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remained that Sawyer wasn’t in his right mind, given all the blood he’d lost and the pain he’d suffered. By now, the shooter was surely putting as many miles as he could between himself and Blue River, no doubt believing that his quarry was dead.
    She shuddered, hugged herself against an inner chill.
    What if she was wrong? What if, by hiding the gun, she was putting both Sawyer and herself in danger?
    In the next room, Clay murmured something, and then the bedsprings creaked as Sawyer lay down again.
    Piper paced. She’d ask Clay what to do with the gun when he came back.
    He took his time, though, speaking quietly to Sawyer, probably giving him laudanum from Doc’s bottle. By the time he returned to the schoolroom, Piper had reheated the coffee left over from breakfast and poured some into a mug for him.
    “Thanks,” Clay said, accepting the cup and taking a restorative sip before going on. “Has Doc been back? Sawyer’s in bad shape.”
    Piper shook her head no. “He’ll be here,” she said, with confidence. Weather or no weather, Doc Howard was not the kind to stay away when he was needed. “Clay—?”
    He raised one eyebrow. “If you’re worried about me setting up that bedstead in the schoolroom—”
    Again, she shook her head. “Sawyer’s been asking for his gun,” she said. “I put it away, but now I’m wondering if I ought to give it back to him. In case—in case—”
    Clay’s expression was a solemn one. “Where is it?” he asked.
    She led the way into the cloakroom and pointed upward.
    Clay was so tall that he didn’t need anything to stand on to reach the Colt .45 in its hiding place. He extended one hand, felt around a little, and found the pistol. Bringing it down to eye level, he examined it, expertly checking the cylinder to see that there were bullets inside.
    “Better give it back to him,” he said. “I know Sawyer, and he won’t get any real rest as long as this thing is out of his reach.”
    Piper’s heart pounded. “But—” She paused, swallowed, tried again. “He’s not himself. What if he doesn’t recognize you or me or Doc and shoots someone?”
    To Piper’s surprise, Clay chuckled, though it was a raspy sound, not really an expression of amusement. “Sawyer’s himself, all right,” he assured her. “Always is, no matter what. And he won’t shoot anybody who isn’t fixing to shoot him, no matter how delirious he might be.”
    “How can you be so sure?” Piper persisted. She hated guns. These were modern times, for heaven’s sake, and they were not the Old West but the new one.
    “I know my cousin,” Clay replied matter-of-factly. “We grew up together, he and I. He’s been shooting almost as long as he’s been riding horses, and he showed a unique talent for it from the first.”
    Again, Piper shuddered. “You’re saying that he’s a—a gunslinger?”
    “I’m saying he’s good with a gun. There’s a difference.”
    “But what if he’s a criminal? You’ve said it yourself—no one is sure, including you, that Sawyer isn’t an outlaw.”
    Clay held the pistol carefully but competently, keeping the barrel pointed toward the floor as he passed her, leaving the cloakroom. “Even if he is an outlaw,” he replied easily, “he wouldn’t shoot anybody down in cold blood. He’s also a McKettrick, after all.”
    Piper was exasperated. The McKettrick family had their own distinct code of ethics, hammered out by the patriarch, Angus, and handed down to his sons and their sons after them, but it seemed obvious that Sawyer might not subscribe to that honorable philosophy, given his secrecy about his vocation. On the other hand, Clay trusted his cousin enough to hand over his own badge, and that was no small matter.
    Clay carried the pistol to Sawyer’s bedside and came back, intent on the next task. “I’ll see to my cousin’s horse,” he said, “and unload the supplies.”
    Doc Howard showed up while Clay was outside, and the two of them