by Warner, Kaki
First, do no harm.
But neither of them had anticipated Hennessey.
Molly shivered as the cold wind seeped through the wool interfacing of her shearling coat. Even in heavy gloves, her hands were starting to go numb, and her toes ached with a vengeance despite the fleece lining of her boots. She had to make a decision soon, or they would both freeze to death. She had read that freezing wasn’t an unpleasant way to die, but she had no intention of finding out firsthand.
How long before Hennessey stopped breathing? How long could she wait?
Somewhere out on the flats a coyote howled. Then another, and another. The sound was eerie in the silence and made the nerves prickle under her skin. They would smell the blood. Or a cougar would. Or wolves. They would come as soon as it grew dark. Maybe sooner.
She couldn’t wait. She had to do something now.
She rose, then almost fell backward in fright when she saw Hennessey’s eyes were open. Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled out the gun, thumbed back the hammer so that a live round rested beneath the firing pin, and pointed the barrel at him.
He groaned. His lids fluttered closed.
She waited, the gun bobbing in her hands, her breath fogging the air.
His eyes opened again. Blinking against the tiny snowflakes peppering his face, he scanned an erratic arc without moving his head until his gaze found hers.
“Lovey.”
She watched, the pistol aimed at his face, waiting to see what he would do.
He just lay there, blinking groggily at her. Other than his eyes, he still hadn’t moved.
“Are you hurt?” she finally asked.
“My . . . head.”
“Anywhere else?”
“My face. Eyes. What did you do to me, bitch?”
Stepping closer, she nudged the leg she thought might be broken. He didn’t react.
“Can you move?”
A frown crossed his face. Then a grimace. With obvious effort he lifted his head an inch off the ground, then groaned and let it fall back. “What . . . happened?”
She lowered the pistol but kept it cocked. “Your horse fell on you. I think your back is broken.”
She watched that sink in. She sensed his efforts to move and his growing fear when he couldn’t. He started breathing hard and fast and a look of sheer terror crossed his scarred face. “Do something. You’re a healer. Do something!”
She uncocked the pistol and slipped it back into her pocket. “No.”
His eyes widened until white showed all around his dark irises. Air hissed through his bared yellow teeth. “You have to! You have to help me!”
“No, I don’t.” Dropping onto her heels, Molly folded her arms across her knees and looked at him. “You killed my father,” she said in a voice that sounded distant and flat even in her own ear. “You hurt me. You threatened my family. You don’t deserve to live.”
“Damn you, bitch! Do something!”
“No.” Molly rose.
On the flats, the coyotes howled again. More this time. Closer. She looked down at the monster sprawled at her feet. “Do you hear that, lovey? They’re coming for you. I’d start praying if I were you.” She turned and started up the slope.
“No! You can’t leave me!” Hennessey tried to scream, but his damaged voice made it sound like a dying gasp.
She kept climbing.
He kept screaming.
She tried not to listen.
“Shoot me, at least! Don’t let them eat me alive!”
She stopped and looked back, hating him, wanting him to suffer, relishing the vengeful satisfaction that coursed through her. “You won’t feel it. Your nerves are damaged. Except for the tugging and the sounds, you won’t even know. But while it’s happening, think about all the people you’ve hurt and the lives you’ve taken. Think about my father.” She started walking again.
“They’ll tear me apart!”
She climbed on, her breathing harsh and loud.
“Please . . . oh, God . . . help me.”
Unable to stop herself, she looked back.
He was weeping now. Staring blindly up at the snowy sky, a broken wreck of a man who was already half-dead.
She felt herself weaken and fought against it. This is what he deserves. This is what Papa deserves.
“Kill me,” he begged in his raspy voice. “It’s what you want. Just do it.”
She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the cold wetness on her cheeks. Papa’s face loomed in her mind.
First, do no harm.
Then what? she wanted to shout. I can’t fix him and I can’t kill him, so what am I supposed to do?
The wind soughed.
Beyond the rim, a coyote howled.
Below her, splayed like a supplicant before God, Hennessey sobbed.
“Damn you!” she shouted at Hennessey, at Papa, at herself. Then swiping a hand across her face, she turned and started back down into the gully.
TWO MILES PAST THE GATE, HANK SAW MILEY AND HENCH riding to meet them. Without Molly. Cursing under his breath, he pulled up to wait.
“Lost her tracks in the snow a mile up,” Hench, the older of the two ranch hands, said when they stopped in front of Hank and Brady and the dozen riders crowding behind them. “Still headed west, far as we could tell.”
“Found a second set of tracks along the ridge line,” Miley added.
“Running parallel to the first.”
“Like someone was following her?” Brady asked.
Hank’s stomach knotted even tighter.
Miley shrugged. “Maybe. The tracks weren’t from one of ours. Except for the one, all our horses are accounted for.”
Hennessey.
Pushing aside his fear, Hank tried to guess what Molly was thinking. What was her destination? She wasn’t familiar with this country. How would she know where to go? There was nothing in the direction she was headed for fifty miles or more. So what was she looking for?
The answer hit him. Not a destination—a direction. Her tracks had pointed steadily west until Hench and Miley lost them under the snow. Maybe she would continue on that heading until she found whatever she was looking for.
Or until whatever—or whoever—she was looking for found her. “I’m riding west,” he told Brady. “She started off that way and I’m guessing she’s still on track.”
“Then I’ll follow the ridge, see if I can spot anything.” Turning in the saddle, Brady told the riders behind him to split into pairs and spread out across the valley. “Stay in sight of each other,” he cautioned. “Fire two rounds if you find her. Three if you need help.”
Hank rode on, following the tracks Hench and Miley had laid until they stopped and turned back. Then he continued west through unmarked snow.
Even though more clouds were building in the west, the afternoon sun shone through misty breaks, reflecting off the snow in a blinding glare. If there was trouble waiting ahead, he wouldn’t see it until he was on top of it. But he didn’t slow.
Molly was out there somewhere. Maybe lost. Maybe hurt. She had no idea how quickly things could go bad in this country, whether it was Hennessey, a sudden storm, a drop-off hidden beneath the snow, or a hungry cougar on the prowl. She could be in trouble and not even know it. And with the sun dropping toward the mountains and more snow on the way, she was fast running out of time.
Memories assaulted him—her fierce determination to save him when his arm got infected. Her blushes and reluctant smiles. The way her skin quivered under his questing hand and the little sounds she made when he moved inside her.
He quickened his pace, constantly scanning, stopping every now and then to listen. Sound carried a long way over unbroken ground, but he heard nothing, not even birdcalls or the distant bawling of cattle up in the canyons. Once he thought he heard coyotes up ahead, but it was so far away he couldn’t be sure. He tried to use his vision and color deficiencies to help him see patterns in the snow or shadows where tracks had been befo
re they’d been covered. But there was nothing.
As the sun dropped, fear began to erode his resolve. Molly filled his thoughts, her laughter echoing in his mind, her gentle spirit wrapping around his heart. He would find her. He would give her hell for causing him so much worry, then he would bring her back home where she belonged.
Maybe then he could breathe again.
The miles inched by, and the sun dropped lower. He bounced between anger that she had wandered off like this, and terror that he would never find her—or that Hennessey already had. But he doggedly kept riding because it was all he knew to do, and stopping would mean giving up, which would kill him.
Twenty-five
MOLLY STAYED AS LONG AS SHE COULD, NOT OUT OF CONCERN for Hennessey, but because she needed to know for certain that it was over.
She’d given him the full syringe, the largest dose of laudanum she’d ever administered. She didn’t know if it was enough to kill, but it should put him out for a long time. Hopefully, until he froze to death. Or died of his injuries. Or the scavengers had done their work. She didn’t care which. She just wanted him dead and the threat of him gone forever.
Pacing back and forth to stay warm and keep blood flowing in her legs and feet, she waited for the drug to take effect. When his pulse finally slowed and his breathing grew shallow and his skin took on a grayish pallor, she turned and climbed back up the steep side of the gully.
It was hard going. She kept tripping on the long coat, and the rocks were unstable and slippery, and she was so chilled her muscles felt stiff and sluggish. By the time she reached the top, her throat burned from the cold air and she was so winded she bent over, panting. When she caught her breath, she straightened and looked around for her horse.
And didn’t find it.
She was so shocked she simply stood there, staring in disbelief at the broken branch of the bush where she had left him tied. For one hopeful moment she thought maybe it was the wrong bush, but the churned-up snow at its base told her otherwise.
Her heart almost stopped in her chest. She searched frantically, then saw his hoof prints heading back the way they had come, and knew she was truly abandoned.
You fool! Now what are you going to do?
Forcing herself to breathe calmly and evenly, she tried to assess the situation.
How far was she from the ranch house? Six miles? Eight? If she covered two miles in an hour, it would take her almost five hours to get back. Glancing at the sky, she saw that the sun was already poised on the peaks of the mountains. In an hour it would be dark. She didn’t remember if there was a full moon or if there would be enough starlight to see where she was stepping. What if it started snowing again?
She could fall into a gully.
Or lose her bearings and walk in circles.
Or freeze to death.
Unless the scavengers found her first.
If her teeth hadn’t been chattering so hard, she would have shrieked in frustration. She wanted to weep. And curse. And scream at the injustice of it—at Hennessey for forcing her out here—at herself for not tying her horse more securely—at Hank for leaving her behind—at God for allowing this to happen.
Damn—damn—damn! Realizing she was edging toward hysteria, she struggled to bring her shattered emotions in check. Closing her eyes, she breathed deep and slow while she silently chanted the phrase that had sustained her countless times in the surgery room.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
Her heartbeat evened out, her mind cleared. Reason returned.
“I can do this,” she said aloud, and almost believed it.
After securing the hood more tightly around her face and neck, she checked her pocket for the pistol then started walking east, away from the lowering sun.
Hopefully, by now they would be looking for her. If she followed her runaway horse’s tracks, they should lead her back to the ranch, or the searchers would follow the tracks back to her. Unless her stupid horse had as poor a sense of direction as she did, and led her away from her rescuers rather than toward them.
At least it had stopped snowing. Maybe the sky would clear. Which meant moonlight or starlight. But it also meant a deadly drop in temperature.
Fighting panic and the urge to run, she forced herself to keep a steady, manageable pace, comforting herself with the knowledge that the scavengers would be busy with the horse for a while. Then Hennessey.
And then, well, she still had the pistol and five rounds.
AT FIRST, HANK THOUGHT IT WAS A COW THAT HAD WANdered from the herd during the snowstorm, but as he drew closer, he saw it was a horse. A riderless horse with an empty saddle and dragging reins.
Teeth clenched in frustration, he pulled up and waited for the animal to approach, afraid if he charged toward it like he wanted to, it would spook and run off. As it neared, he recognized it as the sorrel gelding Molly had ridden to Redemption and the one the Garcia boy said she’d taken today.
With a feeling of dread, he scanned the saddle for blood. He saw none, but what he did notice was the broken sage branch tied at the end of the dangling reins. He took some comfort in knowing she hadn’t fallen or been thrown. But he felt like putting a bullet in the horse’s head for running off and leaving her. Then he wanted to kiss his hairy lips in gratitude because he realized that, in running off, the horse had left a trail that would lead straight back to Molly.
Grabbing the sorrel’s loose reins, he kicked his bay into a gallop. He was close now. He could feel it. Feel her. That connection he always sensed whenever she was near was almost humming now.
He wanted to shake her. Hug her. Yell at her until he rid himself of this helpless terror.
He’d find her, and then . . . bigod . . .
MOLLY SAW HIM COMING AND ALMOST FELL TO HER KNEES IN
relief. She knew it was Hank. Who else would ride so furiously to her rescue? Who else had always come to her whenever she needed him?
Her Hank. Her beautiful dark knight.
Pressing both hands to her face, she wept into her gloves, then laughed, then wept some more. By the time he pulled the horse into a snow-churning slide in front of her, she had regained control of her tears, even though the shaking continued.
He loomed over her, his face livid, his mouth set in a tight, grim line.
Blinking up at him through the steamy breath from his winded horse, she tried to smile. “What took you so long?”
“Goddamnit, Molly!” He yanked the pistol from the holster at his hip, pointed it into the air, and fired off two rounds.
Both she and the horse flinched. Ears ringing, the smell of spent gunpowder sharp in her nose, she watched him reholster the pistol, realizing he’d been signaling other searchers.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, still glaring down at her.
She nodded.
“Do you know how many people are out looking for you? How worried we all were? Christ, Molly, what were you thinking?”
She would have been offended if she hadn’t seen the tremor in his hands and the worry and exhaustion in his face. She had seen this kind of frantic reaction to fear before, and knew not to be hurt by it. He had come for her. Others searched for her. She shouldn’t have been surprised by that, but she’d been alone for so much of her life she was both shocked and humbled that so many people cared enough to put themselves at risk on her behalf.
Not that she regretted what she had done, despite the worry she might have caused. She was the only one who could have stopped Hennessey. And she had.
She had.
She didn’t know whether to laugh in triumph or weep in despair.
“I’m sorry, Hank, I—I—”
Then suddenly he was on the ground beside her, wrapping her in his arms, his grip so tight she could scarcely draw in a breath. The muffled thundering of his heart against her cheek was the most welcome sound she had ever heard.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he said in a ragged voice against her
hood. “I thought he had you.”
Pressing her face against his jacket, she drew in her husband’s clean masculine scent and tried to rid herself of the stench of Hennessey.
He drew back and studied her face. She could see the confusion in his eyes. And doubt. “What happened, Molly? Why did you get off your horse? Why didn’t you come back when it started snowing? What’s going on?”
She began shivering so hard her teeth chattered. “H-Hank, I—”
Immediately his confusion gave way to worry. “Christ, you’re freezing.” He rubbed his gloved hands up and down her arms. “Can you ride?”
When she nodded, he swept her up into his arms. “Then let’s go home.”
“WHY AREN’T YOU UPSTAIRS WITH YOUR WIFE?”
Turning from his perusal of the moonlit stretches beyond his office window, Hank saw his brother leaning against the doorframe, a pair of cut-glass tumblers in one hand, a crystal decanter in the other. “Why aren’t you with yours?” he countered.
“Consuelo’s tending her.” Crossing to Hank’s desk, Brady used the bottle to clear a spot amid the parts strewn across the top, then set down the glasses. “Women things,” he added, pouring an inch of Scotch whiskey into each glass. “Things I’d just as soon not know about.” He held out a glass to Hank. “What’s your excuse?”
Hank didn’t answer. What could he say? That his wife was keeping secrets from him again and he didn’t know why, and he was afraid to bring it up for fear of damaging the trust they’d worked so hard to rebuild between them?
“She’s talking to the children,” he said instead. “I told her about Fletcher, and she wanted to make sure Charlie was all right.”
