Another bullet slammed into the ground beside him. Bits of rock, as sharp as needles, flew into his face. Brock turned his head, grateful this bullet had not slammed into him—one bullet wound was enough, thank you—and tried to shield Stevie Rae as best he could, though she continued to squirm beneath him. “Stay still, Stevie,” he whispered.
“I’m not going to let him take me lying down, Brock,” she hissed back and tried to buck him off of her.
“He’s not going to take anyone.”
“How do you know that?” Her breath fanned the dirt in front of her. “Just let me reach my pistol.”
“Why? So you can shoot me again? I don’t think so.” He tightened his grip on her, enfolding her in his arms.
The fight left her and she no longer struggled to get out from beneath him. “At least let me turn over. I have rocks digging into my stomach, not to mention my face and…everything else. And I can’t breathe.”
Without a word, Brock loosened his embrace. Not a lot, but enough to allow her to turn in his arms, her back now in the dirt, her breasts crushing against his chest. He would have smiled if his leg didn’t hurt so much. Hell, he would be laughing and kissing her right now if circumstances were different. Her mouth was so close, her lips so tempting. For a brief moment of insanity, he thought if he was going to die anyway, he wanted one last taste of her.
Brock lowered his head, his lips touching hers tenderly…
Pain blossomed in his side, sharp as a knife blade and hotter than the flames of Hades. Blood wet his shirt, first hot then cold. “Damn!”
“Brock? Did he hit you again?”
He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t. He fought against the pain, which seemed to be spreading, the burning, stinging sensation settling deep within. His concern wasn’t for himself. He’d been shot before—he was shot now. He had survived, but she—
“I’m not hurt.” She shook her head, her gaze roaming his face, her hands coming up to smooth the fine lines on his forehead. “What about you?”
“I’m good.”
“Liar.”
He shook his head and grinned, despite the pain. He should have known better than to try to lie to her. “Bastard shot me again.”
She stiffened beneath him, her bright blue eyes wide and filled with so many emotions, he couldn’t define them all. “Where?”
“Left side, just above my waist,” he panted. “Upper thigh.”
“Let me up, Brock. Let me at least look at you.”
“You’re not going anywhere until he’s gone or I’m—”
Another shot rang out, followed by two more, all three slamming into the ground on either side of them. Brock held her tighter, shielding her face, covering her body as best he could.
“Don’t you dare say it, Brock MacDermott. Don’t you—” She began to wriggle beneath him, which just made him pull her closer, despite the waves of dizziness sweeping through him. Loss of blood could do that, and he had lost some blood. His leg and side were wet with it, his leg throbbing with every beat of his heart. He couldn’t even begin to describe the pain in his side except that it was cold yet hot and burned with an intensity that made holding on to a coherent thought difficult. He tried. He shook his head to clear it and forced himself to listen. New sounds intruded into the slight buzz filling his ears.
The pounding of hooves raced across the top of the canyon, followed by more gunshots, but these were different in pitch…higher, faster…and none of them were coming his way. “Someone’s chasing him off.”
It grew quiet. The crazed laughter and the bullets whistling past his head stopped, but the pain remained as he rolled onto his back, allowing her to scramble out from beneath him, then quickly rolled back to his stomach to keep dirt from getting into the wound. He pulled air into his lungs and concentrated on fighting the dizziness.
• • •
Stevie Rae shot to her feet, her attention immediately on Brock. Her gaze roamed over his body, assessing his injuries. Blood seeped from his wounds—one in his thigh, the other in his side—soaking his shirt and trouser leg. Her stomach lurched to see him hurt, but she forced the nausea away. She was her father’s daughter—he had taught her well—as had the instructors at medical school. She had seen worse than this, but that was in a different time and place. She kept her tone light. “It’s not too bad.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” He grunted and spoke into the ground beneath him. “You’re not the one who’s been shot.”
“No, I wasn’t, thanks to you.” But I could have been. The thought brought her up short. He had done this for her, had saved her life. At the cost of his own? She shook her head, determined his sacrifice would not be in vain. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up.”
Again, he grunted and turned his head to look at her. “Now who’s the liar?”
She didn’t answer the question. Instead, she crouched beside him. “I’m sorry. This is going to hurt.” She tugged at his shirt, pulling the tails from the waistband of his trousers. Brock didn’t move or say a word, though he gasped loudly and his muscles stiffened. Her stomach tightened from the pain she caused him.
Lifting his shirt away from his skin, she examined the bloody crease along his side. The bullet had grazed him, leaving a deep groove that welled with blood, but it wasn’t life-threatening. At least, she didn’t think so. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket—the one he’d given her so long ago—and pressed the square of cotton to his bloody side. It turned crimson in an instant. Fear trickled through her, leaving the taste of metal in her mouth, as she pressed the bloody handkerchief to the wound.
He needed a doctor. Now. But how? What choices did she have?
Not many. At least the shooting had stopped, but the horses were gone, as was her stubborn mule, which meant that they were stranded here with no supplies at all, not even her father’s old black medical bag.
She needed to stop his bleeding before she did anything else, wrap up his wounds as best she could with whatever was at hand—in this case, his clothing and hers. There was nothing else. Even bandaged, he could still lose enough blood to…she refused to finish that thought.
“We can’t stay here, Stevie. We have to go.” Brock struggled to his hands and knees, his breath wheezing in and out of his lungs. Fresh blood flowed from both wounds—dripping from his already sodden shirt and pant leg. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his skin took on a waxy sheen beneath his tan but somehow, he managed to get to his feet.
“We have to go,” he repeated as he slung his arm around her shoulders.
Her heart pounded as she staggered under his weight. If he fell, she would never be able to help him back up. “Go where, Brock?”
“Out of this canyon.” His breath hissed through his teeth as he put all his weight on his injured leg and would have collapsed if he hadn’t had his arm around her shoulder.
Stevie stifled the panic rising in her and kept him on his feet by sheer force of will. “How do you suppose we do that? In case you haven’t noticed, the horses are gone and you’ve been shot.”
“No choice but to walk.”
“And you’re in fine condition to do that.” Exasperation and worry made her tone sharper than she intended. The blood seeping through the handkerchief as well as her fingers didn’t help, either. “At least let me look at your wounds. Bandage them up. See if I can find something we can use as a crutch.”
“We don’t have time. Logan—”
“Forget about Logan. Besides, how can you chase him now? You can’t even stand up straight.”
“Not chase.” His eyes rolled back in his head, and he started to slip back toward the ground. “Not chase. Need someplace safe.”
She stumbled as she took more of his weight on her. “Don’t pass out on me now, Brock.” She took a deep breath, more to calm her nerves than anything else. If he fell… “We’re going to walk slowly. One step at a time. Can you do that?”
He nodded, but did not speak. It was just a
s well. He needed to conserve his energy so they could make it out of the sun.
Spurred on by the fear rippling up and down her spine, Stevie Rae helped him to the shade of the overhang and steadied him as he lowered himself to the ground, once again on his stomach.
“I think the bullet is still in your leg. I didn’t see any blood on your trousers in the front, only the back.”
“Do what you have to do.”
Stevie nodded, then ripped the leg of his trousers where the bullet had made a hole. Brock’s breath whistled between his teeth as he sucked in his breath, but he didn’t move.
Again, her stomach lurched as she blotted the blood away with the already drenched handkerchief, which wasn’t much help. “Give me your flask.”
He twisted to the side and dug the silver container out of his pocket. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and took a drink before handing it to her.
“This is going to sting.” Pulling the handkerchief away, she poured the whiskey he liked so much over her fingers as well as his wound.
Brock cursed, a word that normally would have made Stevie blush, but under the circumstances, she didn’t blame him for saying it. She might have said the same. She glanced at his face and wondered how he held on to consciousness. This would be so much easier if he simply passed out. Then she wouldn’t be afraid of hurting him more than he already was.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply but stiffened and suppressed a groan when she used her finger to follow the path the bullet had made and tried to locate the brass slug. As she suspected, it was lodged deep in his thigh.
She ripped the sleeves off her blouse, wadded one, and pressed it over the wound, then tried to bandage his leg with the other. It wasn’t nearly long enough—the edges met but there was no way to tie them together. His thigh was too thick with muscle. Frustration made tears well in her eyes and blurred her vision. “Think, Stevie. Think. What would Papa do?”
“About what?”
“My sleeve isn’t long enough to bandage your thigh. I…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Memories of assisting her father as he treated his patients flowed through her mind, but it didn’t help. He’d always had his medical bag, the sturdy leather case a treasure trove of everything a doctor would need. She had no such bag of tricks, just her own common sense, which told her she needed to stop his bleeding by whatever means necessary, be it right or wrong.
Pulling her knife from her pocket, she cut a slit at the top of the sleeve where it would meet the shirt’s shoulder and ripped down to the cuff. She made another slit at the seam and ripped that side as well, leaving the cuff intact. Now long enough, she tied the two ends together, keeping the other wadded-up sleeve in place. She glanced at his face. He wasn’t smiling, but pride seemed to radiate from his pain-glossy eyes.
“That’s my girl. I knew you’d figure it out. Now finish. Quickly, if you can.”
Stevie nodded, then pulled up the tail of his shirt and turned her attention to the bloody gash in his side. If she had needle and thread, she could have sewn the edges together, but she had neither. What remained of her blouse would never reach around him to make a bandage. She studied the legs of her split skirt—they fell in graceful folds over her boots. Were they wide enough? Would the soft suede be suitable to absorb the flow of blood if it were wide enough to fit around him? She didn’t think so, which left her with one choice…really, no choice at all. She’d have to use his clothing, too.
“I need to use the sleeves of your shirt as bandages.”
He didn’t speak as he rolled to his back and sat up against the rocks, then held his arms straight out. Taking her knife, she cut his sleeves from his shirt, then tied them together at the cuffs and wrapped everything around his waist, tying off the ends. Finished, she leaned back against the rock.
Brock reached out and caressed the side of her face, then wiped the tears from beneath her eyes with his thumb. “Thank you.”
She nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat, then jumped up, collected her hat where it had fallen, and ran down to the water’s edge, ever mindful that Logan might still be around. She washed her hands and rinsed the blood from the handkerchief, then scooped cold water into the crown of the hat before heading back to the overhang.
Despite the shade of the rock shelf above them, the temperature was rising and sweat made her chemise stick to her skin. Pain and the heat made Brock’s face shine with perspiration. She dipped the handkerchief into the water and swiped the cloth on his cheek and forehead.
“Hey,” he whispered and grabbed her hand. “Are you all right?”
She bit her lip and nodded, trying hard to keep her emotions in check. Falling apart now wouldn’t help either one of them. She pulled her hand free of his, dipped the handkerchief into the water, and dabbed at his face again.
“I know what you’re thinking.” He reached for her hand once more, forced her to drop the handkerchief, and brought her fingers to his lips.
Stevie was about to ask him what he knew when a noise off in the distance drew her attention. She jumped, startled.
“Stevie? What is it?”
“Shhhh! Listen.”
The steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves against hard rock met her ears. The clatter came from the north. Or maybe from the south. It was impossible to tell—sound echoed and bounced off the canyon walls. Stevie Rae swallowed hard and whispered, “Horses. Coming closer.”
Was this their salvation? Or their doom? Was Logan making his way to where they were to kill them? Would their bodies be found months or years from now? Or never? Would anyone mourn their passing?
“Can you see who it is?”
She shook her head and slowly rose to her feet, then pulled her pistol from its holster, cocking the hammer. If she was going to be killed, it would be while standing her ground and protecting her man.
My man? She pushed the thought away for a more convenient time, if there would be such a thing, and scanned the horizon. She saw nothing except rock wall, cloudless, blue sky, and a hawk catching the thermals caused by the rising heat. Her focus shifted to her left. Only the meandering Mora and a path leading north met her intense focus. Beyond that, dense trees clung to the banks of the river, making it impossible to see anything more. To the south, much the same view.
The sound drew closer, and panic made her stomach clench. She raised the pistol, using both hands the way Brock had shown her, and waited, hardly daring to draw breath. Moments later, the plaintive braying of the world’s most unhappy mule echoed off the canyon walls, and relief surged through her, leaving her weak-kneed. A silent prayer of thanks skittered through her mind when Joe Bennett rode into view from the north, leading their horses as well as Whiskey Pete, who was carrying her medical bag.
She uncocked the pistol and slid it back into the holster, then turned toward Brock. He, too, had drawn his gun. “It’s Joe.”
He nodded once, then released the hammer and let the pistol fall to his lap, his energy expended. Blood from the wound in his leg dripped to the dirt beneath him.
“Brock. Stevie.” Joe touched the brim of his hat with his gloved fingertips, then dismounted with ease a few moments later. “Glad to see you’re both still alive. Wasn’t sure I’d be in time.”
“It would take more than a few bullets to kill me,” Brock said.
Stevie bit her tongue, knowing that sometimes it only took one well-aimed bullet to take someone’s life. He’d been lucky. So had she. She took the reins from Joe’s hand and led the horses as well as Whiskey Pete closer to the water’s edge, where they could drink their fill. She scratched the mule between his ears, then rejoined the men in the shade.
“Not that I’m not grateful, Joe, but what are you doing here?” Brock’s voice was tight but filled with appreciation.
“As soon as you left town, I got this feeling something just wasn’t right.” Joe hunkered dow
n beside Brock and removed his hat. “Why would Logan leave messages specifically for you, then disappear? He had to know I’d get in touch with you and that you’d come to see what he’d done. And then it occurred to me: What better way to finish what he started in Paradise Falls than to lie in wait for you somewhere along the trail?” He shrugged and stood, nearly hitting his head on the rock overhang. “I grabbed some men and rode out to find you. Saw someone sitting on his horse and shooting into the canyon. Figured it was Logan and he had you pinned. Hopefully, Sylvester and Pecos Bill will catch him.” He shrugged again, and his face took on a slight flush. “Guess I wasn’t in time, though. He got you.”
“But I ain’t dead yet.”
“No, you’re not.” He turned and mumbled something about being tired of losing friends, then approached Stevie Rae. He gestured toward Brock with his thumb. “Can he ride?”
Stevie Rae shook her head. “I’m sure he could, but I don’t think he should. One of the bullets grazed his side. I bet it hurts like the dickens, but it’s not life-threatening. I am worried about the bullet lodged in his thigh, though. It’s pretty deep. I can remove it, but no, he won’t be able to ride after that.”
Joe nodded and pulled a long, wicked Bowie knife from its sheath and tested the sharpness of the blade. “I can build a travois to bring him back to town.”
“I’d rather ride.” Brock’s mouth turned down in displeasure, an expression Stevie had seen more than once and usually directed at her, as it was now. “Wouldn’t be caught dead being dragged behind a horse on one of those things.”
“Logan almost took care of that for you, and if you don’t shut up, I may finish what he started,” Joe told him with equal parts sarcasm and affection, then ignored the colorful cuss words Brock threw his way.
Under normal circumstances, Stevie Rae would have smiled. Perhaps even laughed. She liked the way these two men interacted with each other, but these were hardly normal circumstances and she had no time for shenanigans. She shot them both a look, hoping to stop their nonsense, but it had the opposite effect. Instead of becoming contrite, they both grinned at her like little boys who’d been caught raiding the cookie jar, ones who would do it again as soon as her back was turned.
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 23
