by Linda Broday
The way Weston handled his misery told Sam this wasn’t his first bullet wound.
Sam dismounted. The sound of trickling water reached him. “Appears the underground stream still feeds this old watering hole.”
“That’s a relief. Last time I rode by it was real low.” Luke staggered, almost falling to his knees.
“I’ve got you.” Sam rushed to grab him. “Lean on me.”
Through labored breathing, Luke gasped, “Thanks, Ranger.”
Sierra grabbed the horses’ reins as Sam put a bracing arm around Luke and half carried him around the rocks.
Near the water’s edge, Sam lowered him to a boulder and turned to Sierra. “If you’ll get a cup from my saddlebag and bring Weston some water, I’ll have a look at this wound.”
Nodding, she hurried to the horses.
Luke tried to wave him away. “Just a scratch. Don’t need a fuss.”
“Save your breath. You’re not fooling me.” Sam had seen his share of wounds, and this one troubled him. With all the bleeding, the bullet might’ve gone through more than muscle.
“I didn’t ask you to save me again.”
“Twice in two days.” Sam shook his head, helping Luke out of his coat and shirt. “At the rate we’re going, I’m going to run out of fingers keeping score.”
The wound sat high on Luke’s shoulder. No exit hole in back. Sam stared at the scars on both his chest and back. A dozen or more, some pretty recent. All but one had come from bullets. The exception was from a knife.
A life of violence, told on his skin.
As Sam pressed and prodded, Luke clenched his jaw and broke out in a sweat. “How bad?”
At last Sam raised his head. “The bullet’s lodged inside. We won’t reach Flatbush until tomorrow afternoon, and even if you make it, they probably won’t have a sawbones.”
“Take it out here.” Luke’s firm statement didn’t leave any room for discussion.
Though searing pain must be shooting through Weston’s shoulder and chest, he didn’t allow his face to reflect much. Sam admired a man who didn’t bend to his misery, but drew it inside and dealt with it in private. Part of him—a large part, much to his annoyance—respected Luke Weston’s grit.
Despite everything, the gunslinger outlaw didn’t measure up to what Sam thought he knew about the man. Inside Weston’s heart seemed to lurk an honorable man, as shown by his gentleness toward Sierra and how he’d returned to the shack. He was someone who cared about others, who wouldn’t leave anyone in danger, and who’d taken a bullet for a sworn enemy when he could’ve stayed away.
Sierra returned with a cup of water. Murmuring his thanks, Luke gulped it down. Sam removed his bandana, asking her to wet it and fetch one of the bottles of whiskey from the saddlebags. When she gave him a bright smile and turned away, his gaze followed her trim figure for a half second before turning back to his task. If this had happened twenty-four hours ago, he doubted the outcome of their skirmish with Ford’s gang. But his finger had been steady on the trigger, his breathing calm. He’d had no doubt in his mind the minute the lead left his Colt that it would hit the right person—and it was thanks to her.
Weston’s pain-filled voice broke his trance. “Why didn’t you leave me there with Ford?”
“Couldn’t.” Sam allowed a tight smile.
“Because of the bounty, I suppose.”
“Nope, because I want answers. When I came to after the hanging, I saw you bending over me. Don’t bother to deny it. Did you have anything to do with that? Were you with the rustlers?”
Luke was silent and still. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “No to both questions.”
That surprised Sam. “I’m not crazy. I know I saw you.”
“I was there, but I was trying to save you.” Luke wiped sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
The confession shocked Sam. He’d have bet even money that Luke Weston would lie. He barked a laugh. “Save me? Is that what you call it?”
“Strange, I know, but it’s the truth. I’d been following you and was below the hill in some thick brush. When I saw what those bastards were doing, I started shooting up at the oak tree. Hit one of them, and they lit out. But by then you were swinging. I cut you down, loosened the rope from your neck, and was trying to see if you were still alive when I heard the other rangers. I didn’t hang around.”
Shocked stillness swept over Sam. The outlaw he’d chased for so long had saved his life? Dare he believe it? But he saw the truth in Weston’s eyes.
“I owe you. Thanks.” Sam stuck out his hand and Luke shook it. “But why? Us being sworn enemies and all.”
“Never like to see a man die that way. Not even a Texas Ranger with a burr under his saddle, bound and determined to catch me. Gives me the shivers.”
A moment passed while Sam digested everything. He had trouble processing the fact that if not for Luke Weston, the man who’d taunted him so long, he’d be dead.
The thought unsettled him. “Weston, tell me this: Why were you on the train?”
“Wanted to make sure you got home. Knew you were still struggling, that you couldn’t do your job. In the months of you chasing me and having to use all my wits to stay free… I don’t know… I guess a bond of some sort or another formed. The chase became a game.”
It certainly hadn’t been a game to Sam. But Luke was right about growing close. Something deeper ran between them.
“You noticed it too? The bond, I mean.”
“Yep.” Luke licked his dry lips.
Sierra returned with the wet bandana and half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Growing up so far from civilization, I learned how to treat whatever might happen. I can help.”
“Not this time, dulce. Too much blood,” Luke insisted gently.
Lifting her chin, she placed her hands on her hips. She was feisty. To go toe to toe with the outlaw showed spirit. He felt a grin tug at his mouth.
“I’m no weak lily, Luke Weston. I’ve seen my share of blood. Once I had to sew up my brother’s leg after a mountain lion ripped it open. By myself. I learned to think fast and do whatever needed doing.”
“I’m not questioning your skill,” Luke said quietly. “But to me, you’re a lady. I don’t want my blood ruining that pretty dress.”
While Sam listened to the exchange, he washed Luke’s wound with the bandana. He was learning a lot about both, things they didn’t suspect they were revealing.
Luke whistled through his teeth when Sam pressed on the wound, trying to get a good idea of the bullet’s location. He took in the blood loss—that much would weaken a man fast. Luke soon wouldn’t be able to ride.
After Sam removed his knife from his boot, pouring a liberal amount of whiskey on both it and the wound, he gave Luke a big swig of the rotgut.
“Ready? Do you need something to bite down on?”
“Nope, just do it.”
Under Sierra’s close supervision, Sam set to work. Each time he got close to the piece of metal, the knife slipped. Blood had slickened the implement, making it impossible to hold, and his fingers were too large to get inside and pull out the bullet.
If he couldn’t remove it, Luke might not last until they reached a doctor.
Again and again he tried, but couldn’t. Finally, he handed Sierra the knife. “Maybe you’ll have better luck. At least your fingers are smaller.”
Concentration showed in her drawn brows and the tightening of her mouth as she wiped off the blood and bent to the task.
“Easy, lady,” Luke growled, muttering a low curse.
“I’m sorry.” Sierra bit her bottom lip. “I don’t mean to hurt you but—”
“No choice if I want it out, right?” Luke finished for her.
“Exactly.”
“Go ahead then. Just try not to maim me for life. Outlaws w
ith a stump can’t do much lawbreaking.”
“I’m glad you haven’t lost your sweet disposition,” she replied with a smile. “It helps things tremendously.”
“Humph!”
Sam admired both her gumption in handling Luke and digging around inside a wound that had already slickened her fingers with blood. The task wasn’t for the squeamish. She tackled it as she had everything else—competently and without complaint.
Finally, handing Sam the knife, she stuck her thumb and forefinger into the wound. “I can feel it. I almost have it.”
Luke groaned and bit his lip.
The cool morning turned hot as Sam listened for the thunder of horses’ hooves, the signal that Ford and his gang had reached them. He prayed for a miracle.
At last Sierra managed to carefully maneuver the spent bullet free, though the digging around had left Luke’s shoulder a holy mess.
“You have my thanks, dulce. You’re a woman of many talents,” Luke murmured, dousing himself with a liberal amount of whiskey. As the liquor hit the wound, he barely muffled a yell along with a string of swear words.
“I’m sorry, Luke.” She wiped her hands on the wet bandana, then lifted the edge of her skirt.
Sam found himself staring at shapely ankles and the teasing lace edge of bloomers beneath. His mouth went dry.
With a jerk of her wrist, she ripped a long strip from her petticoat. All too soon, her skirt dropped into place, and the enticing view was gone.
More’s the pity. Even so, the image had burned into Sam’s brain. In the dead of night he would remember how the sight sent heat rushing to his gut.
Sierra Hunt would be difficult to forget.
After she wrapped the makeshift bandage around the wound, they sat talking, letting Luke recover enough to ride. He was pasty white.
Luke glanced over at Sam. “Next time I tell you to shoot, you’d better not hesitate.”
The order rankled Sam more than a little. “Were you so sure I’d miss you?” he spat.
“I’ve watched you over the years. You always hit what you aim for. You’re a crack shot, Legend. I know it, and so does every outlaw in Texas.”
The information surprised the hell out of Sam, as did the grudging admiration in Luke’s voice. Weston had followed him, watched him—why?
“One thing puzzles me, Weston. Why did you have to murder Judge Percival down in Sonora? A federal judge, for God’s sake? Wasn’t robbing enough for you?”
Hardness glittered in Luke’s eyes. “Didn’t kill him. Can’t prove it though.”
“You expect me to believe you?”
Luke’s mouth tightened as though he was used to folks accusing him. “Hell, probably shouldn’t.”
“Tell me this…were you there?”
“I can’t deny it.”
“You know I’m going to have to bring you in.”
“Expect nothing less.” Luke glanced away.
“I want my damn watch back. The one you stole during that stagecoach business.”
Weston jammed a hand into an inner pocket, fished out a watch, and slapped it into Sam’s palm. “Stopped working a while back.”
Sam spared the shiny timepiece a glance, then tucked it away. “Why keep it?”
Luke shrugged. “The inscription. Figured it meant something to you. Always intended to return it.”
Surprise at the unexpected thoughtfulness rippled through Sam. The outlaw was an expert at keeping him off balance. He tucked that information away also and turned his thoughts back to the watch. Damn right. The engraving on it did mean a lot. His father had given it to him just after he joined up with the Texas Rangers. The words said everything Stoker Legend seemed unable to say.
Proud of you, son.
It was the only time, before or since, that his father said he was proud of him. The only time his father bent.
And the only time Stoker Legend had let him be his own man.
After Sam told him he was leaving, they’d fought for days leading up to it. Stoker accused him of throwing away his legacy, everything he’d worked for so his sons would inherit the best land in Texas.
To this day, Stoker still didn’t understand why Sam had struck out on his own.
In truth, his father’s huge shadow suffocated the life from him. It was impossible to know the kind of man he was when Stoker’s larger-than-life presence outshone everyone and everything around him.
Trying to live up to the mighty Stoker was a difficult task even now.
For a moment, envy for Luke Weston washed over him. The wily outlaw had freedom to go wherever the path led. Even if that was to jail, which he must’ve known when he returned to the shack that morning.
Sam took Weston’s measure. “If you had it to do over, would you still have returned to the shack?”
With a careless shrug, Weston said, “Knew you were in danger. Couldn’t do much else.”
“How did you know the Ford gang would come?”
“Because that’s what I would’ve done. They want the girl and that money powerful bad.”
Sam still had doubts. Leaving, returning—hell, even getting shot—could be a game to throw him off the scent. Weston could still be involved with Ford.
Weston would bear watching. Still, Sam squeezed out the words he’d give anything to keep from saying. “I didn’t thank you for coming back.” If Weston hadn’t, Sam would be dead, and Ford would have Sierra.
A flicker of a smile twitched at the corners of Weston’s mouth. “Sure you did. You didn’t shoot me.”
There it was again—that thing that made Sam like him despite the thousand reasons why he shouldn’t. For God’s sake, he’d kept a broken watch he’d stolen because he knew it meant something to Sam.
Hell!
No point trying to figure the man out—it was next to impossible. Sam rose. “The horses haven’t had near enough rest, but we can’t wait any longer.”
“Luke isn’t able to ride yet,” Sierra protested.
“I’ll manage,” Luke murmured, slipping on his bloody shirt. The effort brought a groan.
Sierra handed him a cup full of water. “A wagon would sure make it easier.”
“I think me and easier parted company quite a ways back.”
The outlaw’s grim smile didn’t fool Sam. Weston was in bad shape. If he could make it to Flatbush, Sam would leave him there. If Luke didn’t make it, Sam would be digging his grave. And then, of course, there was concern for Sierra.
He strode to the horses with her. Pausing next to her mare, he lifted a strand of her dark hair and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. He loved the silky feel. In fact, he loved everything about this woman who’d brought him back to life. Sam moved closer, and she leaned into him. “I am going to get you to safety at the Lone Star. You can count on that.”
“I know you will, of that I’m sure.” Lights twinkled in her blue eyes as she smiled. The kiss they’d shared that morning in the coolness of the early dawn crowded the edges of his mind. What he wouldn’t give to repeat it.
A low fire still burned inside him. The embers he’d banked that morning seemed intent on flaming up again despite everything. He ran his fingers lightly down the curve of her back and brushed her lips with his mouth, inhaling her fresh scent. “If we only had more time,” he murmured against her ear.
“Only we don’t.”
“More’s the pity.” He put his hands around her waist and lifted her into the saddle. When he handed her the mare’s reins, he held her hand. “The time will come when we’ll have all the time in the world. After I find your brother, we’ll talk about some things.”
Sierra nodded, gently placing her fingers on his lips. “Better go help Luke.”
With thoughts of the tangy sweetness of her mouth filling his mind, Sam rushed to brace Luke with an arm, half
carrying him to his black gelding.
“It won’t be long until dark. You can rest then.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make it,” Luke said, gasping for air.
After anchoring Luke’s bloody coat under the bedroll, Sam stuck his foot in the stirrup. The leather creaked when he mounted up. He knew all too well the kind of punishment a well body took from riding over prairie land dotted with low-slung hills and rocky ravines. For one hurting, it would be unbearable.
If Luke Weston had anything left in reserve, he’d have to draw on it before nightfall. Sam prayed he made it.
Not because of any other reason than the outlaw had returned his watch.
If he said that often enough, maybe he’d start to believe it.
Nine
Not long after they left the watering hole, Sierra glanced back. Riders were coming up on them fast. She didn’t need Sam’s worried gaze to confirm that it could only be Isaac Ford and his bunch of cutthroats.
With her heart racing, she set her mare into a gallop, praying they could outrun them.
But could Luke hold on? He leaned forward in the saddle, his face almost buried in the black gelding’s mane. Luke was a lost soul who’d evidently made some bad choices. Despite their strange relationship, Sam and Luke had risked their lives to protect each other, and that bond of loyalty they shared brought a lump to her throat. She noticed Sam’s sharp eye on Luke even now as they raced for their lives.
She rode next to Luke and fought to hold him in the saddle. He’d lost so much blood—he had to be weak. Pain dulled his eyes and deepened the lines bracketing his mouth.
Even though Luke was wounded, she knew he and Sam would face death to protect her. They already had. But for one of them to die because of her would destroy her.
Ranger Sam Legend with the horrible scar around his neck.
Luke Weston with the high price on his head.
Sudden hotness scalded the back of her eyes. She’d never had anyone give their all for her.
Oh God, I am so unworthy of the sacrifice.
Whitney had trusted her, died waiting for her to lend a hand. Instead, Sierra had stood rooted in fear while her twin perished.