The Marshal was moaning so he was still alive. She dashed back to pick up her things plus his hat and returned to find him silent once more. Taking a swig out of her canteen she then wet her kerchief and moistened his lips. His mouth opened a little, so she squeezed a few drops on to his tongue.
“Who are you?” His voice was harsh, almost guttural. His eyes flickered open for a second or two and she noticed they were blue.
“A good Samaritan,” she said. What was wrong with her. “I’m Jemma Holbrook.” He didn’t appear to hear; his eyes had closed as he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
It was cooler under the trees, better for him here than out in the hot sun. Her shirt clung damply to her back and breasts. Her head was beginning to ache with the stress. She didn’t know what to do. If she left him and tried to get help in the nearest town, he might die. Wild animals could attack him. The smell of blood would bring them over to him. Besides, if he was going to die out here, he wouldn’t want to be alone.
She soaked the kerchief in water again and squeezed it against his lips and he opened his mouth.
Suddenly his hand shot out and her arm was held in a steely grip. “What are you doing?” His voice was a little stronger now.
“Trying to help you, Marshal. Have you got a horse?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is it?”
“Beyond the tree line near that steeple shaped rock, I’ve got my camp set up there.” He lapsed into unconsciousness again.
If he had been camped here, he would have provisions. If she could get his horse and get him mounted, they could go to his camp. It would be further off the track out of sight of whoever it was that shot him.
Jemma trudged off. She was beyond hurrying much and all as she wanted to. Her strength was spent. On the point of giving up she suddenly saw the steeple which was virtually part of a large overhang of rock. It was the weirdest thing, grass and small bushes covered the overhang like the porch on a house. Water dribbled down over the rocky walls. Tall bushes or maybe they were small trees almost encircled it. If she hadn’t known it was here, she could have walked straight past it.
She spotted a saddle and bedroll, a coffee pot and a pan. It was obvious the Marshall had set up camp here, prepared to stay for some time to catch the men who shot him. Or hiding from them? Going through his saddlebags she pulled out a small bottle of whiskey and shoved it in her pocket. Where was his horse? In desperation she put two fingers to her lips and let out a loud whistle, laughing at her success. It was years since she had done that. Much to her surprise a large chestnut horse trotted up to her.
“Come on boy.” She gave a soft whistle. “Come on. Come to Jemma,” she crooned. “Your master needs you.”
Pa used to say she had a way with horses, about the only praise he ever gave her. She bent and picked up a chunk of grass and placed it on her palm.
“Come on, nice fresh juicy grass. Ooh you are a fine big boy.” Standing still with her hand stretched out she waited. The moment he got close enough she grabbed the reins and started to lead him. He seemed docile enough. She would have ridden him except the ground was rough and there could be holes hidden under ground hugging plants. In an unfamiliar area like this she dared not risk him stepping into a hole and perhaps snapping his leg.
“You’re a magnificent looking horse.”
Once they got back to the Marshal, the horse went straight up to him, lowered his head to his face. “Brandy,” the man croaked.
***
Surely the horse hadn’t died with him Kyle thought. Such a noble animal, a good and loyal friend over many years. He wasn’t dead. A dead man wouldn’t feel like his chest was on fire, or that his shoulder throbbed. Maybe he was in that void between heaven and hell.
He had felt the touch of an angel, but when he focused his eyes, a youth was tending his wounds, moistening his lips with a wet rag. Every gasping breath he took was excruciating. He felt like a hundred nails were being driven into his chest.
“Here, have a couple of mouthfuls of this,” his savior said, pushing something hard against his lips. He kept his eyes shut because the sunlight hurt them. The first mouthful of whiskey almost choked him, and he cursed as the pain shooting through his body burned like the fiery pits of hell.
“Drink slowly.” What a soft voice this youth had. “I have to get you on to the horse and this whiskey might help. I got it out of your saddlebag.”
“I can’t move, the pain will kill me.” The words coming out of his mouth were his, yet the husky gravelly voice wasn’t.
“If you don’t move, you’ll die like a mangy dog out here.”
“I can’t move, anyway I think I’m already dead.”
“You are not, although you will be. I can help you.”
Brandy nudged him a couple of times and shook his mane in front of his face.
“Grab the horse’s mane and I’ll help you. Have another mouthful of whiskey first.”
He did as he was told, was too weary and pain racked to argue.
Jemma positioned herself behind him on his uninjured side and stared at his face. Under the dark, stubble covered jaw and chin, his tanned skin was smooth. She felt tempted to touch it. What was wrong with her?
“On the count of three, try to pull yourself up and I’ll push, then try to get you mounted. Maybe lean on the horse and I’ll swing your legs up.”
“No need. He’ll knee down.”
“Don’t talk, save your strength. Now. One, two.”
He yelped with pain as she pushed, and he pulled. He let out a string of curses. Brandy somehow folded his legs up and lowered himself enough for her to grab hold of Kyle’s leg and swing it over the horse’s back. The only time she had ever seen a horse bend like this was at a circus Pa had once worked for.
Kyle slumped forward with his arms hooked around the horse’s neck. What wonderful progeny this animal would have produced had he not been gelded. He was an intelligent animal, obviously knowing his master was in a bad way as he picked his way carefully.
Perspiration poured off Jemma, her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her dry mouth. “Please, God. Help us.” She spoke the words out loud, hoping they would make a stronger impact than an inward prayer.
Slow and steady was the way to go. If the Marshall fell off the horse it would be the end of him. She couldn’t get him up. “Not much further, please God just let me get him to the overhanging rock.”
Instinctively the gelding seemed to know where to go. What to do. When he got to the steeple rock and the overhang, he obligingly lowered himself to the ground and she dragged the groaning man onto his bed roll which she had previously laid out ready for him. He must have the constitution of an ox.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“No, save your life. Good boy.” She patted the gelding’s neck. “You can go off and graze now while I attend your master and your reward will be some oats. The Marshall had obviously come well prepared to stay a couple of days at least by the supplies he had.
Once she made him comfortable and caught her breath, she would return for her own belongings that had been left at the ambush site.
She leaned over him; his breathing was ragged yet stronger than before, probably the whiskey. As she went to rise his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “Thank you, boy.”
“Okay, we just have to get you better, Marshal.”
“Kyle.”
“All right Kyle, I’m Jem…” She stopped herself mid word. He thought she was a boy, probably safer if he kept on believing she was one.
“Funny name.”
She gave him another swig of whiskey. “It’s a nickname.” It wasn’t a complete lie, when she was younger, before her parents had become embittered with their lot in life, they used to call her their shining gem. Yet they gave me away.
How could a mother give her child away? Well, she hadn’t exactly been a child and had always pulled her weight. It would ha
ve been Pa. Over the last couple of years, he had blamed his lack of work on her because they had to be more selective of the jobs he took.
“There’s a knife in a tin box in my saddlebag with salve and bandages. You’ll have to get the bullet out.”
“Me!” Fool, she was the only one here to do it. Could she? To save his life she had to.
“Get a stick for me to bite down on, soak the knife in whiskey, put it in a cup then I can drink it later. Can’t waste it.” The whiskey had obviously made him recover enough to speak and think coherently. “You’re a strong lad, Jem. I know you can do it.” His eyes closed.
She stood and stepping over to his saddle bags, rummaged through them. There was a neatly folded shirt, a pair of socks and drawers, a clean kerchief and the tin box, boxes of bullets for his six gun and Winchester. His guns had still been in their holsters but there had been no sign of his Winchester. His attackers had obviously taken it, unless it had been discarded at the scene of the crime.
Pouring whiskey into a tin cup she stood the knife up in it. Nausea rose in her throat at the thought of what she was about to do. “I’ll do your chest first, okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re real lucky Kyle, that medallion you wear around your neck took most of the bullet’s impact.”
“My St. Christopher medal. Sew me up if you have to.”
“Well, the medallion has a hole right through the middle of it, well it will have once I pull the bullet out.”
She placed a stick in his mouth. “Bite down on that.”
Pulling off the makeshift bandage she pushed aside his vest before unbuttoning his shirt. How was she going to get the bullet out? The medallion looked to be bronze or some such hard metal. Maybe if she eased the knife under the edge of the medallion and shifted it that way. A popping sound was followed by a groan from Kyle. The medallion lifted bringing the bullet with it.
She breathed a sigh of relief. There wasn’t much bleeding now. How lucky he had been. If the bullet had gone directly into his chest he would have dropped on the spot. The force of the impact had probably cracked his ribs, which would account for the pain when he breathed. Her medical knowledge was scant, yet it seemed a reasonable explanation.
She applied the salve, some sticky black stuff that smelled vile, then rolled him over and he groaned. The back wound, well it was the shoulder really, was where most of the blood came from. Gritting her teeth, she dug the blade into his flesh. He twitched then lay still. Probably unconscious, better for him that way.
After probing around she was finally able to dig the bullet out, but the wound bled profusely. Sew the wound up he had said. She couldn’t do it.
“Do it,” her inner self screamed. “If you don’t, he’ll probably bleed to death. With trembling hands, she drew out a roll of black cotton and a needle from the tin. It took several attempts before she could thread it. This would have to be the worst day of her life, even worse than the one when she had discovered Rupert and Viola’s betrayal.
Here was a good man, a lawman doing his job, ambushed by some lowdown skunks and shot.
After checking that he was resting, she went to collect her belongings where she had left them near where he was shot.
Chapter Seven
The horizon was empty, devoid of animal or human as she set off. At the bottom of a rocky outcrop, half hidden by bushes she found Kyle’s Winchester. The force of the bullet hitting him in the back must have caused the rifle to hurtle out of his hand. Footprints left near the spot where he was shot didn’t belong to her. The lowdown polecat who had gunned him down must have crept up behind him, shot him in the back then thought he would finish him off with a bullet through the heart. She shivered at such a cold-blooded act.
Picking up the rifle and gathering her belongings she trudged back to Kyle. Resting her ear against his chest she thought his breathing sounded stronger.
“What….” He caught hold of her wrist. “Are you doing, boy?”
“Making sure you’re still breathing.”
“Could I have some more whiskey?” His voice was so husky it sounded muffled.
“Water is better for you. There isn’t much whiskey left, not much water, either.”
“About fifty yards away is a rock pool, small but deep, comes from an underground spring.” He winced.
“Do you think we’re safe here?”
“Yeah, those varmints are long gone.”
“I was thinking of lighting a fire. If I could boil water, I might be able to make a broth out of the dried meat you’ve got.”
“Beans in….”
“Don’t talk, save your strength. You couldn’t eat beans, only broth.”
His eyes closed again. Fear raced through her. He was so weak he could easily die. He was a strong, fit looking man but he had severe injuries. Even she knew it would be days before he could leave here. Once he got a little stronger maybe she could leave him and ride into Coyote Crossing for help.
***
Kyle woke up feeling as if he had been kicked in the chest by a mule. His shoulder throbbed but the pain in his chest was excruciating every time he took a deep breath. His ribs must be broken.
He was lying on his bedroll at his camp under the overhang. How long had he been here? Someone had been tending him, a boy with the gentle touch of a woman and the voice of an angel.
Several times he had surfaced from the black depths to feel the soft warmth of a body next to him. The thoughts in his head were so jumbled up they didn’t make sense. Luckily, he was right-handed, and he had been shot on the left side.
He glanced down at his bandaged bare chest. Surely, he wouldn’t be naked? Gingerly, gritting his teeth, he reached his hand down. Thank goodness he was at least wearing his drawers.
Wood smoke infused his nostrils. How could he have let that varmint Frank sneak up on him like that? There was no doubt he had been in cahoots with Seth Arnold. Luckily, he hadn’t mentioned this little hideout under the overhang. He had discovered it a few years ago in his days as a Texas Ranger.
He could just about kill for a drink of water. His lips weren’t as cracked as he had expected them to be so he must have been receiving some moisture. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sunlight was too bright.
“Are you awake?” A soft voice interrupted his jumbled thoughts.
“Yeah.” He opened his eyes again and his rescuer was squatting down beside him with a mug in one hand. He was a slightly built, beardless youth with large doe-like eyes any gal would be proud of.
“If you raise your head a little you can drink from the mug instead of the soaked kerchief.”
He winced. “I’m as dry as a bone and feel like a herd of cattle have stampeded over me.”
“Any wonder, you’ve been hovering between life and death for three days.”
“I guess I owe you, huh?”
“No, you don’t.”
“You saved my life.”
“I only did what any decent Christian person would do.”
“We need to get out of here.” He groaned as his head was gently raised. At least the pain wasn’t so excruciating now.
He went to put his hand around the mug, and it contacted with soft warm flesh. Something wasn’t right here, but his brain couldn’t fathom out what it was. He took a few gulps of water and the feel of it trickling down his throat was akin to heaven.
“Steady on. Not too much. I’m trying to make you broth.”
“Broth?”
“Yes, you can’t eat any of the food we have here, there’s only beans or jerky.”
“Thanks. Jem wasn’t it?”
“Yep.” Jem eased him back onto the bedroll. He felt as weak as a new-born kitten.
“I’ll leave you to rest.”
Jem walked away with a slight sway of his hips. All very strange. He would have to think on it later when the fog cleared from his brain.
Jemma walked out to the fire. She had
worked out a way to make broth, break up some of the beef jerky and boil it in water. It would provide nourishment for him. They couldn’t stay here much longer, or they would run out of food, even with her meager supplies added to his.
What a ruggedly handsome man he was. She couldn’t believe how attracted she was to him. What would he look like cleaned up? Even having the black stubble of beard didn’t detract from it. What’s wrong with you? Once you get him to safety, you’ll never see him again.
After what Rupert had done to her she was finished with men for life. They were selfish, sneaky and conniving and she would never put her heart at risk again.
As there was no pot, she placed the jerky in the pan and covered it with water. The juices should make a wholesome broth and she would eat the meat to appease her hunger. She had been rationing the food to make it last longer. What she wouldn’t give for the nice Sunday roast that had been a tradition at Viola’s place.
Staring into the fire, the glowing coals were somehow mesmerizing easing her anxiety a little. Kyle still thought of her as a youth, though once he recovered a little more, he would soon realize her gender. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted him to know or not.
She dared not take her eyes off the pan which was starting to simmer now. If it boiled dry, the meat juices would be lost. Once the water started bubbling, she moved it to partially rest on the coals, effectively reducing the heat.
What would become of her once she was alone again? Could she make it to a train station and recommence her journey to Austin? It was the only option coming to mind.
Finally, after the water turned brown, she decided it was about as good as it would get. Carefully, she emptied it into a mug. Three quarters full wasn’t too bad.
“Ouch.” The strip of now soft meat burnt her mouth. “That’s what you get for being greedy and not waiting for it to cool down.” Strange how she had never worried much about food before, yet now she was becoming obsessed with it.
Rejected Bride Page 4