The Horseman's Bride

“I’m guessing there’s no whiskey.” He sank onto the middle step with a grunt of pain. His left hand clutched his right arm, the fingers tight below the wound.

“My grandmother does keep a little—strictly for medicinal purposes. Will you be all right while I get it?”

“Just get the blasted whiskey!”

“Hang on.” She dashed into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

Only after she’d gone did Jace give vent to the pain that pooled like molten lead around the knife in his shoulder. A string of obscenities purpled the air. If nothing else, the muttered oaths braced his courage. The wound itself didn’t appear that serious, but if that blade was as filthy as the bastard who’d thrown it, he could be in danger of blood poisoning.

The girl had surprised him, standing there like a defiant little cat pitted against a pair of mongrel curs. He’d been in the woodshed looking for gate timbers when the two ruffians appeared. It had taken him precious minutes to circle around and retrieve the pistol he’d hidden in his bedroll. He’d returned to find her with her shirt gaping open as she threatened two armed criminals with that silly little paring knife.

His mouth had gone dry at the sight of her.

He’d be smart to banish the image from his mind, Jace lectured himself. Clara Seavers was a lady. Her courage and fighting spirit merited his respect. But the memory of her standing there on the porch, her proud little breasts straining against the wispy fabric that covered them, would fuel his erotic dreams for nights to come.

Damn!

He shifted his weight on the step. The movement shot pain all the way down to his fingertips. Biting back a moan, he focused his gaze on the circling flight of a red-tailed hawk. Beyond the pasture, where the road stretched into open country, the two intruders had long since vanished from sight.

What would have happened if he hadn’t been here? The thought sent a dark chill down his spine. He found himself wanting to catch up with the miscreants and rip them limb from limb. If either of them had so much as laid a hand on her …

Jace shook his head, silently cursing his own helplessness. He should be counting his blessings that the idiots had gotten away. If he and Mary had been able to hold them, the marshal would have been called in, and he’d have found himself dragged to jail along with them. Even now, he had to wonder if the men, if apprehended, would be able to identify him. Now would be the smart time to climb on his horse and ride away. But he was in no condition to go anywhere.

Why had Clara backed his argument against calling the marshal? Was she just talking common sense, or had those big sarsaparilla eyes seen through his facade to the fugitive he was? And if she suspected the truth, why had she helped him? Was it some kind of trick, meant to lull him into a false sense of security?

Were the women calling in the law even as he waited?

Jace’s hands had clenched into fists. Slowly he forced his fingers to relax, forced his mind away from the searing pain in his shoulder. Damn it, where was that whiskey? His ears strained for the patter of Clara’s light footsteps crossing the floor. He remembered the cool touch of her fingers, the pressure of her body against his side. He could feel himself swaying, getting light-headed. The pain was intoxicating. Maybe he should just grab the knife, yank it out and try to get to his horse. His hand crept toward knife handle.

“No!”

She was here now, rushing across the porch with Mary on her heels. As the screen door slammed shut, she dropped to her knees beside him. One hand clutched a pillow. The other clasped a bottle of cheap whiskey. “Give me that,” he growled, reaching to twist it out of her hand.

“No.” She moved the bottle aside. “There’s only a little bit left, and we’ll need it to disinfect the wound.”

“Hell’s bells, what happened to the rest? Have you been imbibing, Mary?”

The older woman’s mouth twitched. “I’ll have you know I’ve had that same bottle for six years, and it’s only been used for medicinal purposes.”

“Now, you I’d believe.” Jace’s head was swimming. He fought to stay alert. For all he knew, he could pass out and wake up in handcuffs, on his way to jail.

“Be still and lie down.” Clara maneuvered him onto the pillow. “You can talk after we get this knife out of you and dress the wound.”

Jace lay with his head cushioned, trying to imagine her bending over him under very different circumstances. His fantasy didn’t help much. The blade was buried a good six inches in his shoulder. This already hurt like hell. And it was just going to get worse.

“Here, bite on this.” Mary was pushing something between his teeth. It felt like a table knife wrapped in layers of cloth.

“Just get it over with,” he muttered around the obstruction in his mouth.

“Ready?” Clara knelt beside him, the whiskey bottle beside her on the porch. Her nimble fingers ripped away his shirtsleeve, exposing the flesh around the wound. Then her hands closed around the knife. Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw tensed.

“Now!” In one swift move she pulled the blade free.

Jace gasped, muttered and passed into darkness.

The knife dropped from Clara’s shaking fingers and clattered to the porch. Blood was soaking Tanner’s shirt and pooling below his collarbone. It seeped into the towel she was using to stanch the flow. She struggled to ignore her lurching stomach. Blood had always made her feel queasy.

“Let it bleed a little more.” Mary would have tended to Tanner herself, but a bad knee made it painful for her to get down beside him. “It’s a deep wound, and Lord knows what was on that knife blade. The more dirt washes out, the less the chance of festering. That’s the real danger now.”

“But there’s so much blood. You’re sure it’s safe?”

“I’ve seen worse.” Mary’s mouth tightened, and Clara knew she was remembering the long-ago day when her youngest son had lost an arm in a threshing machine accident. The boy had survived and grown up to be a teacher. Mary had eventually considered the injury a blessing because, when he was of age, it had kept him from going to war.

“Tanner should be fine as long as we can keep the wound clean,” she said. “But any sign of infection, and we’ll need to get him right to a doctor.”

Tanner’s eyelids fluttered open. “No doctor,” he rasped. “I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll see about that.” Mary handed Clara two more clean towels, dropped the wrappings in the rocker and turned to walk inside. “Go ahead and stanch the bleeding, Clara. Then you can disinfect the wound with whiskey. I’ll need a few minutes to make a poultice.”

Clara wadded one of the towels and held it against the wound, leaning forward to increase the pressure of her hands. His eyes watched her, blinding blue in the shadows of the porch. The ripped shirt showed a glimpse of fair skin with a virile dusting of light brown hair.

“How do you feel?” she asked, unsettled by his nearness.

“Like hell.” He managed a grimace. “But thanks for asking.”

“You’re in good hands with my grandmother. She makes her own poultices with herbs the Indians used in the old days—yarrow, cedar bark, pitch pine and things I can’t even name. There’s nothing better for wounds.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. I don’t take well to being a patient.” A grunt of pain escaped his lips as Clara increased the pressure of the towel.

“It may take time to get your strength back,” she said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. And by the way, I haven’t thanked you for saving us.”

“I wasn’t sure you needed saving. You seemed to have the situation well in hand with that vicious little paring knife.”

A beat of silence ticked past before she realized he was teasing her. “They were going to take Foxfire,” she said. “Nobody takes my horse.”

His eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a warning.”

“Take it any way you like,” she said.

“Whatever you might think, I’m not a thief, Clara. Galahad, as you named him, was borrowed—with his owner’s per mis sion.”

He bit off the end of the last word, as if realizing he’d said too much. Questions flocked into Clara’s mind. Where had the stallion come from? Why would anyone lend such a prized animal when an ordinary mount would do? She willed herself to keep silent as she lifted the towel and checked the wound. Showing too much curiosity might put Tanner on alert.

But he’d just given her the perfect opening, Clara reminded herself. She’d be a fool not to seize it.

The bleeding had slowed. Applying a fresh towel to the wound, she cleared her throat. “Speaking of Galahad, I’ve a favor to ask.”

Tanner’s left eyebrow quirked in an unspoken question. Clara took it as a signal to plunge ahead.