Marry Me. Jo Goodman

brushed off his elbows. “Might as well go down then and meet the doc.”

      “I don’t think so,” said Runt. “Maybe next time. You go on, though. Don’t let me hold you up.”

      Will wondered what he could offer as enticement. Runt’s jaw was set stubbornly, and the look in his eyes didn’t exactly hint at surrender. Even though Runt stood slightly higher on the bank, Will still felt as if he was towering over him. Not that Runt would give ground. Unless his knees were cut out from under him, he’d stay right where he was out of sheer cussedness.

      “You know the sheriff’s going to chew me out if you don’t come with me.”

      “I sympathize but remain unmoved.”

      “The doc will probably complain the whole way back to town.”

      “And yet I am steadfast.”

      Will couldn’t prevent his short shout of laughter at Runt’s dry response. “Dammit, Runt, you ought not to do that. I’m serious.”

      “But I am constant as the northern star.”

      That gave Will pause. “Those are somebody else’s words, aren’t they?”

      Runt nodded. “Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene I, by way of William Shakespeare.”

      “I thought so. That man could sure strike a prose.”

      This time it was Runt who gave up a chuckle. “Go on. Make some excuse for me.”

      Will couldn’t see that he was getting anywhere, so he finally gave in. “Everyone knows there’s no excuse for you.” Confident that he’d at least had the last word, he walked away. By his measure, he’d gone about twenty-two yards before a sound at his back brought him up short. He turned, saw Runt stagger, slip on his heels, then try to use his Winchester as a crutch. The rifle went right out from under him, and it was a shock to see him let go of it. He fell hard on his ass, clutching his privates like he’d been mule-kicked. Even more surprising than Runt losing his rifle was the holler that followed. Will didn’t think he’d ever heard Runt cry out like that before, and he’d seen him take some pretty good wallops from his brothers. The Abbot boys hardly ever winced when they were in pain, let alone hollered like their hair was on fire.

      Will Beatty’s loping stride swiftly carried him back up the hill. He hunkered down beside Runt and tried to get a look at what was wrong. Runt was curled tight, his hands still between his legs. “What the hell’s the matter, Runt? Let me see.” He put his hand on Runt’s shoulder and was immediately shaken off. He saw that Runt was biting down hard on his lower lip and still couldn’t silence the moaning. “Jesus,” Will whispered. “What did that bastard do to you?”

      A deep shudder wracked Runt’s small, wiry frame. “Leave me.”

      “Like hell.” He reached behind him for Runt’s Winchester, hauled it up, and stood. He stepped away from Runt and fired two shots in quick succession. The doc might not understand what he was hearing, but Judah would. Will was less certain if he’d come.

      Will set the rifle down and knelt beside Runt. Without asking permission, he grabbed Runt’s wrists and yanked them away. Will was still surprised by the resistance that Runt gave him. The accompanying groan was something awful to hear, and he couldn’t stop Runt from jerking his knees all the way to his chest. It was a good attempt to hide the problem, but it came a hairsbreadth too late.

      Will saw the blood soaking Runt’s britches. The center of the dark, wet stain was Runt’s privates, but the blossom had already spread to his thighs and lower belly. Will swore softly. “You sure you didn’t shoot yourself? Lord, but you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Let me at least try to stop that.” Even as he said it, he was shedding his vest. He tossed it aside and began unbuttoning his shirt. He came close to tearing it off his body as Runt fell quiet. Will thought it should have been a relief from the moaning, but it wasn’t. The silence worried him more. He’d never heard of an Abbot boy passing out.

      Will wadded his shirt into a ball and jammed it between Runt’s rigidly held legs. His efforts elicited a jerky objection, but that small protest gave Will some hope. He looked off toward the cabin, wondering if help was on the way. He couldn’t imagine that Runt would be able to walk the distance, and if he had to carry him, Runt would die of shame long before they reached the porch.

      “I’m goin’ back,” Will said. “Won’t take but a minute.” He jumped to his feet. “Keep that shirt twixt your legs. And don’t move.” Will wouldn’t have bothered with this last directive if he had been talking to anyone but Runt Abbot. He wouldn’t put it past him to crawl off to some hidey-hole like any other wounded animal.

      Will arrived at the cabin minutes later and flung the door open with enough force to shake the walls. Cole flinched, turning to face Will, but Judah’s fingers never faltered as he buttoned his shirt, and when he looked up, he expressed no alarm. “Bring the bag,” Will said, striding toward Judah’s bedroom. “Something’s powerful wrong with Runt. I’ll get some sheets. Take Dolly.”

      Cole thought he could have hesitated only the span of a heartbeat, but it was long enough for Will to bark another order.

      “Go, dammit!”

      Cole closed his bag and jerked it off the table. He didn’t spare a glance for Judah, nor bother to ask Will what had happened. He felt the rush of Will’s urgency roil through his own blood and was convinced he had to act. Following Will’s direction, he mounted Dolly without taking time to strap on his bag. He held it close to his chest and managed the reins with one hand.

      Will caught up to Cole at the edge of the stream. His arrival made Dolly pick up her pace. “Didn’t you hear the shots?” The loose bundle of sheets under his arm flapped and snapped, forcing him to raise his voice. “I fired two, for God’s sake.”

      “I heard them. Judah said you and Runt were trading target shots.”

      Will shook his head. “He knew better. The timing was all wrong.” He could see that Cole didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he gave him full marks for not asking. Up ahead, he could make out Runt’s curled figure in the grass. “Damn, if he didn’t try to crawl off just like I figured. He sure doesn’t want to make your acquaintance, Doc.”

      Cole made no response to that. From the impression Runt’s body made in the short scrub grass, Cole guessed he’d crawled some ten feet from where Will left him. He was turned on his side, scrabbling at the ground with one bloody hand while the other was pushed between his legs. Before Cole reached him, he could make out the dark stain on Runt’s trousers. The outer edge of blood was soaking his thighs.

      Cole beat Will to the dismount and had already dropped to his knees beside Runt when Will joined him. He set his bag on the ground and jerked off Runt’s hat and tossed it aside. Laying the back of one hand across Runt’s forehead and then his cheek, he noted the cold and clammy condition of his skin, the effect of the blood loss and the beginning of shock. He circled Runt’s outstretched wrist with his fingers and searched for a pulse. It was weak and thready. In spite of that, he felt Runt try to resist the grip. There was a measure of fight still left in the young man, and even if it ran counterpoint to Cole’s own will, he considered it an encouraging sign.

      Without looking up, he told Will, “Drop the sheets. I need you to take Runt’s wrists. I have to see the injury.”

      Will winced at Runt’s low keening cry and found himself hesitating.

      “Do it now, Deputy, or you’re no use to me or him.”

      “Sorry, Runt,” Will whispered. He took Runt’s wrist from Cole’s grasp then reached between Runt’s doubled up legs and yanked.

      Cole replaced Runt’s hand with his own. It didn’t require as many years of medical training as he had on his curriculum vitae to make his diagnosis.

      “What is it, Doc?” He regarded Cole anxiously, certain now that the only thing worse than Runt’s wounded animal cry was the