Sam's Creed

“Hold up.”

Bella whipped around. “Make him speak.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t think you’ve tortured him enough?”

“He must tell.”

He put his hand on her shoulder, soothing the panic rippling through her in visible tremors. “Yeah, he must.”

But not the way she thought.

Grabbing the injured man by his shirt, Sam yanked him to his feet. “You’re going to carry a message to Tejala for me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Stupidity ran deep in this bunch. “Because otherwise,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “I’ll let those two have at you. Make a choice.”

The bandit grunted. “What is this message?”

“You tell Tejala that if he comes after Bella, he’s coming after Hell’s Eight.”

The man shook his head. “He will not care. He is crazy that way.”

“Funny,” Sam said. “So am I.”

Chapter 3

He was crazy. Isabella watched as Sam rested his rifle against the cave wall and propped three sticks shoved through several cleaned fish beside it. A dark stain spread downward and outward from the bandanna tied around his thigh. Blood from where he’d been shot, defending her. She did not know much about bullet wounds, but it looked like a lot of blood. Enough blood that they should have stopped back when she’d told him to instead of continuing on to this cave. Kell slid up beside Sam, sniffed his wound and then whined. The wag of his tail knocked one of the sticks. Sam caught it before it could tumble to the dirt floor. “Easy on dinner, mutt.”

Kell stepped back. Isabella wanted to move back, too, when Sam turned toward her. Except she couldn’t. The wall was to her back and her pride was in her face. After all her bold talk, it would be very humiliating to cower now that they were alone.

She motioned to the wound on Sam’s thigh. “You must take better care of yourself.”

Shadows hid his eyes, but she could tell from the angle of his head that he was looking at her. “Worried about losing your guide to San Antonio?”

“Sí. You are very important to me right now.”

He favored his leg as he brought the fish over. “Good for a man to know where he stands.”

From where she sat, it seemed he wouldn’t be standing much more. The firelight highlighted the paleness of his face and the lines carved deeper at the corners of his eyes. He was hurting and tired. Because of her. She motioned to the boulder across the fire and against the wall. “You will sit and let me tend to your wound.”

“I will?”

“Yes.” Standing, she brushed the dirt from her skirt. “Unless it is your wish for your wound to fester and for you to die.”

His gaze burned a path from her head to her toes. “I can’t say that I’m anxious to meet my maker just yet.”

The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable, but oddly enough, not scared.

She pointed to the boulder. “Sit.”

“Is that an order?”

It had been, but maybe ordering a man like Sam around was not such a good idea. She crossed to the saddlebags and rummaged around. “You should think of it as a reasonable request.”

He followed her with that miss-nothing gaze of his. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in response to the look—so strong that it felt like a touch. Her fingers closed over a silver flask.

“When you were thinking of this reasonable request, did you stop to think I’d have to remove my pants to accommodate it?”

She had, but thinking ahead did nothing to stop the blush from rising to her cheeks. She had never seen a man naked. It wasn’t done for a young woman of her station, but Sam did not need to know that. “I will do my best to preserve your modesty.”

While gaining as much of an eyeful as she could. She was very curious about the male body.

Sam didn’t answer immediately. His boot sole scuffed over the sandy cave floor. A glance wasn’t any more revealing as to his mood. The press of his lips could be anger as easily as it could be amusement. He was a very hard man to read.

“Well, I appreciate that.”

Uncorking the flask, she took a sniff. The odor of strong drink made her eyes burn.

Sam grunted as he sat down. “That you can pass on over.”

She tapped the cork back into the bottle. “You will drink it if I do.”

His holster scraped rock. “That’s sort of the point.”

He was always so on guard. “I will need it to clean your wound.”

“Like hell.”

Frowning over her shoulder at him, she pulled out a flat packet tied with rawhide. “There is no need for such language.”

“You ever had rotgut poured over an open bullet hole?”

“I am not so foolish as to throw myself in front of a bullet.”

It angered her that he had. Even more that he wasn’t taking the wound seriously. People died from infection.

“Duchess, I was saving your life. That makes me a hero, not a fool.”

She opened the packet and found a needle and catgut inside along with plenty of strips of material for bandages. She didn’t want to think how dangerous Sam’s life must be that he carried such things with him. Nor did she like how little catgut there was compared to bandages. He must be injured often. She snapped the packet closed and brushed the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “You were needlessly reckless.”

“That’s my job.”

He said that as if it was the truth, but she did not think so. Grabbing up the items, she headed back toward him. He watched her the whole ten steps. There was something in his eyes that had not been there before.

She dropped to her knees by his injured leg, wincing as her muscles protested. She was not used to riding so much. “I think you are too enthusiastic in your doing of this job.”

The soft leather of his glove skimmed her temple, tangled in her hair before curving behind her ear, taking the annoying strand of hair with it. “Pardon me, duchess, but what you know about about my job wouldn’t fit on the head of a pin.”