Patricia Potter - The Lawman

The probe went deeper, and Jared’s fingers knotted in fists. After a second, he asked, “Then why are you taking the bullet out? You could have left me…”

“Could’ve, but Mac wouldn’t have liked it. He wouldn’t want Sam to kill anyone.” The old man shook his head. “Me, I’m not sure it would be a bad thing.”

Mac again. Jared tried to concentrate on the man’s words. Mac wouldn’t want Sam to kill anyone.

Mac must be Thornton, who also went by MacDonald. Maybe they knew Thornton would want to get rid of Jared himself. The old man just admitted they knew he had been trailing the outlaw for years. He wanted to ask more, but then Archie poked the wound again. Jared’s body arched involuntarily, and the room began to fade in and out.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget about Sam.” The old man spoke softly, but there was no mistaking the warning. “No one messes with her and lives.”

It seemed to Jared that it had been Sam doing the messing, but he didn’t reply, partly for fear it might come out as a groan. The pain was too intense. His body shivered. He tried to lie still, tried to adapt to the ever increasing waves of agony. There would be more. Maybe he should have taken the laudanum.

Archie muttered something Jared couldn’t decipher. He tried to concentrate on the words. His life might depend on it. Thornton. MacDonald. A killer with a price on his head. Yet this old man and the woman—Sam—talked about him as if he were some kind of god.

Then Sam returned again, this time holding a bottle of whiskey topped by a cup in one hand, a second bowl of steaming water in the other. She placed the water on the table, then filled the cup with whiskey. She lifted his head as she put the cup to his lips. “Drink,” she ordered.

Knowing what was coming, he gulped down several swallows. He still didn’t know what skill Smith had, but he did know the bullet could eventually kill him if it weren’t removed.

He stared up at the woman. His eyesight was blurring. She didn’t seem boyish now with soft hair framing her face. More…like an angel.

An angel who had shot him.

He finished off the strong, bitter whiskey.

She poured more, but he shook his head. Best to get this over with.

She placed the cup on the table, then dunked a piece of cloth into one of the bowls, took a deep breath and wiped the blood from around the wound. The cloth was hot, burning, but he was grateful for it. The heat would increase his chances of survival, of preventing infection.

There was a stillness in her face, like a mask, as if she were afraid to show any emotion. Only a flicker of her tongue against her lips gave her away. A tendril of hair fell over her forehead and he caught the scent of roses.

Sarah had smelled of roses, too.

Archie probed deeper.

Jared sucked in a deep breath. Christ. He needed something to bite on. Almost as if she read his mind, she stuck a piece of wood between his teeth. He crunched down on it, waiting for the worst of the pain to subside. Then Archie stopped fishing around.

He felt the wet cloth against the tender skin again and looked back at the woman. Damn, why did she have to be…pretty? And dangerous? She’d done what few men had: bested him in a gunfight.

If he lived through this, he had to remember that. He suspected those golden eyes could make a man forget almost anything. When she finished cleaning the area around the wound, Archie gave him a long look. “I got most of the cloth out. The bullet’s deep, lodged against the bone. We can tie your hands and feet to the posts. You don’t wanta be moving when…”

Jared shook his head and dropped the wood from his mouth. “Get…on with…it.”

The woman put the wood back in place, and he bit down as the probe reentered the wound. His left hand clutched the iron frame of the bed. Sam stood next to Archie, washing away blood as the old man worked. Spasms of fresh pain shot through Jared’s thigh and up his body. His teeth chomped harder on the wood and he squeezed his fingers into tight fists. Waves of agony, each worse than the last, swept over him.

Then he was aware of her hand holding his, that he was gripping it. He opened his eyes and saw a tear halfway down her cheek. Her lips were bleeding from biting into them.

Maybe he was imagining it. Or maybe it was the whiskey. He closed his eyes again as the old man pulled out the bullet. Remember. Remember the good times.

Sarah. Sarah stood there in the door of their farmhouse, that grand smile spreading across her face….

THE MARSHAL’S BODY RELAXED. Sam’s body eased, as well, as he lapsed into unconsciousness. She couldn’t feel the full extent of his pain, but some part of it radiated into her. She’d done this to him.

Thank God, he was finally unconscious. It seemed like an hour but must have been no more than three or four minutes before Archie held up a bullet. “Got it,” he said with satisfaction, and dropped it onto the table. Then he went in again and fished out more pieces of fabric. Concealing her bruised hand, she started swabbing the wound again with the wet cloth.

“How bad is it?” Sam asked.

“Bad enough. Lodged against a bone and tore some muscles. Be a while before he can walk again. But if it doesn’t putrefy, he should be all right.” He looked at the gaping wound. It still bled. “I have to cauterize it.”

“You can’t sew it?”

“It’s bleeding pretty bad. Safer to sear it shut.” He looked at her closely. “Best do it while he’s out.”

She retreated to the kitchen area and fetched the knife she’d left in the stove to heat. She stood by as Archie poured sulfur in the wound, then touched the white-hot blade to the marshal’s skin. Shivers ran through her as the smell of burning flesh permeated the room. Thank God the man was still unconscious. But when he woke…

Archie looked weary, the lines in his face deeper than usual.

“You go see to Mac,” she said. “I’ll put some salve on the wound and look after him.”

“Better change clothes first. You got blood all over you.” Archie wearily walked to the door. “Damn fool shoulda taken the laudanum. Got guts, though.” He sighed. “Don’t know what in the hell we’ll do with him. Might have been best to just let him bleed to death.”

She didn’t answer that. There was no answer. She hadn’t planned ahead. She’d only thought about the immediate need to protect Mac.

As for courage? The marshal undoubtedly had that.

Sam took one last look at the unconscious man, then went to release Dawg from the storeroom, where she’d placed him before the confrontation in the street. He’d known something was different, and she hadn’t wanted him to alert Archie or, worse, try to follow her.

The half mutt, half wolf regarded her quizzically when the door opened. Then he tentatively wagged his tail. She leaned down and petted him, assuring him all was well, even if it wasn’t. Dawg cocked his head, trying to understand, then whined.

She’d found Dawg four years ago, his leg half torn off by an old trap. Archie had doctored him, and he’d chosen to stay with them.

He sniffed her now, apparently smelling the blood on her and the scent of a new person. He knew something was wrong but apparently no longer sensed immediate peril for those he cared about. He followed her up to her room and watched protectively as she put on a clean shirt and trousers.

When she finished, she hesitated, trying to steady herself. She’d always been independent. And strong. She’d helped her mother run a boardinghouse until her death when Sam was eleven. Her father had died several years earlier, and there had been no living relatives. Mac, Reese and Archie—all of whom had loved her mother—promised to care for Sam. One of them was usually gone, one was always in town, and each had taught her his special skills, and most of all, how to take care of herself.