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prisoner?"
Startled by the man's gravelly voice, Justin spun around to find the marshal's eyes open.
"You're awake." Justin scraped off the last of his whiskers with a hoe-shaped razor and swished it in a cup of hot water. The new-type razor had been developed so men could shave safely aboard a moving train, but Justin preferred the old blade type, which was easier to strop.
Owen shifted his legs and tried to sit up. "I'm awake," he mumbled.
"Hold on." Justin quickly wiped the remaining soap away from his freshly shaven chin, then moved to the marshal's side.
Owen's breath rattled in his chest, his lips tinged in blue.
Kneeling down on one knee, Justin slipped his hands beneath Owen's armpits and lifted the man into a sitting position.
"Thank you," Owen wheezed. He leaned his head back against a tree. Groaning, he pressed his hand gently on the wad of fabric protecting the wound at his shoulder.
"You got a name?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"My name's Wells. Reverend Justin Wells."
"A preacher, huh? What do you know?" He took a moment to catch his breath before adding, "This is the last place I'd expect to run into a fire escape."
Justin chuckled. As a preacher, he'd been called a "sin twister" and other such names, but "fire escape" was a new one on him. "It's the last place I expected to be," Justin said. "Would you like some Arbuckle's?"
"Only if it tastes better than that tea you keep forcing down my throat," Owen rasped.
Justin smiled to himself. Sarah had a few choice words to say about his coffee—none of them good—but he wasn't about to repeat her sentiments.
He poured the steaming coffee into a tin cup and, stoopÂing low, held the cup next to Owen's lips.
Owen blew on the hot liquid, took a sip, and grimaced. "Sure hope your sermons are better than your coffee."
"There are some who would argue in favor of the coffee," Justin said.
Owen leaned his head against the tree. His gaunt, ash-colored face hardly seemed able to support his dark, drooping mustache and stubbly beard. His sunken eyes looked like two black holes. "You still haven't told me where the prisoner is."
Justin tossed a nod in the direction she'd gone. "She's down by the stream, bathing."
Owen grimaced, but whether from pain or disapproval, Justin couldn't tell. "I'll wager the last breath in me that she skips, if she hasn't already."
"Then you'd be one sorry man," Justin said.
Owen coughed. "If you knew what awaited her in Texas . . ."
"She told me about the hanging."
Owen's eyebrows arched in surprise. "You know, and you still think she won't escape? She's no fool." He coughed and then continued, his voice fading with each spoken word. "She's . . . she's not about to stay around . . . for her own lynchÂing party."
"I made her leave her boots here at camp. Without boots and a horse, she won't get very far."
"She escaped once . . ." Owen cleared his voice and started again. "Rocky Creek's town marshal made the mistake of underestimating her. Don't you make the same mistake. "
Not about to admit it was a mistake he'd already made, Justin tossed the dregs of his coffee on the ground and set the tin cup down on a flat rock. He rose and reached for the spare shirt used for bandages. One sleeve and half the back was all that was left. He tore a strip of cotton, dampened it, and squeezed out the excess water. Kneeling by Owen's side, he laid the cool damp cloth on the marshal's forehead.
"She told me she and her brothers were wrongly accused of murder."
"It's not my job to determine guilt or innocence. It's not yours either."
"She saved your life," Justin said.
Owen looked at him with clouded eyes. "And you want me to save hers." It was a statement more than a question.
"She's a woman."
"The judge found her guilty."
"She didn't kill anyone," Justin said firmly.
"Maybe not. But she and her brothers are guilty of other crimes," Owen wheezed. "Robberies."
"They don't hang people for robberies,"
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