Claiming the Cowboy's Heart. Linda Ford

      Mercy saw their exchanged glances and simply laughed. “Jayne, pay attention. Aim, squeeze and fire.”

      Jayne lifted the gun, steadied it as she squinted down the barrel toward the target. She closed her eyes and squeezed. The gun jerked upward, the noise of the shot making her squeal.

      Mercy gasped. “You’re supposed to keep your eyes open and focused on the target.”

      “Hi yii.” A yell came from a distant spot.

      Jayne eased open one eye. Through the trees she saw a man leaning low over the neck of his horse as he raced away. Her heart clambered up her throat and stuck there like an unwelcome intruder. “Did I shoot him?” Her voice barely croaked out the words.

      Sybil fell back three steps. “He might be after us. We better get back to the ranch.”

      Jayne shook her head. “First, we have to check and make sure I didn’t injure him.” Her stomach turned over and refused to settle. “All I wanted to do was be ready to defend us against bad people. But if I’ve hurt someone instead—” The blood drained to her feet, leaving her ready to collapse in a boneless puddle. Much like it had when Oliver was shot. So much blood. Such a dark stain.

      Tremors raced up and down her spine. Cold as deep as the worst winter day gripped her insides.

      Mercy wrapped an arm about her waist. “I’m sure you only frightened him and he decided to get out of range of your deadly aim.” She laughed like it was no more than a silly joke.

      “We need to check.” Jayne lifted the hem of her black taffeta walking skirt with its stylish Edwardian hoop underskirt and forced her milky legs to take one step forward and then another. Mercy marched at her side. Sybil hung back then, realizing she would be alone, rushed after them.

      They passed the untouched target, pushed through some low bushes, wended between tall poplars with their leaves fluttering noisily in the breeze. The wooded area gave way to a grassy slope with a faint trail skirting boulders. Allowing her legs no mercy, she hurried to the trail and bent over, looking for clues.

      She stopped at a round rock that could serve as a seat if they’d been inclined to sit and enjoy the view. A dark, wet streak dripped down the side of the rock. Her heart beat a frantic tattoo against her ribs. “Look. Isn’t that blood?”

      The others joined her. Mercy touched the spot and lifted a stained finger. “Fresh blood.” She wiped her finger clean on a bit of grass.

      Jayne’s eyes felt as if they might fall from their sockets. “I shot someone.” She straightened and stared in the direction the rider had gone. “What if—” Would she find a body down the trail?

      Mercy grabbed her hand. “It was an accident.”

      “Explain that to the man I shot.” She pulled Mercy after her and signaled Sybil to follow. “I have to see if he’s on the trail.”

      “Dead, you mean?” Mercy said, putting Jayne’s fears out in the open.

      “I knew this was a bad idea.” Sybil’s voice was high and thin. “Let’s go back and tell Eddie. He can look for the man.”

      That sent resolve into Jayne’s insides. Her brother wouldn’t always be around to rescue her. Besides, he would be angry that she had ignored his directive to forget about learning to shoot. She squared her shoulders. “I don’t need Eddie to clean up after me.” She marched down the trail. But her courage faded with every step. Dark spots, some rather large, dotted the dirt. Once she touched a stain and lifted a damp finger.

      “More blood,” Sybil moaned. “Lots of it.”

      Jayne tried unsuccessfully to block the memory of blood pooling around Oliver’s body. So much blood. Sybil had no idea.

      They passed between two table-size boulders and turned by a stand of thick pine trees whose distinctive scent filled the air. The majestic Rocky Mountains rose to her right. Such wild country. Open and free. Had she spoiled it for some poor, unsuspecting man?

      She could see down the trail until it turned and disappeared. No rider. No limp body stretched out in the grass. “Guess he wasn’t injured too badly.” Please, God, let it be true.

      Mercy chuckled. “If we hear of some cowboy dying mysteriously on the trail, shot by an unseen assailant, we’ll know who is responsible.”

      “Mercy,” Sybil chided. “Show a little compassion.”

      But Mercy only laughed. “Jayne knows I’m only teasing, don’t you? It’s probably only a graze. No more than a splinter to a man who lives in this country.”

      Jayne’s tension relieved by the absence of a body, she tucked her arm through Mercy’s and pulled Sybil closer. “All’s well that ends well. Now let’s go back to the ranch and see if Linette needs some help.” Her sister-in-law was efficiency on two legs even though she expected a baby in four months.

      Sybil glanced over her shoulder. “I pray that whomever you shot won’t be bleeding to death somewhere.”

      At the teasing, Jayne faltered. “Maybe I should ask Eddie to ride out and check the trail.”

      Mercy urged her onward. “Like I said, it’s likely only a flesh wound. If the man needs help he will seek it.”

      Jayne nodded. The words should reassure her but they fell short of doing so. She couldn’t get the sight of a large pool of blood out of her mind. The last thing she needed was another death on her conscience.

      * * *

      Who was shooting at him?

      Twenty-four-year-old Seth Collins bent low over his horse’s neck as they pounded down the trail. One minute he was sitting on a rock, enjoying a pleasant moment as he drank from his canteen and ate a couple of dry biscuits. The next, a shot rang out and pain gouged his right leg. It took two seconds and the sight of blood soaking his trousers for him to realize what happened. Then his only thought had been escape.

      He glanced over his shoulder. Saw no sign of pursuit.

      Why would anyone shoot him? He was just an ordinary, poor cowboy. Except for the wad of cash he carried. Had someone followed him? He’d joined the cattle drive north from Fort Benton to a ranch in western Canada for only one reason—to earn enough money to pay the special caregiver the doctor had recommended for Pa. A man with knowledge of how to manipulate paralyzed limbs. The doctor spoke highly of Crawford, saying he’d seen great success with other stroke patients. Some, he said, had even learned to walk again.

      Now he had to get the money to Montana. If he didn’t, what would happen to his pa? Crawford had committed to staying three months. If he couldn’t help Pa in that time he wouldn’t continue on because he’d found he couldn’t do anything more after that. Seth had written the man saying he’d been delayed and would be there as soon as possible with the man’s wages. Crawford’s response had been terse. “I have others interested in my services. Please return immediately.” Seth had written again. “Please stay until I get there. I’ll be home in a week and I’ll pay you extra.” But he had no assurances Crawford wouldn’t leave and Pa would suffer. Pa was all Seth had left and he meant to get home and take care of him.

      He spared a glance at his leg. His buff-colored trouser leg was dark and sticky with blood, which dripped from the heel of his boot. He would need to stop soon and tend to the wound.

      And hide his money so those who shot at him wouldn’t discover it.

      He rode on at the same frantic pace for fifteen minutes then pulled to a stop on a knoll that allowed him a good view of the back trail. After watching a little while he decided he had outrun the shooter. Or shooters. He reined into a grove of trees that provided a bit of cover yet allowed him to keep watch for anyone following him. As he swung off his horse, his leg buckled under him. What kind of damage had the shot done?

      Knowing he had to stop the blood flow, he yanked the neckerchief from his neck and tied it around