The Lawman. Patricia Potter

saloon?” the woman asked.

      “Where else? Lessen you want to leave him to die out here?”

      “But…” She stopped suddenly.

      “This one ain’t goin’ nowhere for a while. Plenty of time to decide what to do with him. What did Mac tell you ’bout shooting? Make it good, or don’t even think about it.”

      “I…I…”

      If he didn’t hurt so damn much and hadn’t been the subject of the conversation, Jared would have been fascinated by the interplay between the old man and the girl. He supposed making it “good” meant killing him.

      She left at a run, and the old man turned to him, grumbling as he did so. He studied the badge on Jared’s shirt, then muttered an obscenity. “What’s the name?” he finally asked.

      “Jared…Evans.” No use in denying it. Papers were in his pocket and saddlebags.

      “Evans?” The man frowned. He apparently knew the name, but then many outlaws did. Jared traveled a lot, sent by territorial governors to wherever he was needed. No doubt any number of outlaws would like to see him dead.

      Which might well include these two. He forced himself to a sitting position and felt the blood drain from his face. He glanced down at the knife he carried in his belt.

      “Don’t even think about it,” the old man said as he eased the weapon out of its sheath. “Lessen you want to bleed to death.” He paused, then asked, “Why are you here?”

      The woman already knew why Jared was here. No sense in trying to lie. “Thornton. I have a warrant for him.”

      The old fellow’s eyes sharpened. “I should leave you here to die.”

      “You a…a friend of his?” Jared was beginning to fade again. Too many hours on horseback. Too little food. Now too little blood.

      “Yeah, and I can tell you one thing. You ain’t taking him.”

      “The…woman?”

      “Sam? You don’t need to know nothing about her, and you have to swear you’ll forget you ever saw her if I fix you up.”

      “Can’t…do that.”

      The old man stood. “Then you can bleed to death. Won’t bother me none.”

      Jared knew he would do exactly that if he couldn’t keep the tourniquet tight. He also knew he needed help. The bullet would have to come out. The wound would have to be cauterized. Even then he might well lose the leg to infection. Being a one-legged lawman didn’t appeal much to him. Still, he wasn’t going to lie, or violate his oath.

      “Might matter to the…lady,” he said harshly. “One thing to wound a lawman. Another to kill one.”

      The old man stood motionless for a moment, then sighed in surrender. “You know what we gotta do?”

      “I know.”

      “You hurt her…I’ll kill you. And if I don’t, someone else will.”

      Jared didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to make promises he wouldn’t keep. Not even to save his life.

      The old man knelt again. This time Jared noted the stiffness in his movements. An old man and a young woman. They obviously knew MacDonald and where he was. Knew him well enough to kill for.

      To die for.

      SAM HURRIEDLY GRABBED a threadbare but clean sheet she’d washed yesterday. She stopped suddenly and leaned against a table. Her body started shaking. She’d almost killed a man. Maybe even had, if Archie couldn’t control the bleeding. She would never forget the surprise on the marshal’s face when he started to fall.

      She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. Dear God, don’t let him die. She had wanted to stop him. Had to stop him. She hadn’t thought beyond that.

      His wound was serious, particularly with the cloth driven inside. And his leg? She didn’t know how much damage she’d done to it. Could she have crippled him? Destroyed the pure masculine grace that had intrigued her?

      She’d stopped him. She’d given Mac time. But she hadn’t expected to feel this kind of remorse. A raw, wicked guilt that made her stomach turn. Maybe it was because he’d hesitated. He wasn’t what she’d expected.

      Neither had she expected the jolt that ran through her when their eyes met. Like a lightning strike. She still felt its heat inside her.

      It was guilt. Nothing more.

      Stop it! She’d done what she had to do, and now she was wasting time. She started tearing the sheet into strips. She heard Dawg yowl in the storeroom, but he would have to wait.

      Damn the lawman. He would have to come now, just as she hoped they could finally head north. The four of them. An odd family at best. Archie and Mac and Reese. Her godfathers, as they jokingly called themselves. All three men had sacrificed for her. Each so different in looks and personal quirks, but ever so dear to her. Mac, the taciturn gunman; Reese, the handsome, easygoing gambler; and Archie, the curmudgeon. Mac was like her father, Archie like a grandfather, and Reese a charming uncle. They were the only family she’d known for the last ten years. She didn’t aim to lose them.

      She finished tearing the sheet. They would need a lot of bandages. The lawman’s leg had bled copiously. Bone and muscles were probably damaged. Doctoring his wound was beyond her skills but not Archie’s. He’d been a doctor’s orderly during the Mexican American War.

      He was also the closest thing to a doc this place ever had. When Gideon’s Hope had been a roaring, lawless boom town, he was often called in the middle of the night to set a bone or sew up someone, even to birth a baby. After turning fifteen, she’d often gone along with him and helped.

      Don’t let there be permanent damage, she prayed. She would never forgive herself if there was, even if the lawman was a threat to the man who’d raised her, protected her, loved her like she was his own.

      She gathered up several of the strips and hurried downstairs, her heart pounding every step. She kept seeing the marshal’s face, startled at first, then clenched as the pain hit. Pain she’d inflicted. She bit hard on her lip.

      Sam tried to dismiss the thought. Mac’s all that’s important now. She only wanted time for him to heal well enough so they could all go to Montana. They’d talked about building a ranch there someday. Reese had been to Montana and described it in vivid terms: rich grasslands, clear rivers and an endless sky. But it had always been someday. Something had always stopped them. Like not having enough money, or hearing talk of Indian troubles there, or Reese being away on one of his trips through the gold camps.

      Why now? Why did the dratted marshal have to come now when they were almost ready. Another month and they would have been gone. Frustrated and still tormented by guilt, she raced out into the street. She handed the torn pieces of cloth to Archie.

      “Get Brandy now,” Archie said. “Sooner we get him out of this dirt, the better. Best we drive to the back of the saloon. It’s only a few steps, then.”

      She didn’t question him. A quick glance at the lawman made it evident he was in excruciating pain. Dammit, but those midnight-blue eyes would haunt her forever.

      In another five minutes she had Brandy—Archie’s old mule—hitched to the wagon and drove him out to the street.

      The lawman was sitting up, but the effort was costing him. She saw that right away. His leg was straight out, a bandage wrapped tight around his thigh. The rest of his leg was bare. The soft material contrasted with the sheer masculinity of his powerful muscles.

      His eyes were steady on her. He had a day’s growth of beard but it didn’t cover a slight scar on the left side of his face. Sensuous lips had thinned in pain, and a muscle throbbed in his neck. He was a striking man, compelling in a stark way. His face was hard, but that harshness was broken by