inside him, and with each passing hour the pain grew.
To his credit, Oran never said a word, but struggled diligently to stay on his feet and do what he could for the passengers in his care. He insisted on helping Brady stack rocks over Bodine’s body, then because the water barrel strapped to the coach had broken in the crash, he gathered what water they had, which consisted of Brady’s full canteen and Oran’s half-empty one. He even helped tend the old woman’s ankle, which was only sprained and not broken, although to hear her wailing, it was a fatal injury. But with the day starting to fade, Brady could see Phelps was wearing down. And he wasn’t the only one.
He glanced over to where the Englishwoman struggled to prop that ball-busting umbrella over the railroader to keep the sun off his face. So far she’d handled herself well and he admired her for it. But studying her now, he could see she was lagging and he knew she was hurting. Not a crier or a complainer, which in his experience was an unusual thing in a woman, especially a woman like her. He just hoped she held true to that when he told her he was leaving.
“The horse is pretty sore.” Oran’s voice was raspy with pain. “But he should get you to Jamison’s. Leave the saddle. Less weight.”
Brady knelt beside him. He noted the tremor in the older man’s hands as he mashed mescal leaves on a rock with his gun butt.
“I know with Ramirez out there, you got worries of your own.”
Brady didn’t need reminders. Nor did he want Phelps worrying away what strength he had left. “I’ll tend this first, Oran. My word on it.”
Phelps nodded. The gun slipped from his fingers. With a groan, he slumped back onto the ground. “Think I’ll rest a minute.”
Brady drew his long knife from his boot and scraped up the mescal paste. After pulling a packet of jerky and a tin cup from his saddlebag, he picked up the fuller of the two canteens and walked toward the Englishwoman. He wondered how to impress on her the direness of their situation without scaring her. Five people—three injured—with no food and hardly any water, stranded in a canyon next to a dry arroyo. If it rained, they’d be caught in a flash flood. If it didn’t, they’d likely die from too little water and too much sun. Unless Sancho found them first.
Brady forced that thought aside. But as soon as he did, another took its place. Unless Sancho went to the ranch instead. Sonofabitch.
“What’s wrong?”
Startled, he looked down to find himself standing over the Englishwoman. She was staring up at him with that skittish look she seemed to favor whenever he was near. Adopting a bland expression, he squatted on his heels so they were at eye level, hoping that would put her at ease. He knew his size and manner could be intimidating, but he’d never used his strength against a woman, and it irritated him that she so clearly thought he would.
Handing her the knife, he told her to spread some of the paste on a clean kerchief while he unwrapped Ashford’s bandage. He was relieved to note the wound wasn’t stinking and showed no sign of infection yet, but it was early. After he’d changed the bandage and retied the wrappings, she offered to put the rest of the paste on his arm. It wasn’t necessary—despite the blood, the scratches weren’t that deep.
He let her do it anyway. He knew she didn’t like touching him and figured if she saw she could do it without coming to harm, she might lose some of her distrust. Plus, he liked watching her. Even sunburned and dirty, with that lumpy bruise on her temple and her face half hidden by a tangled mess of curls, she was easy on the eyes. She reminded him of one of those fancy Arabian horses—all pride and not much sense, but a heart that wouldn’t quit.
She studied the cuts. “Did I do this?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up, her eyes showing confusion and concern. “If so, I am sorry. I was not myself.”
Brady forced
To his credit, Oran never said a word, but struggled diligently to stay on his feet and do what he could for the passengers in his care. He insisted on helping Brady stack rocks over Bodine’s body, then because the water barrel strapped to the coach had broken in the crash, he gathered what water they had, which consisted of Brady’s full canteen and Oran’s half-empty one. He even helped tend the old woman’s ankle, which was only sprained and not broken, although to hear her wailing, it was a fatal injury. But with the day starting to fade, Brady could see Phelps was wearing down. And he wasn’t the only one.
He glanced over to where the Englishwoman struggled to prop that ball-busting umbrella over the railroader to keep the sun off his face. So far she’d handled herself well and he admired her for it. But studying her now, he could see she was lagging and he knew she was hurting. Not a crier or a complainer, which in his experience was an unusual thing in a woman, especially a woman like her. He just hoped she held true to that when he told her he was leaving.
“The horse is pretty sore.” Oran’s voice was raspy with pain. “But he should get you to Jamison’s. Leave the saddle. Less weight.”
Brady knelt beside him. He noted the tremor in the older man’s hands as he mashed mescal leaves on a rock with his gun butt.
“I know with Ramirez out there, you got worries of your own.”
Brady didn’t need reminders. Nor did he want Phelps worrying away what strength he had left. “I’ll tend this first, Oran. My word on it.”
Phelps nodded. The gun slipped from his fingers. With a groan, he slumped back onto the ground. “Think I’ll rest a minute.”
Brady drew his long knife from his boot and scraped up the mescal paste. After pulling a packet of jerky and a tin cup from his saddlebag, he picked up the fuller of the two canteens and walked toward the Englishwoman. He wondered how to impress on her the direness of their situation without scaring her. Five people—three injured—with no food and hardly any water, stranded in a canyon next to a dry arroyo. If it rained, they’d be caught in a flash flood. If it didn’t, they’d likely die from too little water and too much sun. Unless Sancho found them first.
Brady forced that thought aside. But as soon as he did, another took its place. Unless Sancho went to the ranch instead. Sonofabitch.
“What’s wrong?”
Startled, he looked down to find himself standing over the Englishwoman. She was staring up at him with that skittish look she seemed to favor whenever he was near. Adopting a bland expression, he squatted on his heels so they were at eye level, hoping that would put her at ease. He knew his size and manner could be intimidating, but he’d never used his strength against a woman, and it irritated him that she so clearly thought he would.
Handing her the knife, he told her to spread some of the paste on a clean kerchief while he unwrapped Ashford’s bandage. He was relieved to note the wound wasn’t stinking and showed no sign of infection yet, but it was early. After he’d changed the bandage and retied the wrappings, she offered to put the rest of the paste on his arm. It wasn’t necessary—despite the blood, the scratches weren’t that deep.
He let her do it anyway. He knew she didn’t like touching him and figured if she saw she could do it without coming to harm, she might lose some of her distrust. Plus, he liked watching her. Even sunburned and dirty, with that lumpy bruise on her temple and her face half hidden by a tangled mess of curls, she was easy on the eyes. She reminded him of one of those fancy Arabian horses—all pride and not much sense, but a heart that wouldn’t quit.
She studied the cuts. “Did I do this?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up, her eyes showing confusion and concern. “If so, I am sorry. I was not myself.”
Brady forced
Similar Books
