Captive Heart by Michele Paige Holmes

saving people.”
    Thayne saw her eyes glazing over again. “I’ll tell you exactly what to do.” He reached for her hand and placed it on his chest. “Get this shirt off, and we’ll see how bad things are. If we’re lucky, the bullets went clean through.”
    “And if they didn’t?”
    “One problem at a time.” He didn’t want to explore that possibility yet. “Just take off the shirt.”
    She pursed her lips and bent her head to the task. Thayne noticed her hands trembled more than his had as she began with the buttons where he’d left off. He closed his eyes, knowing he didn’t dare sleep, knowing he couldn’t with his shoulder throbbing as it was. If only he had some whiskey.
    “Now what?”
    He opened his eyes and looked up into her face, pale behind smudges of dirt and ash.
    “Pull the cloth back. Real slow now on my left here.” He braced himself for the torture, but her fingertips were gentle against his skin, taking great care as she peeled the fabric from his chest and shoulder.
    Her sudden intake of breath startled him.
    “That bad, huh?” He lifted his head, trying to get a better look at himself.
    “You were hit twice—in nearly the same place. And the skin is . . . is practically peeled off your shoulders—and back.”
    “That’d be from scooting myself up out of the well. Are the holes clean?” Thayne lowered his head back to the ground, cursing the nausea and light-headedness assaulting him. He’d seen and dressed worse wounds before, so what was the problem?
    “Clean as in . . .”
    “Did the bullets go through?”
    “I don’t know. How do I tell?” she asked anxiously.
    “If you can’t see it, you’ll have to feel inside with your finger.” Thayne reached for her hand, feeling the nail at the tip of her index finger. “Take care. That’s pretty sharp.”
    Emmalyne pulled her hand back. “Oh no. I couldn’t do that. I—”
    “You have to,” Thayne insisted. “If you don’t . . . If infection sets in, I’m a goner, and then you’re left alone out here, alone to deal with men like the Martin gang.”
    A look of horror crossed her face, and Thayne wasn’t certain if it was the thought of touching him or the thought of facing the Martins that upset her more. Finally, she gave a little nod and her hand reached toward him.
    “All right, Mr. Kendrich.” Her finger found the first hole.
    “Thayne,” he gasped. “Name’s Thayne in case ya need it for my tombstone.” He felt her fingers reach muscle. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he was gone.
    * * *
    Emmalyne poured water over the last strip of her petticoat, then wrung it out over the grass beside Mr. Kendrich—Thayne—she reminded herself. Not that she thought she’d need his name for a tombstone. He was still unconscious, but his breathing remained deep and even, and she was nearly finished dressing both wounds. He’d been fortunate. One bullet had passed clean through. The other had lingered near the surface and was easily removed. She’d been able to discover that in one long, horrifying minute as she’d pushed her finger through his flesh. Sometimes slow and gentle wasn’t the best.
    Applying the cloth to his second wound, she leaned back on her heels and watched a minute to see if blood would seep through. It didn’t, and she sighed in relief. Her entire petticoat was used up, and she wasn’t certain which article of clothing she’d have had to sacrifice next. As it was, she was already eyeing her jacket, thinking the wool would make a nice strong sling as soon as Mr. Kendrich was ready to travel again.
    And when will that be? she wondered. Looking back at the charred remains of the soddie, she longed for shelter of some sort against the approaching night. There would be none. No food, either, though water was ample, thanks to his bravery in the well. She’d hardly dared believe his tale when she’d heard him talking to the Martin outlaws, but when she’d dipped the bucket an hour past,