pushed herself to move faster, trying to ignore the fire that licked at her ankle with each step. But she’d only covered half the distance when she saw his aim waver.
“Mr. Lassiter!” Changing course, she made a beeline toward him, but before she could reach him, his eyes fluttered closed. He swayed, then slowly crumpled to the ground.
Jo charged across the last few yards, her pulse pounding an urgent rhythm. This was her fault. She should have done more to warn him, should have intervened sooner.
He had to be okay. She would not have his death on her conscience.
An eternity of seconds later, Jo dropped to her knees beside him, braced for the worst. A part of her registered the sound of Otis’s retreat, but he’d left his rifle behind so she let him go. Right now Mr. Lassiter’s well-being was more important than getting vengeance on that bucket of pond scum.
Jo gently brushed the hair from his brow. The low moan that greeted her was the sweetest sound she’d heard in quite some time.
No time to savor her relief, though. He might be alive, but he was far from okay. He hadn’t opened his eyes and his breathing was thready. The red stain that drenched his shirt was getting darker by the minute. Even more worrisome was the blood that matted one side of his head.
Gorge rose in her throat but she sent up a prayer for strength. This wasn’t the time to act like some prim and proper twit—Mr. Lassiter needed help and right now she was all he had.
Jo gently probed his head where the blood seemed thickest. Yep, there was the wound. Nothing lodged there—best she could tell the bullet had grazed him, gouging a furrow as it went. No way to know how serious it was until Doc Whitman got a look at it.
Trying to remain alert in case Otis circled back, she turned her attention to Mr. Lassiter’s arm. Using her pocketknife, she cut open his sleeve to get a better look. The source of all that blood was quickly found—a nasty hole in his upper arm, an ugly, gaping thing that oozed a sluggish stream of blood.
Tightening her jaw, she gingerly examined the wound.
When Jo found the exit hole on the other side of his arm, she swiped her sleeve across her forehead and got her breathing back under control. At least she wouldn’t have to try to dig the blamed bullet out.
Now that the initial gut-churning shock was behind her, Jo’s control snapped back into place.
First order of business—stop the bleeding. Between the two wounds, and pushing himself to defend the two of them, he’d lost entirely too much blood.
Had he really thrown his already-injured-body between her and Otis? The man was either the flea-brained fool she’d called him earlier or one of the most heroic men she’d ever met.
Maybe both.
If he hadn’t stopped Otis—
Her mind rebelled, refusing to finish that thought.
Setting her jaw, she cut his now useless sleeve completely off, then did the same with his other one and both of hers. Taking a few precious minutes to wet one of the strips in the stream, she used it to clean his injuries as best she could. Then she formed pads with the remaining cloths and bound them in place.
Sitting back, Jo stretched her leg to ease the throbbing. She watched her unconscious hero closely for a few minutes, then nodded in satisfaction. The blood seemed staunched, for now at least. It would be nice, though, if he’d open those gunpowder gray eyes again, even if it was just for a moment. Long enough to assure her he’d be all right.
She took a quick glance around. They seemed to be out of any immediate danger. Otis was long gone and Clete hadn’t moved from where he’d fallen.
She squared her shoulders and slowly turned to her right. Like a coward, she’d been avoiding what she knew had to be done.
Rising heavily, she headed toward the fallen horse that had served as Mr. Lassiter’s living shield.
Chapter Five
Scout had quit struggling, but his muscles quivered with each labored breath. It was obvious the animal’s injuries were irreparable, his time left extremely painful. Jo felt the hot tears come as she knelt to stroke the horse’s neck.
The horse she’d raised from a colt gazed at her with pain-filled eyes as she gently finger combed the tangles from his mane.
Heavenly Father, help me through this ’cause I don’t think I can do it on my own.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. With a final pat, Jo wiped her eyes, stood and aimed the rifle.
A heartbeat later, it was over. She lowered the gun, still holding it with both hands. The weight seemed almost more than she could bear.
But mourning was a luxury she couldn’t afford right now—time to refocus on the needs of the living. She paused by Mr. Lassiter’s side long enough to assure herself he was still breathing, then, steeling her nerve, Jo limped over to where Clete lay. Doing her best to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she rolled the body over. A quick look was all it took. The beefy outlaw was quite dead.
Everything had happened so fast when she charged into the meadow. She hadn’t aimed, just fired, trying to draw attention from Mr. Lassiter. Could one of her bullets have done this?
That thought broke the last thread of her control and she found herself on all fours, heaving.
It was several minutes before she could straighten back up.
Determined to be practical, Jo averted her gaze from Clete’s unseeing stare and pulled out her pocketknife again. Making quick work of it, she cut large strips from his shirt. It felt like grave robbing, but it wasn’t as if Clete had any more use for the shirt, and it was a sure bet she’d need additional bandages for Mr. Lassiter before this was over. And with evening coming on she couldn’t afford to sacrifice any more of their own clothing.
She wadded up the swaths of cloth, then retrieved the dead man’s rifle, using it to ease herself back up with a groan. Yep, she’d be feeling the effects of that fall for several days.
Playing a hunch, she studied the wooded area where Clete and Otis had hidden earlier. Catching a glimpse of movement, she gave a satisfied smile. Sure enough, a few minutes later she found Clete’s horse, tethered to a low branch just inside the wood.
Thank goodness Otis hadn’t bothered to take the animal with him. With Licorice halfway back to Knotty Pine and Scout dead, this horse would give them some much needed options.
Once she had the mare tethered near the stream, Jo returned to Mr. Lassiter’s side, wiping his face with a damp cloth. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could think to do at the moment. His breathing seemed stronger, but he was still unconscious and pale as moonlight.
She hated feeling so all-fired useless. He needed more than puny old wet cloths. He needed a doctor, and the sooner the better. But all she could do for now was make him as comfortable as possible.
Jo rubbed her calf, trying to ease a bit of the throbbing. Too bad there wasn’t anyone here to see to her comfort.
Oh, well, like it or not, being the one to do the looking after had become her lot in life.
With a sigh, she stood and began gathering wood to make a fire, one that would not only ward off the coming chill of evening but would also create lots of smoke.
Whenever the search party came looking—she refused to believe that wouldn’t happen soon—she wanted to make finding them as easy as possible.
Ry stirred, then grimaced. His head throbbed as if a judge were pounding a gavel in his skull, and there seemed to be a branding iron pressed into his shoulder. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, then fisted his hands against the pain that shot through his leg. Thunderation! It felt like he’d been mule kicked.
Was