The Ranger ignored both of them, as if they didn’t exist. He undid the bandage, inspected the edge of the wound with his fingers. Even from the twenty feet or more that separated them, Lori winced at the raw, jagged wound still leaking blood.
“Is the bullet still inside?” It was her brother who spoke, his voice soft and serious.
The Ranger didn’t acknowledge the question.
“Dammit man, you can’t probe for it yourself.”
“Shut up,” the Ranger said.
“What about Lori?” Nick said with desperation in his voice. “What if …?”
“What if I die?” The question was curiously impersonal. “I expect those bounty hunters will be here in a few days.” He gave Nick a mirthless smile. “Of course, if I had any compassion, I probably should leave them a warning.”
Nick’s fist clenched. Lori just felt sick. She was sick over what she had done, sick about the trouble she had brought Nick. Most of all, she was sick thinking about what the Ranger was going to do to himself.
The Ranger took the knife from the fire and allowed it to cool for a few moments. He leaned against a tree for support and then she saw him put the blade to the wound and move it. His grim lips clenched together so tightly, they formed an almost invisible line, but he didn’t stop and he didn’t utter a sound. Then she couldn’t watch anymore. She turned her face to Nick’s jacket, closing her eyes, knowing her body was as tense as his. She wanted him to do something, but there was nothing he could do.
No matter what, even if he lost his own life, the Ranger wasn’t going to risk losing them. He was going to take Nick in.
And now she was his prisoner too. The Ranger would never forget or forgive what she had done. She remembered his telling her about another prisoner, another woman. The chill in her turned to ice. Ice so cold it burned.
She felt Nick’s body relax slightly, and she turned back. The Ranger’s bare chest was covered in blood now, as were his pants. But he held a bullet in his hand. She didn’t have time to be relieved. The Ranger placed the knife back in the fire, waited until it glowed with heat, and then placed it against his wound, holding it there for several seconds before dropping it at his side, his body straining so hard it seemed to draw into the tree. She saw both his hands bunch into agonized fists as he fought off the pain.
And then she felt Nick’s body react, as if it too had been brutally invaded. He seemed to be flinching from something, his breath coming in rapid rushes. “Dear God,” he whispered in broken syllables.
Lori felt a dampness on her cheeks, and she brushed it with her free hand. She felt sick, nauseous, at what she watched, because she knew she was responsible. She wanted to go to the Ranger, to touch him and somehow make his suffering more tolerable. But she couldn’t, and she knew it, and she knew she would never forget this day, this hour, these terrible minutes.
She tried to fight back the tears, the sense of helplessness, the rage at herself. Her brother had dug his heel into the ground several inches deep, and he was oblivious now to her. She knew that he was feeling terrible pain. She didn’t know why, but she felt the trembling in him.
Her gaze went back to the Ranger. The knife beside him was no longer glowing; the stench of burning flesh filled the air. But his eyes were closed, and his body was relaxed. Thank God he had lost consciousness. She didn’t even think what would happen to her if he didn’t wake up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sudden, searing, inexplicable pain shot through Nick’s shoulder, and he dug the heel of his boot into the ground. His shoulder had already been aching, and he’d attributed it to the several falls he had taken. But this, which had grown with steady intensity as Morgan Davis probed with the knife, was something else altogether. He could barely keep from groaning.
Like Morgan, he found his fingers balling up in tight knots, fighting the pain, fighting the confusion in his mind. And then Morgan lost consciousness, and the pain seemed to slide away from Nick. He didn’t understand it. There had been rare occasions in the past when he’d had sudden pain or discomfort for no apparent reason. But this was too damn coincidental.
It couldn’t be sympathy. While he didn’t condone what Lori had done, he had no liking for the Texas Ranger. He did, however, have a certain admiration—it took guts to do what Morgan Davis had just done.
Nick moved slightly. He was still aching from that piercing pain in his shoulder, and from the blow to his head inflicted by the butt of the Ranger’s rifle when Nick had jumped him. Nick had been so afraid he might shoot Lori. But he couldn’t blame Davis for his anger at being ambushed. The Ranger couldn’t know that Lori, pretty little Lori, was a sharpshooter—that Davis would have been dead if that was what Lori intended.
Nick was angry at Lori at the moment—now he had her to worry about, too. And God help them if the Ranger died. He suspected that Davis wanted them to appreciate just that possibility. There would be no more allowances made for Lori. No more small considerations—such as the first night, when he’d left her untied.
The cold was filtering through Nick’s sheepskin coat, and he found himself worrying about the Ranger, lying with the upper part of his body exposed to the cold air, the lower part covered by blood-damp trousers. He worried, he told himself, only because at the moment both he and Lori were dependent on the man. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do, though, but feel the cold himself and sense Lori’s own despair. He knew that she had watched miserably, and with real self-condemnation, as the Ranger doctored himself.
Despite her fierce loyalty and recklessness, Lori had a compassionate heart. He knew it hadn’t been easy for her to fire that gun, that she had done it only for love of him.
He studied her now. She looked far younger than her years, with her face smudged, her hair falling over her eyes. Her handcuffed hand had been digging into his arm while Davis had cut into himself. “It’ll be all right,” he told her, soothing her as he had when she’d been a child.
“No,” she disagreed. “It will never be all right. I thought …” She stopped, her voice breaking. “I didn’t think at all. I couldn’t think of anything but getting you away.…”
“No faith,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ve always handled everything in the past.”
“He’s … different.”
Nick looked over at the still-silent figure. “Yes. But somewhere along the way … he would have become careless.”
“He won’t now,” she said morosely.
Nick wished that weren’t true. But he had seen the expression on Morgan Davis’s face after he’d been shot. If this job had been personal to the Ranger before, now it had become very personal indeed—now that Lori had taken that shot. Nick had not missed the spark of interest the Ranger had tried to hide during the last few days—an interest in Lori that was something more than wariness. And now he suspected the Ranger’s anger toward his sister would be deep.
“There was a lot of bleeding,” Lori said, disrupting his thoughts after a moment’s silence. “What if …”
“He won’t die,” Nick said with certainty. “He’s too damn stubborn. And,” he added with a wry smile, “I don’t think he would have left you here like this if he even considered the possibility.”
Lori wasn’t so sure. She could only imagine how the Ranger felt toward her now. He had revealed a little of himself several nights ago at dinner; she knew he probably bitterly regretted that now, believing she had exacted the information to use against him. But she hadn’t. She had been truly intrigued by him, touched by a life he described so casually, but that had had to be hard and lonely. He would never trust her again.
She tried to turn away from Nick, away from the sight of the Ranger, but the handcuff restraining her hand wouldn’t allow her even that relief.
“Lori?” Her brother’s query was soft, worried.
Lori’s eyes returned to the still figure of the Ranger, his body exposed to the cold. “What have I done, Nick?” she asked in a voice ragged with guilt.
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Nick wished he knew. He wished like hell he could do something, anything. The wind was cold, blowing hard now, and the Ranger would be damn lucky if he survived the loss of blood. He knew the Ranger wouldn’t release him, not even to get help. Nick had studied his captor intently the past few days, and he knew the man would die before giving up, before surrendering his prisoner.
Nick only partially understood such dedication to an ideal. He knew he would die for his family, perhaps even for a very good friend, but never for a cause, or for something as nebulous, and often unjust, as the law. He would even probably kill the Ranger to save his own skin, though killing would never come easily to him. The Ranger apparently had no such compunction.
Or did he? Nick knew he was damn lucky to be alive now. Other men would have killed him with a hell of a lot less reason—and done worse to Lori. Damn it to hell, he wished his shoulder would stop aching. He must have hit it far worse than he’d thought. He moved his hand to rub it, only to be reminded that Lori was attached to his wrist, and that made him realize again the seriousness of their situation.
What if the Ranger didn’t make it?
They would starve to death … if they didn’t freeze first He picked up the canteens with his free hand. Both were full. The Ranger must have filled them earlier that morning. Even in pain Davis had thought of them, had apparently realized he might well lose consciousness, or worse.
His mouth felt dry, like cotton, but he was afraid to drink. He had no idea how long they might be like this.
Wake up, dammit, he willed the Ranger.
Wake up!
Fire and ice consumed him, each heightening the pain caused by the other. Morgan tried to sink back into the darkness, the oblivion, but something kept calling him. His left side flamed as he tried to move. He felt heavy, so very heavy. He had to fight to open his eyes. It was as if someone had fastened them with padlocks. Christ, how could he be so hot and so cold at the same time? And so tired.
He finally forced his eyes open and tried to focus them. His body was shaking. So cold, so very cold, except for that vicious, rampaging fire in his shoulder.
And then he remembered. The shot. The pain. And eyes. Treacherous amber eyes.
He wiped his face with his right hand, then slowly tried to sit. He was so damned cold, and he felt the freezing wind against his naked upper body. Shirt He’d taken off his shirt after the shot. Had to get something. Had to get warm. He tried to move, and the pain in his shoulder intensified. He held back a groan and looked around.
The shirt was beside him, but it was cold, stiff, and still a bit damp with blood. His leather coat lay a few feet away. It too had a bullet hole and was splotchy with blood. He pulled it around him, but he knew he needed to tie a bandage around his shoulder to stop the leak from the wound. And another shirt. A blanket. It was cold. And he was tired. Tired and weak. So damn tired and weak. And cold.
He thought of his prisoners. His half-open swollen eyes found them twenty feet away. Both of them had coats, and the blankets Braden had used last night. He looked away from them. He didn’t want to see the girl, didn’t want her to have the satisfaction of seeing how well she had succeeded. She’d almost killed him. A few more inches …
Why hadn’t he guessed? Why hadn’t he thought her capable of this? That softness … in her eyes at dinner that night. What a fool he’d been. He rose to his knees, then, through sheer force of will, to his feet.
Waves of dizziness attacked him. He leaned against a tree, willing them away, willing strength to creep back into frozen limbs. Ignoring the Bradens, he located his knife on the ground and ripped into strips what remained of his bloody shirt. Painstakingly and awkwardly, he bandaged his shoulder, wincing as cloth hit the open suppurating wound. When he finished, he rested a few moments, closing his eyes while summoning another small burst of strength. Then he stood again, unsteadily, and, carrying his gunbelt, stumbled to his horse. He had already saddled the animal, tied his bedroll to it. Using the knife again, he cut it loose. He didn’t think he could untie it with the one shaking good hand.
The bedroll fell to the ground, and Morgan fell next to it, jerking it open. He’d had two extra shirts, one of which he’d given to Braden for his injured leg. He took his last one, tried to pull it on over the crusted, black raw burn on his shoulder. Christ, it hurt His whole body now was shivering from cold, the fingers of his left hand virtually useless with pain, the ones on his right shaking. He forced them to work, to drag the sleeve over his left arm, then over his good arm, and he buttoned the shirt only with the most willful concentration. Then, with the same painstaking procedure, he buttoned the coat that had rested on his shoulders and had fallen when he had. One arm, then the other. Buttons. Then the gunbelt Christ, but it hurt to fasten the buckle. And he was still so damn cold. He rested next to his bay.
Fire. He needed a fire. Not only for himself but for the other two. Milling clouds darkened the day sky. He’d been warned about these mountain storms. He closed his eyes. He knew he couldn’t travel far, not like this. Not with two prisoners ready and eager to take him. Kill him. So eager to do exactly that.
Shudders shook his body, whether from outside cold or from the hard freeze inside him, he didn’t know. Whatever was soft in him, whatever had ignored the warning signs he usually heeded, now hardened into stone. But that didn’t warm the chill he felt, a chill more painful than that blowing across the canyon.
For a few moments the other night in Laramie, he hadn’t been alone.
But he had. He just hadn’t realized it And now he had to decide what to do with Lorilee Braden—if he, and the Bradens, lived through the next few days. Two cripples. A treacherous woman. Bounty hunters on their trail. And now possible snow. Christ, what else could go wrong?
Still, the Bradens were his responsibility. He wasn’t going to let Nick Braden go, nor could he leave them to the storm or to bounty hunters, who would show damn little mercy. He forced himself to move again, up on his feet. A fire. He needed the warmth of a fire. They all did. Then he could decide what to do.
Morgan felt in his pocket for the keys to the leg irons and handcuffs. He had to let one of them fetch wood, and since Nick had injured his leg, it had to be the woman. Morgan knew he didn’t have the strength left to gather enough wood to last through the day and night, and he doubted he could travel before then.
If only the storm would hold off.
He tried to think. Concentrate. Lorilee’s horse. Her pistol. It must be back there at the rocks. He had to get both before he sent her after wood.
He walked slowly back to the Bradens. Nick had straightened, his back stiff, his eyes wary. Lori had drawn up her legs, resting her head on her knees, and she gazed at him under long dark-brown lashes. He couldn’t read them, but maybe he didn’t want to. He sure as hell wouldn’t trust what he thought he saw in her eyes.
At least they had the horse sense not to ask him how he was.
He glowered at Lori. “Where’s your horse?”
“About a half mile from here.”
“Which direction?”
“North.”
Her answers were as flat as his questions.
“Give me a landmark.”
Lori looked toward the rocks from which she had shot him. “That group of aspens standing among the pines.”
He nodded and turned, noting the way her free hand was knotted into a fist. Because she had failed to kill him?
Morgan was starting to leave when Nick’s voice stopped him. “There’s going to be a blizzard before long.”
Morgan turned back. “There’s nothing I can do about that”
Braden’s jaw worked. “I know of a cabin not far from here.”
“We’re staying here. Thanks to your sister, I’m not in any condition to ride.”
“It’s not more than two miles.”
“We stay here,” Morgan repeated, trying not to stumble as he moved toward his horse, thanking God as he did so that it was already saddle
d. He didn’t think he could lift a saddle now. It was going to be damned hard to lift himself.
He used his right hand to clutch the saddle horn, giving him the balance he needed to lift his battered body into the saddle.
“Davis!” Morgan ignored Braden’s last plea and, trying not to betray how very weak he was, he pushed his horse into a trot.
Nick yanked the chain linking his ankle to the tree. He bent over, forcing Lori to move with him, and for yet another time his hands inspected the iron ring around his ankle. How many times had his hands probed for a weakness, a way to slip his foot from the ring? He’d never felt so helpless, so unable to protect Lori, let alone himself.
Davis was a Texan. He had no knowledge of the mountains or how fast the snow could fall and envelop everything. They could freeze to death in a matter of hours without shelter from the coming snow and ice and wind. The Ranger would succumb first, with his wounds. But that was damnably little comfort, chained as Nick and Lori were. They would simply take longer to die.
There was one slim chance, a last resort. The iron cuff around her small wrist was loose. She had tried unsuccessfully to slip from it, but if the skin was slippery from blood … Perhaps a chance. A damn slim one.
Nick looked at his sister, ached for her. Something vital had drained from her in the past few hours. No spit and vinegar. No defiance. Her back had been even stiffer than his own, her face like a mask. And he knew she was hurting in a way she’d never hurt before.
He would wait for now. Perhaps he could still convince Davis to make for the cabin. He looked up at the sky again. They had only a few hours. He felt it.
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