Reese grunted, hoping she'd move on without requiring a more intelligent response. She did. Something about a secret mission and a government plot. He couldn't follow it. Her voice drifted in and out to him for the next ten minutes before she moved onto a new topic. Hunger. Hers, to be exact. She kept it up for another five minutes before asking him directly. He dug a piece of jerked beef out of the saddlebags and enjoyed the quiet as she ate.
In an effort to stay upright, Reese tightened his thighs around her trouser-clad legs. Free from the impediments of petticoats and thick skirts, her thighs and nicely shaped bottom pressed intimately against him. It was fortunate, perhaps, that he was in no condition to fully appreciate her considerable attributes, for that might have been embarrassing for them both.
Right now, the only fantasies he harbored about Miss Turner involved using that starched back of hers to lean on for a moment. That and—
"How much farther do you suppose it is to Brownsville, Mr. Donovan?" chimed the object of his thoughts.
—shutting her up.
Reese squeezed his eyes closed. If the hole in his side didn't kill him, her constant yammering surely would.
"Mr. Donovan?"
Reese gave the reins in his left hand a slap across the gray's neck. "Five minutes closer than the last time you asked."
"Oh."
He sighed. For a full minute, that was all she said. He concentrated on the soft clip-clop of hooves against the sandy ground. Silence. Blessed—
"I was thinking.The moon's gone again. It's getting awfully dark. Do you think we should—?"
"No," he answered curtly.
She paused. "Really? You know Jack Leland always advises against traveling when the moon is—"
The gray stumbled, jerking Reese sideways. He sucked a breath through his teeth as fire seared his side. Tightening his arm around Grace Turner's middle to keep himself from falling, he allowed himself to lean on her for a count of five, a beat or two longer than he should have. But it was getting harder and harder to hold himself up.
She glanced back at him, past the floppy brim of her hat. "Are you all right, Mr. Donovan?"
His head ached. "Miss Turner... will you please... shut... up?"
He could almost hear her teeth clack shut. "Oh," was all she said as her back went stiff and she aimed her gaze straight off into the darkness ahead of them.
Aw, well. What did he care if she got her feelings hurt? He hurt like the devil and it was all he could do to simply stay upright behind her. Her delicate sensibilities were the last thing he needed to worry about. Maybe she'd be mad enough to give him the silent treatment. If he was lucky.
It wasn't anger that poured through Grace. It was mortification. It silenced her like a slap and crept up her neck in a flush of heat she was eternally grateful he would never see. Pressing her lips together in a firm line, she blinked back the sting of humiliation in her eyes. She'd been babbling again. She always babbled when she was scared. Didn't Edgar always say that?
"Grace," he'd say, "for God's sake, don't babble." And he was right.
How long had she been going on about Ned Buntline and blazing guns and Luke—when the truth was, she'd been too frightened to stop talking. If she did, she'd have to think about what had really happened tonight. She'd never been through anything like it in her life and they'd all come terrifyingly close to dying. In point of fact, it was nothing like Ned Buntline or Jack Leland said it was.
Grace stared straight ahead and swallowed hard. Behind her, Donovan said nothing more, but she could hear the harsh sound of his breathing. He was angry. Quite angry.
They rode for ten minutes without another word passing between them. Grace forced herself to absorb the quiet desert sounds; the howl of the coyotes and the soft plodding sound of the horses' hooves. Yet every step seemed to echo the heavy beat of her heart.
Her awareness of him, only inches away, seemed heightened by every small movement: the guiding pressure of his knees against the horse—and her thighs; the heat of his solid chest where it collided with her back by accident; the warmth of his breath against the nape of her neck. The tension mounted between them, until finally, she could stand it no longer.
"Mr. Donovan?"
He exhaled sharply.
"I just want to say," she hurried on before he could stop her, "that I'm sorry."
"Forget it."
"No, I know I tend to babble about nothing when I get scared. Edgar... Mr. Buchanan always says so."
"Edgar?"
"My, well, my beau," she replied, for lack of a better word.
"You. Have a beau?"
She stiffened at the disbelieving inflection he gave the word. "Yes. Is that so hard to believe? And I'll have you know he's a well-respected banker back in Virginia."
"If he's so respectable," Donovan mumbled, "where the blazes is he? And why'd he let you come here without him?"
"Oh, well, Edgar, he's... he's very important and much too busy to—"
"—take care of his woman?"
His words found their mark with stinging accuracy.
She tightened her grip on the saddle horn. "It's not like that."
"No? So, what is it like, princess? 'S he a coward, this Edgar of yours?"
Outraged, she half turned in the saddle. "A coward? No! He's a gentleman and terribly brave. I remember once there was a big, hairy spider crawling up my dress at a picnic, and Edgar didn't think twice. He just leapt up and squashed it with his bare hand."
"Y' don't say," Reese muttered, leaning more heavily against her back.
"Indeed," she answered. "And another time, he challenged a man to a duel in my honor after the man had insulted me."
"Duel, huh?" There was a long pause. "Who won?"
She sniffed. "No one, of course. Duels are illegal in this day and age, Mr. Donovan. It was a gesture."
She said it as if the man had plucked a star from the sky for her. "A grand gesture, sure," he returned, "not to mention bloody safe."
Grace went silent. There was a certain amount of truth in Donovan's accusation. But she couldn't afford to think about that. She'd waited a long time for the perfect man to come along. Apparently, he never would. With her twenty-first birthday looming, Edgar Buchanan was her last hope of a good marriage. And she wasn't fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. She'd forgiven Edgar for not helping her with Luke. And nothing Donovan said would sway that.
Donovan's left hand, the one loosely holding the reins, dropped heavily against her left thigh and stayed there. She stared at that hand, wondering if she should ask him to remove it or just ignore it. They were, after all, in a peculiarly awkward situation. Propriety had very little place at a time like this.
Far away, an owl screeched into the night. "I know you don't like me, Mr. Donovan."
"I don' feel one way or th' other about ya, Miz Turner."
"Oh." Grace blinked. Surely it wasn't disappointment that threaded through her at his utter indifference to her. After all, she hardly cared what a man like Donovan felt about—
She gripped the saddle horn harder and frowned as it struck her. Why, he was slurring his words! Good Lord! He couldn't possibly be drunk, could he? That would certainly account for his rudeness just now about Edgar.
But how in the world could he be drunk? She turned her head ever so slightly and gave a delicate sniff in his direction. The only thing she could smell was the sage-scented night breeze and the wafting pungency of the sweaty horse. And something else she couldn't identify. Something distinctly metallic. No trace of alcohol on his breath, even though she could feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest against her back. Grace swallowed hard and concentrated on the steady plodding of the horse.
"Mr. Donovan?"
The saddle leather creaked as he shifted behind her. "What?"
"Are you feeling all right?"
After a long pause, he answered, "Peachy."
Grace chewed on her thumbnail, a long strand of blond hair falling down
across her nose. "I mean I thought perhaps you might be suffering from... cessation of drink."
A short laugh escaped him. "That a political statement or a disease?"
Grace moistened her lips. "Neither. I've only heard, well, that a drunk, denied his drink can become quite ill-tempered and sometimes sick."
Donovan's weight rested more heavily against her back. "You read all that in one of those little novels o' yours? Or did Earnest Edgar the spider killer tell ya that?"
"I—"
Without warning, the big gray shrieked and flung his head back as a night creature slithered across their path. The horse hopped sideways, dancing away from the loose reins it had ripped from Donovan's lax grasp. Grace made a desperate grab for them and in the process, felt her elbow connect hard with Donovan's side.
"Ognhh," he groaned just before pitching sideways off the saddle and disappearing into the darkness with a loud thump.
Chapter 6
"Mr. Donovan!" Grace cried in horror, catching the reins and hauling back on them, praying the beast wouldn't step on the man who'd only seconds ago been seated firmly behind her. "Brew! Help!"
In the distance, she heard Brewster's horse coming toward them at a gallop. "Look out," she called. "Mr. Donovan's fallen from the horse!"
"What in blue blazes?" Brew skidded to a stop near her and climbed down off his horse.
"I don't know," she answered, swinging her leg over the rump of the gray and dropping to the ground. "The horse spooked and I, well, I hit him with my elbow, I think. But not hard, for heaven's sake. I only touched him. And off he went like a load of bricks!"
She ran to where Brew was leaning over Donovan, who lay sprawled on his back a few feet away. "Is he all right?"
Brew shook his head, a cough rumbling his chest. "It's too dang dark to tell. He sure ain't movin'."
Grace pushed the duster aside and placed a hand on his ribs. "He's breathing. I can feel—" She snatched her hand back. The words died in her throat. "Ohhh, no—"
"What? What is it, Grace?"
A shiver went through her at the slippery warmth coating her fingers. Now she recognized that metallic scent for what it was. "Blood."
"Blood?" Brew touched Donovan's shirt himself and cursed. "Did he hit a rock in the fall?"
"I don't think so. It's on his side and there's too much of it. He's been bleeding for a while, Brew." She sat back on her heels in shock. "Back in town, he fell during the gunfire. He must have been shot. It was so dark. I asked if he was all right and he said yes. Stupidly, I took him at his word."
Crouched beside Donovan, Brewster rocked on the balls of his feet and shook his head. "Why would he hold his peace about it? Dad-blame it! Why didn't he say somethin'?"
She clasped her hands together in dismay. "He's been two inches away from me for the past two hours! Why didn't I know it?"
"Ohh-hnh." Donovan moaned and tried to lift his head.
"Easy there." Brew touched his shoulder with a quelling hand. "Just lie still a minute."
Donovan's face was pale as candledip in the moonlight. "Wh-what happened?"
"You fell," Grace told him. "I, uh, think I might have hit you."
"Ohh, yeah." Clamping his eyes shut, he groaned again.
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Donovan. It was an accident."
"'M-mm all right."
"That's obvious," Brew muttered. "Why didn't you tell us you'd been shot back there? For God's sake, man."
Donovan pressed his arm against his side. "It's nothing. A flesh wound. In one side and out th' other." His gaze lifted to meet Grace's worried expression. "I woulda been fine if she hadn't blind-sided me with her pointy little elbow."
"I said I was sorry," she mumbled, looking at her hands.
Donovan sighed, blinking hard to clear his head. "Just help me up. We're wasting time. Every minute we spend here is that much less ground Sanders has to cover to catch us."
"Yer losin' blood faster 'n a leech-sucked cow, Donovan," Brew said. "You get on that horse without tendin,' an' next time we stop we may just be plantin' you in the ground."
Donovan tried again to sit up and cursed when he found he couldn't. After a moment's struggle, Brew extended his hand and helped him. The old man's wizened eyes met Donovan's over their clasped hands, assessingly, weighing whether it was sheer pluck or muleheaded stupidity that kept the younger man moving. Brew had made no secret of his mistrust of Donovan. It rang clear in every word and gesture. Now, for the first time, Grace saw something else in Brew's gaze: a grudging respect.
Donovan sat breathing hard, his forearms braced across his bent knees and his head bowed between them.
"It's too dark to tell what kinda furrow that bullet tore in ya," Brew told him, handing him a canteen he'd stripped from Donovan's horse. "But if we don't get that bleedin' stopped soon, it ain't gonna matter if it's a flesh wound or not."
Donovan took a long swig and grimaced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Got anything stronger than this?"
"No," Grace answered quickly.
"We-ell," Brew contradicted, "I reckon some of Dr. P. D. Braufield's Celebrated Cough Elixir wouldn't hurt you none."
"I'll take it," Donovan answered without hesitation.
Grace turned an uncomprehending look on the old man. "But he's not coughing."
Brew sheepishly rubbed his gray stubbled chin. "I seem to recall the label claimin' certain other medicinal properties."
Her face flattened with sudden understanding. "Are you telling me there's alcohol in that concoction I've been buying you?"
"Well, now, there might be some of the hair of the dog," the older man allowed.
"Why, Brewster McDodd!"
"Oh, now, Gracie, this ain't hardly the time to be lecturin' temperance. Not when a feller's bleedin' to death." He stood and dug into his saddlebags, withdrawing a sealed brown bottle.
She stood with her mouth open, helpless to think of an answer to that. Donovan actually had the nerve to grin up at her through that sweep of dark lashes of his; a rather triumphant sort of look for a man with a bullet hole in his side.
"Find somethin' to bind him up with in them saddlebags of yours, Gracie," Brew ordered, handing the poor, injured man the bottle. She arched one irritated eyebrow in reply and turned on her heel at the distinctive squeak of the withdrawing cork.
Brew coughed and turned back to the gunfighter. "You're right about one thing, Donovan. We're sittin' ducks out here in the open. How far you reckon to some kinda shelter?"
Donovan gave the mouth of the bottle a swipe on the tail of his shirt before he swallowed a long gulp of elixir and exhaled slowly. "There's nothing but cactus and rock between here and Brownsville. And that's another good day's ride." Lifting his face to the cool night air he inhaled, and said, "Rain's comin'. Could work in our favor."
Brew lifted his battered old hat off his head and scratched his matted gray hair. "How's that?"
"We're leaving a trail a blind man could follow. A light rain'll do nothing, but a downpour will obliterate our tracks, maybe buy us a bit o' time."
"If the rain, or," Grace added meaningfully, "Dr. P. D. Braufield's Celebrated Elixir doesn't drown us first." A jibe Donovan answered by taking another pointedly long swig of the stuff.
Choosing to ignore him, she turned her attention to Brew, who began to cough. "There must be someplace we can take shelter. You shouldn't be out in the rain."
He replaced his hat, running his fingers along the brim. "Don't fret about me."
Donovan took another gulp of elixir. "If we're lucky, we might find some rocks to take cover under."
Grace swallowed hard and nodded. "We should hurry, then." She knelt beside Donovan with several long strips of white muslin in her hand. "I ripped a flounce from my petticoat," she explained, refusing to blush. "And I'll thank you to keep your lurid comments to yourself."
Donovan grunted, eyeing her with suspicion as he gingerly shed the duster.
"Lift your shirt, plea
se," she said.
"I'll tend it myself, if you don't mind."
"You're not serious."
He gestured again for the muslin with his open palm.
Brew shook his head and, leaving the battle of wills to the youngsters, moved off to retrieve his horse, which had drifted over to graze nearby.
"Don't be pigheaded," she told Donovan. "I'll do it."
His eyes, robbed of their color in the moonlight, pinioned hers, making his feelings toward her eminently clear. "You've done more than enough for one night, thank you." Reese snatched one piece of muslin from her hand.
Heat infused Grace's cheeks, and tight-lipped she watched for a full minute as he tried to tug the tails of his shirt from his trousers. His movements were awkward and slow, belying his mulish attitude. When he lost track of the muslin as it tangled in his shirt and around his back, Grace made an effort not to smile.
"Can we expect it to happen some time this year, Mr. Donovan?"
He lifted an icy look at her. His upper lip was beaded with sweat, his face a pale reminder of the man she'd first glimpsed in that awful little cantina.
Yet, despite everything, here was a man who was loath to admit defeat.
At that thought, she allowed a small smile to steal across her face. Because that was just the sort of man she would need to get her brother out of Mexico. If he didn't bleed to death first.
"All right," he conceded through gritted teeth. "I need your help."
Grace smiled benignly and removed her hat, letting her hair spill down her shoulders. She knelt down beside him. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"As a matter of fact," Donovan muttered, "it was." He peeled his soaked shirt away from the wound at his side.
She thought she'd be prepared for it. She wasn't. A wave of nausea shuddered through her as she inspected him. Even in the dark she could see the small black hole in his side and another, more ragged one, around the back. The bullet had nipped him at the waist, barely two inches in. Grace hoped he was right about it having hit nothing vital, but it was too dark to tell. All she could do now was patch him up and try to stanch the bleeding until they could get somewhere to clean it properly.
The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Page 8