Dakota Marshal

She could have told him it didn’t matter, let him sleep for another few hours, then given him a prescription and suggested he return to Chicago to sort out his police-related problems. Her conscience would be clear, and the status quo would be restored.

However, whether or not he would have acted on it, Hawley had a mean streak, and he was as tough as the bull who’d sired the now-dead calf. McBride had gotten rid of him. That rated an explanation.

Setting both scalpels aside, she released her hair from its long ponytail and boosted herself onto a table. “Frank Hawley wants to make his fortune breeding bulls. He just doesn’t want to spend a cent more than is necessary to keep them healthy. His farm’s like a puppy mill for cattle. One of his calves got sick. He waited too long to call. The rest—well, you heard him. He thinks I’m a killer.” Seeing him hoisting himself up, she hopped down and poked a firm finger into his chest. “The more you move, the more likely you are to reopen that wound.”

“I know.” Ignoring her warning, he swung his legs down and sat up, gripping the side of the cot. “What time is it?”

“It’s 4:00 a.m.”

“And the power’s still out?”

“We’re a little off the grid out here. Ergo, the big, noisy generator.”

He moved a tentative shoulder, hissed in a soft breath and stood. “I have to get out of here.”

“You realize that’s suicide, right?”

“Give me some bandages, Alessandra, and whatever else you think I’ll need to keep me on my feet. Then go home, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

Irritation momentarily crowded out concern. “You never change, do you, McBride? You crash in, scare the hell out of me, tell me not to worry and then disappear.”

He managed a weak smile. “That’s why you left me. Which goes to show how smart you are. Or how stupid I am. One way or the other, you don’t want to get mixed up in this.”

Her answering smile had more of a bite, but she simply said, “I’ll pack a medi-kit.” Then she went into the back room.

He’d broken her heart once. She wasn’t up for a repeat performance. Let some other female fall for his sexy, outlaw-cop charm. He was a good guy who read like a bad guy, and okay, yes, maybe he could still take her breath away with a look, but he didn’t have to know that.

She wanted someone more stable next time, not a brooding, gray-eyed rebel who seldom had less than a three-day growth of stubble on his face, disliked the thought of scissors touching his hair and hated rules almost as much as he did the people who’d so carelessly brought him into the world.

Well, damn, she thought, exasperated, now she’d gone and dumped sympathy on top of righteous indignation. She really needed to speed his departure along.

She stuffed gauze, sterile tape and antibiotics that could be used on animals or humans into a makeshift medical pack, added rubbing alcohol, electrolyte water and iodine for good measure, then zipped it closed and swung the bag onto her shoulder.

Through the window she noticed a shadow pass by outside. Apparently McBride truly did want to be gone, and quick. She was more than happy to facilitate that desire. She opened the side door, intending to offer some comment in line with her mood, when a weak beam of light from the porch slanted across the shadow’s face. It was not McBride.

Quickly she eased the door shut, not making a sound. Then she turned. “McBride!” She doubted he could hear her urgent whisper. Still holding the medi-pack, she ran for the lab. And plowed right into his chest.

He steadied her with his good hand as he glanced over her shoulder. “Is someone out there?”

“A guy with a gun. A big one.”

“Did he see you?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

McBride stuffed the Glock he’d evidently retrieved into his waistband. “Can you describe him?”

“Long hair, ratty beard, nose ring.” She let him nudge her to a less visible exit. “Eddie?”

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes moving. “Bastard. I drove in ten different directions before coming here. I thought I’d lost him.” With a glance out the window and another behind them, he positioned her next to the door. “Stay right here, Alessandra. Don’t move.”

He drew his gun, pointed it up. Alessandra’s muscles knotted.

The moment McBride left, she went for the medicine cupboard, unlocked it and pulled out the .45 Dr. Lang kept there. She had to go through his desk for the bullets. Grabbing her purse, she doused the scattering of overhead lights, shoved everything into a backpack, then froze when she caught a faint creak of hinges behind her.

Instinct told her it wasn’t McBride. Careful not to make any sound, she ran back to the door, took a quick look into the rain and slipped out onto the wraparound porch.

She saw McBride’s black truck—barely—in a far corner of the lot. A light appeared, then vanished, in one of the examination rooms. Eddie must be working his way through the building. With an eye on the window, Alessandra inched carefully along the wall. “I’m going to kill you if Eddie doesn’t,” she whispered to the absent McBride.

She saw something a split second before a hand snaked around her neck and covered her mouth.

“Not a sound, sweet thing,” a man’s Southern-accented voice whispered in her ear. “I need to know where that slippery badass I shot and I reckon you helped has gotten to.”

She should have loaded Dr. Lang’s gun. That was Alessandra’s first and pretty much only thought. Instead, a greaseball with bad aftershave had his gun pressed into her neck and was dragging her around the porch.

“Sorry to say, I’m gonna have to do you, but not until the badass is as dead as my cheating ex-wife.” He inclined his head again, and she heard the grin in his voice. “I upped my rate when I heard McBride was the target. Come on now, you can tell old Eddie, how bad’s he shot up? One to ten. Use your fingers.”

She held up two, ordered herself to move with him, to keep breathing, to think.

“Is that all?” He sounded pissed off, but only for a moment. Then the grin returned. “Or could it be you’re lying to buy time?”

Although his breath smelled of beer, he didn’t sound drunk. He continued to haul her sideways. Alessandra waited, counted.

“C’mon, McBride,” the hit man growled through his teeth. “I got the girl. Play hero, and…” The rest came out as a shocked curse.

He hadn’t noticed the single step down to his right. Off balance, he let her go as he stumbled, then slammed into the clapboard wall.

Alessandra didn’t hesitate. She scrambled from the porch.

“You come back here!” Still off balance, Eddie fired. Unsure if she’d been hit, Alessandra ran for the corner of the building.

She heard a thud. Two more shots whizzed past.

“Get to my truck,” McBride shouted.

Looking back, the only thing Alessandra saw was a blur of rain and motion.

Another bullet discharged. Eddie swore again in a wheeze, and got off two more shots.

A hand gripped her arm. “Inside,” McBride ordered. He shoved her through the driver’s side door. “Stay down.”

She knelt on the floor in front of the passenger seat and tried to determine if either of them had been injured.

Once in the truck, McBride fishtailed out of the lot one-handed, his eyes on the rearview mirror. “Man, he’s packing four semiautomatics.”

Was that some sort of twisted admiration in his voice?

“How can you possibly—” She broke off when she glimpsed his shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”