Promised by Post. Katy Madison

wounds needed attention first.

      Trying to keep her face composed, she urged the miner to sit and lean against the wheel as she ripped open his sleeve. A deep gash ran across his upper arm. Blood welled in the wound. Her stomach turned again, and she swallowed hard. She bunched another strip of petticoat ruffle and pressed it against his arm.

      The miner sucked air between his teeth.

      “Sorry,” she muttered.

      “No. Thank you,” he said. “Much as I hate to think a girl saved us, you did. Wait’ll they hear about your shooting in town.”

      “Oh, no.” The last thing she needed was being made into a heroine. “I just was lucky enough to have the rifle fall beside me. Over that distance, it’s hard to be accurate with a pistol.”

      “Reckon so,” said the soldier. “But most folks ain’t got the gumption to shoot a man when they’ve never done it before.”

      “Well, I didn’t have time to think about it.” Sour acid burned her mouth, and her eyes watered. She’d shot a man. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth for fear she was going to be sick. Oh, goodness, she’d shot a man—a robber for certain—but she’d never wanted to shoot a man.

      The driver finally calmed the horses, and he climbed down from his perch. “We need to get to Stockton as quick as we can. There’s a doctor there.”

      He drew to a halt and gaped at her dress. “Are you injured, miss?”

      She followed his gaze to a smear of blood on her sleeve and another on her skirt. “It’s not mine.”

      Her bodice was filthy; the dust of the road was streaked all down her front. Oh, no, this was her best dress. Her only good dress, really. The dress she planned to wear while being married. She brushed at the dirt and added a new blood smear. A lock of hair slipped from her head and in front of her eyes. She reached up to feel the whole mass of the once-neat bun hanging lopsided on her head.

      She must look a fright. What would Rafael think when he saw her? He’d never think her a lady. A real lady wouldn’t have jumped out of the stagecoach, shot a robber or looked like a ragamuffin. No, a lady was always clean and properly coiffed and didn’t sweat as if she’d been digging ditches. Her hat lay in the dust of the road, and surely her fair skin was freckling under the harsh midday sun.

      If they pulled into town and he saw her like this, he’d likely put her on the next stage back.

      Anna tried to think what her friend Olivia would have done in this situation, but the truth was Olivia would never have been in this situation. Olivia had probably never touched a gun in her life, let alone known how to fire a one. Anna hadn’t even made it to Stockton and already it was clear she wasn’t genteel in any sense of the word.

      * * *

      Daniel had to get his brother home fast, but he couldn’t lead a posse directly to their ranch or they’d be dead men. Plenty of the newcomers to California didn’t trust Mexicans and would be glad enough of an excuse to hang Rafael and himself, even though Daniel was only half-Mexican.

      “Are you going to fall off?”

      “I’ll try not to,” answered Rafael. He coughed up a frothy pink spittle.

      “Damn.” Daniel’s insides went watery. A lung shot meant the wound could prove fatal. “I need to get you to a doctor.”

      “Can’t. Home.” Rafael straightened in the saddle. “Doctor won’t do anything Ma can’t do.”

      If he took Rafael to the doctor in Stockton—likely the same doctor the men his brother had shot would see—the jig would be up. Everyone would know Rafe was the man who held up the stagecoach.

      Besides, until recently there hadn’t been any doctors around. Men healed or they didn’t. A few years back when one of their vaqueros had been thrown from his horse, he’d broken ribs and been spitting blood the way Rafael was. Madre had wrapped his ribs and kept him in his bed. He’d been as good as new in a month. A doctor couldn’t do any more. Trying to get Rafael to San Francisco and a doctor who didn’t know him would likely aggravate the injury Rafael had.

      Glancing over his shoulder, Daniel didn’t see any sign of pursuit, but they couldn’t wait around. He would have to patch Rafe up enough that he could make it home—fast.

      He drew up alongside his brother. “Is anything broken?”

      Rafael moved his shoulder in a small circle. “Doesn’t...seem so.”

      Daniel tugged off the stupid poncho Rafael had thrown at him just before stealing his rifle and galloping off this morning. He wished he hadn’t followed or that he’d turned back sooner.

      He should have lassoed him, would have, if he’d had any idea that Rafe would stop the stage as if he were robbing it. When Rafael had tugged his poncho over his face, he should have realized.

      Using his bowie knife, Daniel hacked the bright material into strips and knotted a makeshift bandage around his brother’s shoulder. Then he tied Rafe to the saddle, just in case he passed out. That his brother didn’t protest knotted Daniel’s neck.

      “We have to go,” said Daniel. He scanned the horizon, looking for a dip or a cluster of trees and shrubs that would indicate a waterway. They were at least twenty miles from the edge of their ranch. Making sure they didn’t leave tracks leading straight back would make it thirty, but the detour had to be taken.

      He took the other horse’s bridle, headed toward what looked like the best possibility and prayed that no one would come across them.

      Hours later, they finally drew their horses to a halt in front of the house, and Daniel dismounted. Fortunately, their hands were all out on the north range with the cattle.

      Rafael was trying to untie himself, coughing. He’d said next to nothing for the past hour they’d run the horses toward the ranch. His face was chalky, but he’d held his own for miles and miles of hard riding.

      “Madre!” Daniel shouted.

      He untied Rafael. Dismounting, Rafael collapsed. Daniel staggered under his brother’s solid weight.

      “Madre!” Daniel shouted again. “I need your help.”

      Rafael opened his mouth, but ended up coughing again. He gestured and they turned to step onto the long wooden deck.

      “I am cooking. Do not shout at me,” their mother retorted.

      Rafael pointed at his chest and then raised his hand toward their house. “Tell...her.”

      Daniel steered his brother, who was now weaving like a drunk. “Ma, Rafael’s hurt.”

      Their mother appeared in the open doorway, her dark eyes open wide. She took one look at her older son and ran forward to help. Her footsteps shook the planks under their feet. “What happened?”

      “He’s been shot,” said Daniel.

      “What did you do, Daniel Werner?”

      “I kept him from being killed,” Daniel told her, not that he expected his mother to appreciate that fact.

      “How could you let him get shot? On the day his bride comes?” demanded Madre.

      “Leave him ’lone, Ma,” said Rafael. “Not his fault.”

      Their mother narrowed her eyes and glared at Daniel. In his younger days, he would have expected the paddle when she looked at him like that. Now he was just tired of everything being his fault. Defending himself to his mother was just wasted breath. He’d stopped trying years ago.

      “Let’s just get him inside. You’ll need to plug the hole in him and get him bandaged up.”

      “You’ll have to get Anna.” Rafael panted.

      “No.” He couldn’t go get Anna. The moment when they had locked eyes