Son of a Gun. Joanna Wayne

it. It’s going straight to the trash anyway.”

       “Good idea.” He walked to a mahogany desk on the other side of the room and took a pair of scissors from the top drawer. “You might have bled a lot more if you hadn’t had the shawl putting pressure against the cut.”

       “I’m surprised it bled as much as it did,” she said. “I’m sure the cut isn’t bad or I’d be in a lot more pain.”

       “If that’s the case, I’ll just clean the injury, apply some antiseptic, bandage the tear and you’ll be back in business. But I’m guessing it’s going to need stitches.”

       Stitches were not an option. She couldn’t deal with all the questions the E.R. personnel would ask. Besides, she no longer had health insurance, and even if she had, she couldn’t give them her real name.

       The money she’d stolen from Caudillo wouldn’t last long if she started paying for visits to the E.R.

       “Stitches at this time of night would require a trip to an emergency room,” she argued. “You said yourself it’s not safe to drive the roads.”

       “I’m not planning to drive to an E.R. Doc Benson lives on an adjoining spread. We can get there by a four-wheeler if we have to.”

       “I’m sure the doctor doesn’t work from his living room.”

       “He usually works from my barn, but he’ll likely make an exception in your case.”

       “From your barn?”

       “Yep. He’s an equine vet, best one in the county. Sewing a few stitches in you would be easy work. I’m guessing you don’t have the kick of a pissed-off quarter horse.”

       The vet would no doubt provide better medical care than she’d have gotten with Caudillo. She’d contracted some type of viral infection in September that had sent her fever soaring so high she’d become delusional. Even then he hadn’t taken her to a doctor.

       Fortunately, the sickness ran its course and she recovered with no lasting effects except a stronger determination than ever to escape the monster.

       Damien cut through the fabric and the shawl finally fell loose—all except the last layers of cotton that were soaked with blood. Finally, even that was removed and she got her first look at the injury.

       The wound gaped open, revealing exposed tissue. She swallowed hard, fighting off a wave of nausea.

       “You definitely need stitches,” Damien said. “But I’ve never seen a tear from barbed wire that was this clean-cut. It looks more like it was done with a surgeon’s scalpel or at least a very sharp knife.” Suspicion edged his voice.

       “My one small glimmer of luck,” Emma said. “A clean cut will make it easier to stitch and heal.”

       She tried to sound confident, although she was shaking inside. Julio could have easily killed her and Belle in that truck or in the woods if he’d caught up with her. Now that she was thinking more clearly, she found it almost impossible to believe she’d escaped him or Caudillo.

       She was a living miracle, and she planned to do whatever it took to keep on living. If that meant lying to Damien, so be it. If it meant spitting in the face of the devil himself, she’d do that, too.

       Damien leaned in closer. “How did you really wind up in my pasture tonight?”

       “I explained all of that. I was searching for help.”

       “Look at me, Emma.”

       She forced herself to meet his steely gaze.

       “Tell me the truth. Did someone do this to you?”

       “No one attacked me,” she said.

       “You don’t have to be afraid to tell the truth.”

       Maybe not in Damien’s world. “I’ve told you the truth.”

       “Okay,” he acknowledged, although it was clear he wasn’t buying it. “I’ll give Doc Benson a call. It may be a while before he can see you, so we should go ahead and clean and bandage the wound. Have you had a tetanus booster lately?”

       “Last March.”

       “Was that because of an injury?”

       “No. I was traveling out of the country. …” Another slip. There was nothing to do but finish the statement. “I was just going on vacation, but my doctor checked my records and recommended the booster.”

       “Where did you go?”

       “Italy,” she lied. Too bad she hadn’t gone there like she’d originally planned instead of letting her friend Dorothy talk her into island-hopping in the Caribbean.

       “Okay, let’s go to the bathroom and get this cleaned up.”

       Once in the bathroom, Damien excused himself for a minute to make a quick call to his vet friend. She stared out the window, thinking how changed the world looked when coated with snow. That’s what she needed—a way to white out the ugliness she’d endured these past months, a chance to go on with her life.

       Damien returned quickly and slipped his hands into a pair of latex gloves.

       “Good news. You don’t have to get out in the cold again. Benson’s coming here. In the meantime, he said to flush the wound with a saline solution and wash it with Betadine.”

       “Do you have that on hand?”

       “Yep. And he said to be careful with the arm and eat some of Mother’s soup. You need the nourishment.

       “Oh, and Mother said to tell you that she’d bring you a sweat suit if you want to wash up and change into something dry and comfortable before you eat. The clothes are hers, so they’ll be a little large.”

       “That would be great.”

       She sat perfectly still as he washed the blood and the grime of the day from the area around the cut. She contemplated the strange turn of events. An hour ago, she’d been freezing cold and cloaked in fear and dread. Now she was being catered to and tended as if she were a princess who’d been dropped into a cowboy castle—even if the prince didn’t totally believe her.

       A few days of this and her belief in the goodness of man might make a comeback. But she didn’t have a few days. She’d have to leave first thing in the morning, before Damien discovered that there was no car in a ditch anywhere near where he’d found her.

       In the meantime, she might as well enjoy her freedom and the comfort the Lamberts provided. Even if all she had to offer in return was lies.

      * * *

      DAMIEN HAD KNOWN BLAKE Benson since they were in fifth grade and Blake’s father had bought the small spread that backed up to theirs. They’d been best friends all through school, even shared a condo the first two years they were at Texas A&M University.

       They’d hunted together, fished together, drunk together and had a few major disagreements—mostly over politics or love. In college, they had tended to fall for the same females.

       That was no longer a concern, since Blake was happily married and the father of three. Damien had practically given up hope of finding a woman he wanted to roll in the hay with until they were too old for rolling or pitching hay.

       Other than his brothers, there wasn’t a man on earth Damien trusted more than Blake. Now that Emma was stitched and back in the kitchen with Carolina, Damien was eager to hear what Blake had to say about her and her injury. But first, the necessary small talk.

       “How’s the family?” Damien asked as he walked Blake to his black pickup truck.

       “Sylvia’s great. She’s deliriously excited about the prospect of helping the twins build their first snowman.”

       “And the baby?”