from his position at the north end of the barn where it opened into the paddock. From there he could guard the prisoners as well as watch the terrain for any outlaws who might return. Mark held a similar position at the south end.

  “I would argue that Mr. Brooks is far too intelligent to believe such a ludicrous charge,” Josephine stated as she came up behind Jonah, “but the fact that he keeps avoiding my attempts to tend his wounds has me questioning that assessment.”

  Jonah failed to rise to her bait. Just turned the saddlebag he’d been searching upside down and shook it until every last crumb of stale hardtack tumbled out.

  Josephine set her doctor’s bag on the table and crossed her arms. “Your search for outlaw gold can wait, Mr. Brooks. I need to clean that gash on your head.”

  “It ain’t gold I’m hunting, Doc.” More than impatience tinged his voice. There was something that sounded like . . . heartbreak.

  Josephine uncrossed her arms and placed a hand on the sharpshooter’s shoulder. “What is it, Jonah? What are you looking for?”

  His hands stopped their frantic shaking of the leather bag, but his gaze never left the table. “My daddy’s compass.” His quiet words pierced her heart. “It weren’t in my bag. One of the outlaws must’ve taken it.”

  A family heirloom, perhaps all he had left of the man who’d fathered him.

  She pushed her medical bag aside and grabbed one of the emptied pouches. “I’ll help you search.”