Whirlwind Wedding

“Name’s Lieutenant Jericho Blue.” He held up an official-looking piece of paper. “I’m a Ranger and this is my Warrant of Authority issued by the Adjutant General’s Department under authority from the government.”

Apprehension skittered through her and her grip tightened on the lamp. The Sisters of Mercy had taught her too well for her to dismiss anyone out of hand. Still, she would dispense with him quickly. She smiled and asked as kindly as she could, “May I help you?”

He seemed to have trouble getting the paper back into his trouser pocket.

“Sir?” Out beyond him, at the edge of the lamplight, she saw a riderless horse, and another one beside it with a dark shape slung across its back. A body? The warnings about nearby outlaws she had heard only hours ago, as she had looked for Andrew, rushed back.

According to Sheriff Holt, the McDougal gang had ambushed a pair of lawmen yesterday. Catherine had been nearly ill with worry over the possibility that her brother might run into the outlaws. The sheriff had offered to look for the twelve-year-old with the posse he’d formed to track the gang. She’d accepted, but continued her own search, frantic that her brother might have gotten in the way of the brutal men and suffered a fate far worse than her denying him any more of her apple pie until he stopped sneaking out of their house at night.

The Ranger said huskily, “I’m on the trail of the McDougal gang.”

“Our sheriff said they were nearby.”

“Very near.”

She had to lean closer to hear. His voice was grainy and flat, and his skin had a waxy sheen. He didn’t look well. “Are you all right?”

Catherine had worked with enough patients at Bellevue Hospital in New York City to know when someone was ill. Something was definitely wrong with the man.

He stared over her shoulder into the house, as if searching for something. “Do you mind if I look around?”

“In the house?”

He gave a sharp nod.

She didn’t want to advertise that she and Andrew lived alone. If one or more of the McDougal gang were hiding around her house, she certainly didn’t want to be the one to find them. But neither did she want to let this strange man into her home.

“So, you don’t mind then?” He straightened sluggishly and made to move inside.

A bit surprised, Catherine stepped back. A shotgun was out of sight behind the door, but she felt more confident about using a skillet if necessary. “All right.”

He mumbled something and swayed, his eyes glazing. As if being pushed from behind, he toppled to the floor with a crash.

The wood shook beneath her and for a moment Catherine stared disbelieving at the long length of man stretched out at her feet. He had fallen over the threshold, half of him still outside.

In a flash, Andrew, his dark hair rumpled and his blue eyes drowsy, appeared beside her. He wore only the droopy cotton drawers she had seen when she’d checked on him an hour ago after marching him home. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Shaking off her shock, she knelt, holding the lamp high. He’d said his name was Jericho. “Help me turn him over.”

Andrew was stocky and strong. With his help, she got the Ranger on his back. Blood smeared the weathered wood floor.

Her brother drew in a sharp breath and Catherine glanced up. He was pale, his eyes huge. “What’s he doin’ here?”

“Looking for the outlaws that Sheriff Holt told us about.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Not yet.”

“He’s mean-lookin’.” Andrew stood frozen, staring warily at the stranger.

Catherine turned her attention back to Jericho. The man’s black vest fell open to reveal the waistband of his trousers and a lean torso, but her gaze was drawn to the dark bandanna tied below his elbow. His shirt was torn and she could see a nickel-size hole in his forearm. Gunshot. “He’s bleeding.”

She reached for the chambray cloth, intending to roll back his sleeve.

“He’s bleedin’ there, too.” Andrew’s finger shook as he pointed to the man’s leg. “Is he gonna die?”

“I don’t know.” She tempered her impatience. Her brother’s sharp unease was undoubtedly due to witnessing the recent death of their mother.

Summoned by Mother’s urgent letter, Catherine had spent two weeks traveling by train and stage from New York City to Whirlwind. By the time she arrived, Evelyn Donnelly was dead from consumption, and the brother Catherine had never known was fending for himself.

She shifted the lamp to get a good look at the Ranger’s leg. A blood-soaked length of rope was tied high on his right thigh. Catherine had thought it was the leg strap for a gun belt, but he wasn’t wearing one. An egg-size hole tore his denims. She spread open the fabric with gentle fingers. A low groan escaped the man.

“It’s okay,” she said, automatically soothing him while she continued to examine his leg. His blood-caked flesh gaped. Raw, ragged and still oozing, the wound was deep.

She glanced up at Andrew. “We need to get him all the way inside.”

“Our house?”

“Yes. There’s no one else to help him.”

Her brother swallowed hard.

“Andrew,” she said sharply.

“He’s big!”

“You pull one arm and I’ll pull the other.”

With considerable effort, they dragged him across the wood floor, angling around the table to position him a few feet from the stove. Catherine knelt, checking the injury to his arm again. It would keep, but his leg needed immediate attention. His pants were torn on his outer thigh several inches above his knee, and she discovered two small holes in his leg there, where the bullets had entered. Blood still seeped from the open flesh where the slug had exited. Because his trousers were stuck to his skin, she couldn’t tell if the wound was on the top part of his thigh or the inside.

She stood and retrieved a pair of scissors from the free-standing cupboard behind the table, and cut through the rope. Laying the rope and scissors aside, she pressed her hand firmly to his leg, finding the rock-hard muscle hot and feverish beneath her touch. She ignored the flutter in her stomach. She wasn’t generally nervous around unconscious men.

“Andrew, get me a clean cloth and some water. Put one of the brick pieces from the stove in the water to warm it up.”

It was something the Sisters had taught her, and Andrew followed her instructions as carefully as she had always followed the nuns’. She cleaned the Ranger’s injury as best she could, applying pressure when fresh blood seeped out. His denims stuck to his leg and Catherine knew she might have to cut them off in order to see the damage. Despite working with the Sisters for four years at Bellevue Hospital and around New York City, she didn’t have all the skills needed to tend such a severe injury.

“You’ve got to ride to Fort Greer for Dr. Butler,” she told her brother. “This man has lost a lot of blood. We can’t let him die, and I’m afraid if we don’t get the doctor here soon, he will.”

In the wash of lamplight, the furrow of pain between the stranger’s brows seemed to be permanently carved. An old scar ran high on his left cheekbone.

“Don’t dally, Andrew.” She got to her feet and took him by the shoulders. That she was his only family had thus far meant nothing to the boy. Quietly belligerent, he came and went as he pleased no matter if Catherine cajoled, threatened or bribed. “Don’t disobey me in this, I beg you. This man’s life could depend on it.”

He nodded solemnly. For the first time since she’d come to Whirlwind, there was no hint of defiance in his face. Just a sober understanding and a hint of fear.

She walked to the corner behind the door and picked up their father’s old shotgun.

“What’re you doing?” her brother breathed.