wounded man. He frisked the outlaw and collected two more guns and a knife, then slammed the butt of his gun against Colby’s skull. The outlaw fell into the mud.
Only then could Rhys return to the porch and dropped to his knees beside Maddy. She stared up at him, sweating and pale.
“Where?” he asked, but her lips only parted on shallow breaths.
His gaze locked on the blood blooming on her shoulder. He reached beneath her skirt to rip her petticoat. He wadded the soft cotton and pressed it to her wound. She barely managed a mewl of pain.
He needed to assess the damage. Had the bullet gone through, or was it lodged inside her? A steady stream of curses poured from his lips as he ripped her blouse open. He’d seen blood plenty in his line of work, but seeing it welling from a bullet hole in the woman he loved made him want to retch. But he couldn’t allow himself the luxury. He was her only help.
Holding the torn petticoat against the hole in her skin, he eased her onto her uninjured arm to look at her back, searching for an exit wound.
He didn’t know whether or not to be relieved that it hadn’t exploded through her shoulder. No, the damned ball was stuck inside her and he had to get it out before he stopped the bleeding with stitches.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked, remembering that second shot. He lowered her onto her back and looked at her face, but she only blinked at him. Blood covered her breast. He couldn’t delay. He drew out his knife and sliced her blouse and skirt. He inspected her pale, clammy skin, but saw no other injuries. Thank God.
Her eyes drifted shut and panic squeezed his chest. Was she losing consciousness?
Rhys sat on his heels and considered his options. He could move her to the bed and try to get the ball out himself, hoping he didn’t cause too much damage, or hook up the team, get her in the wagon and haul her over the hills and into town.
No, he was going to have to stop the bleeding. He scooped her into his arms and shoved the door open with his shoulder. The scrabble of the dog’s nails on the floor drew his attention and he looked into Jack’s eyes. The animal’s eyes eyebrows were drawn together as if in concern. If only the damned dog could help him.
Damn it, he needed Luke’s help. He hated even considering it, but he had no choice. Once he insured that Maddy was as comfortable as he could make her, he strode across the yard and dragged Colby up by his good arm.
The outlaw’s hand was a mess, missing two fingers, and he was pale and sweaty himself. But he’d shot Maddy and he’d help her before he got attention himself.
When he prodded Colby into the room ahead of him, the first thing he noticed was that Maddy wasn’t passed out as he’d thought. Eyes swimming with tears of pain, she watched them from the bed, her hand pressing the bloody cloth to her shoulder. Her breathing seemed to have evened out, seemed less panicked.
“Rhys,” she said.
“I’ll get you fixed up,” he promised, prompting Colby into a chair. He needed to give the man some cursory medical attention so the outlaw didn’t pass out while he was helping.
He used Maddy’s ruined dress as a tourniquet for Colby’s wounds. The bullet had passed through the meaty part of Colby’s lower leg, and the bleeding was sluggish, but Rhys tied it off anyway.
“I have whiskey in my saddle bag. For the pain,” Colby said.
“Yours or hers?” Rhys muttered.
“Mostly mine, but she can have some, too, if she needs it.”
Rhys went outside to retrieve the saddle bag from the skittish horse, then all but ran inside. Once Colby had drunk what he needed, Rhys hauled him to his feet.
“Now. You hold her down while I get the bullet out.”
The next hour passed the slowest of any in Rhys’s life, and he’d spent days on surveillance. Digging into Maddy’s soft skin with his knife until she passed out from the pain, pulling out a bullet, depending on Colby’s help as he stitched
Only then could Rhys return to the porch and dropped to his knees beside Maddy. She stared up at him, sweating and pale.
“Where?” he asked, but her lips only parted on shallow breaths.
His gaze locked on the blood blooming on her shoulder. He reached beneath her skirt to rip her petticoat. He wadded the soft cotton and pressed it to her wound. She barely managed a mewl of pain.
He needed to assess the damage. Had the bullet gone through, or was it lodged inside her? A steady stream of curses poured from his lips as he ripped her blouse open. He’d seen blood plenty in his line of work, but seeing it welling from a bullet hole in the woman he loved made him want to retch. But he couldn’t allow himself the luxury. He was her only help.
Holding the torn petticoat against the hole in her skin, he eased her onto her uninjured arm to look at her back, searching for an exit wound.
He didn’t know whether or not to be relieved that it hadn’t exploded through her shoulder. No, the damned ball was stuck inside her and he had to get it out before he stopped the bleeding with stitches.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked, remembering that second shot. He lowered her onto her back and looked at her face, but she only blinked at him. Blood covered her breast. He couldn’t delay. He drew out his knife and sliced her blouse and skirt. He inspected her pale, clammy skin, but saw no other injuries. Thank God.
Her eyes drifted shut and panic squeezed his chest. Was she losing consciousness?
Rhys sat on his heels and considered his options. He could move her to the bed and try to get the ball out himself, hoping he didn’t cause too much damage, or hook up the team, get her in the wagon and haul her over the hills and into town.
No, he was going to have to stop the bleeding. He scooped her into his arms and shoved the door open with his shoulder. The scrabble of the dog’s nails on the floor drew his attention and he looked into Jack’s eyes. The animal’s eyes eyebrows were drawn together as if in concern. If only the damned dog could help him.
Damn it, he needed Luke’s help. He hated even considering it, but he had no choice. Once he insured that Maddy was as comfortable as he could make her, he strode across the yard and dragged Colby up by his good arm.
The outlaw’s hand was a mess, missing two fingers, and he was pale and sweaty himself. But he’d shot Maddy and he’d help her before he got attention himself.
When he prodded Colby into the room ahead of him, the first thing he noticed was that Maddy wasn’t passed out as he’d thought. Eyes swimming with tears of pain, she watched them from the bed, her hand pressing the bloody cloth to her shoulder. Her breathing seemed to have evened out, seemed less panicked.
“Rhys,” she said.
“I’ll get you fixed up,” he promised, prompting Colby into a chair. He needed to give the man some cursory medical attention so the outlaw didn’t pass out while he was helping.
He used Maddy’s ruined dress as a tourniquet for Colby’s wounds. The bullet had passed through the meaty part of Colby’s lower leg, and the bleeding was sluggish, but Rhys tied it off anyway.
“I have whiskey in my saddle bag. For the pain,” Colby said.
“Yours or hers?” Rhys muttered.
“Mostly mine, but she can have some, too, if she needs it.”
Rhys went outside to retrieve the saddle bag from the skittish horse, then all but ran inside. Once Colby had drunk what he needed, Rhys hauled him to his feet.
“Now. You hold her down while I get the bullet out.”
The next hour passed the slowest of any in Rhys’s life, and he’d spent days on surveillance. Digging into Maddy’s soft skin with his knife until she passed out from the pain, pulling out a bullet, depending on Colby’s help as he stitched
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