Two

Glory pulled herself slowly to her feet. The dry brush crackled in the wake of Perkins’s escape, seeming to mimic her crumbling hopes and dreams. Sick at heart, she glared at the meddlesome stranger who’d thwarted her plans. If he hadn’t interfered, she’d be well on her way to town, along with the means to solve all her problems.

The man sprawled, clutching his right leg. Despite deep aggravation, her stomach plunged when she saw red oozing from between his fingers.

“Dear heavens!”

“You shot me!” He struggled to sit up.

She pulled a kerchief from her back pocket as she ran to him. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. You saw it, didn’t you? Perkins, I mean. It just went off.”

Kneeling, she tied the kerchief high on his leg above the wound. That meant working awfully close to his…uh…unmentionables. Her hand trembled so badly she could only hope her jerky movements would limit the blood loss.

“Why did you let him grab your rifle? Blew half my fool leg off here.”

“Oh, and I guess you’d have done any better?” If he could complain, he wasn’t hurt too badly. She hid her relief behind a frown. “Besides, you’re exaggerating. The wound can’t be all that serious. Now, if you’d have been closer, and I hadn’t loaded this Winchester with buckshot, we might’ve been contemplating amputation, McClain.”

“How’d you know my name?” Luke grimaced as she gently eased the afflicted limb back to the ground. “I don’t rightly recall the introduction.”

All manner of strange pinpricks mocked her outward calm as she tried to avoid the face that stirred her fancies. The stranger could certainly charm the pitchfork from the devil himself. Fighting the war on both fronts, she focused on putting from mind the firm hardness of his leg and the close proximity of the other…part as she worked. Wild flutters of panic beat their wings against her rib cage.

A deep breath might steady her nerves. Yet, when she managed to gulp a large portion of the heady air, it merely made her realize nothing short of putting distance between them would solve the problem.

His name? Truth told, she didn’t seem prone to forgetting it.

“You made your acquaintance to my aunt, not me directly, this morning. I may be a lowly female and therefore unworthy of capturing a wanted criminal, at least in your estimation.” She gave the kerchief a yank, tying the knot a teensy bit tighter. “But I am not the least bit deaf.”

“Ow! Damn, lady.” The pasty white of his face warned that he teetered on the brink of blackness.

“Sorry. I need to get this down to a trickle or there’ll be no need for me to haul your carcass anywhere. Else, might as well let the buzzards have you.”

“A man truly lives for the moment when he can place his life into the hands of such a caring, compassionate woman.” McClain’s words came from between clenched teeth.

“I suppose you’d have better luck with the Miss Prisses then?” The sting of remorse came instantly. Rudeness went against her nature. She treated everyone with kind respect, even poor Horace Simon.

It boiled down to letting the answer to her desperate plan slip through her fingers. Her father depended on her. The whole family looked to her for their needs, and the question remained as to how long she’d have before she lost the skill to do so.

“Am I delirious? Who, pray tell, are the Miss Prisses?”

“Forgotten so soon? You certainly ogled them this morning in the emporium.”

“Oh, those ladies. I was merely being polite. Nothing wrong with that.” He cocked his head. “Do I detect envy?”

“You’d be wrong if you did.” His assumption hit a layer of hard rock. She wasn’t jealous of what Amelia and Bess had…it was more the things they could have that bothered her.

When she risked another fleeting glance at McClain, she fell headlong into that smoldering gaze. To say she became taken with him would’ve been an understatement.

“Not fair, Mystery Lady. I still don’t have your name.”

Glory blew a tendril of hair that’d fallen close to her mouth and wished the day hadn’t turned so blasted hot. Or that the curve of his mouth that accented a white scar just below his bottom lip didn’t make her heart race. Or that his arresting brown eyes didn’t make her wonder what secrets lodged behind them. Although for the moment, a grim line held the lazy grin at bay.

And furthermore, she wished his study of her didn’t turn her legs to jelly.

“It’s Glory…Glory Day,” she murmured.

Before he could further wilt her self-confidence, she stood, retrieved her Winchester, then scanned the rugged brush for signs of McClain’s horse.

Common sense told her she was obligated to take him home with her. After all, she did shoot him and couldn’t just leave him hurt, however much she so desired. But, once there, she’d turn over his care to her mother and sisters. Her duty done, she’d make certain she stayed well beyond reach of any magical spells the charmer tried to weave.

A horse’s whinny off to the left alerted her. She pushed through the tangle of briars and thistle.

“An Indian pony. Might have known he’d not ride a nag.” She untied the light-colored paint, admiring the ripple of muscle beneath the tan-and-white hide. Good horseflesh. She doubted any in the area could rival it.

The stranger’s face brightened when he spied her leading the animal.

“Saints be praised! The thought crossed my mind you’d left me for buzzard bait.” McClain tried to pull himself up, but pain clearly evident on his face sent him back to the hard ground.

“I have to admit, the plan had merit.” She bent and, trying to keep his nearness from her mind, slipped an arm around his holstered middle. “If you grab around my neck and push up with your good leg, we might get you on your feet.”

“I’m game if you are, Miss Glory.”

The man’s solidness surprised her. For all his lean, lanky build, it taxed her strength to raise him. His body pressing tightly against hers sent rampant thoughts of the entirely inappropriate variety swarming through her head like flies to hot apple pie.

Her pulse and ragged breath were neck and neck in a horse race. Which one would win? And in what shape would it leave her?

By the time she got him vertical, she knew she probably would never be the same. Then came the job of boosting him into the saddle. One slight problem—where was she supposed to boost him from?

A quick survey up and down his trim form left few options. She’d simply have to put her hands on his backside and imagine pushing Bessie from a mud pit. She looped the paint’s reins around her arm.

It wasn’t as if his finely sculpted behind was bare. No sirree, his britches covered it, outlining it perfectly.

“When I count to three, pull yourself up, Mr. McClain.” Why in tarnation did her heart pound like this?

“I’m hardly in any position to object.”

Glory stooped slightly to give herself leverage. “One.”

Her hands rested on each side of his posterior. “Two.”

“You know, I don’t mind getting shot quite so much,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes. He surely didn’t feel much like the milk cow. And it hadn’t rained in so long she couldn’t even remember a mud hole.

“Three.”

Up he went, sliding onto the horse.

“Don’t mind my saying so, Miss Glory, but you sure have a heck of a system.” He flashed her a crooked smile as he reached down to give her a hand.

“No, thanks, I have my own mount. I hid him down in a little wash not too far from here.”

A rush of excitement swept over her when his grin slipped. Obviously he’d expected her to ride behind. Even anticipated perhaps? Who was she kidding? A man with heart-stopping grins wouldn’t be interested in a pants-wearing female.

Jumbled thoughts clouded her head as she led the paint to the gully where she’d stashed her mule. Once the glow of besting him faded, disappointment set in. McClain’s trousers resting snug against the inside of her thighs might not have been so bad. She’d never know now.

When she gave a fleeting look back, it was merely to see if he still sat anchored in the saddle. For no other reason, she assured herself.

Old Caesar brayed loudly when he saw her. Though the white mule had serviced the family well, for once Glory wished the animal were a horse. Nothing, except a donkey maybe, spoke of worse circumstances than a mule.

No sooner had the wish formed than her conscience berated her. She should consider herself mighty lucky to have what they did. Her poor father struggled for a bite of bread.

And at least she owned a saddle. The animal skittered as she placed her foot in the stirrup and swung onto the leather.

“Are you all right, Mr. McClain?” The man’s ashen color didn’t reassure her.

To his credit, McClain sought to put on a brave front. “Fine as frog’s hair. Where did you say you’re taking me?”

“Didn’t say.” She lifted the paint’s reins.

“Well, if you don’t mind, would you like to share that piece of information? A man has a right to know.”

“You’re a mean-tempered old cuss.”

“Well, pardon me for breathing. Hobbling around with holes in a fellow’s leg tends to sour a man’s disposition. And what did you mean by old? I’ll have you know I’m far from ready for an undertaker yet.”

She thought it strange that the part about his age drew the biggest objection. “I’m taking you home.”

“Sounds good to me—if I knew where home was.”

He slid sideways. Glory grabbed him before he fell and pushed him back in the saddle.

“Hang on, cowboy. I’m taking you to our homestead.”

“Don’t wanna be a bother. If you’ll just point the way to Santa Anna, I’ll head over there.”

“Too far, and besides, they don’t have a doctor. Guess it’s me or nothing.”

“If’n you say so.” His trailing voice warned her he was slipping close to unconsciousness. Blood now stained the right leg of his soft denims a dull red from thigh to knee.

Damnation! The wound might be worse than she thought. Here she was gabbing with the man when she should be more concerned for his welfare. She flushed. He’d tangled her emotions worse than a slipknot. The harder she struggled to get loose, the more bound she became.

She gripped the Winchester tighter and urged the animals to a faster pace, keeping an eye peeled for a possible ambush. Though she assumed Mad Dog’s first thought would be to hightail it out of the country, she also knew he would be after revenge.

Tumbleweeds blew from the west like silent, gray ghosts spooking the animals. She dodged what she could while toying with the idea of resuming the search for Perkins. The likelihood of sneaking up on him a second time would increase the danger tenfold. Dare she let that stop her?

Their destination rose into view while she weighed the pros and cons. Mama topped the con list. That she’d raise a fuss was a given. And who would see to putting food on the table?

They waded into the Red Bank Creek, which meandered through the Day property. The con side grew longer. Glory couldn’t shirk her duty. She sighed. Going after Perkins again was out of the question. Their means for survival had vanished into thin air. And she laid the blame on the stranger slumped in the saddle. No choice but to take him to the Day household, dearly as it galled her. Caesar plodded up the slope on the other side.

From a distance, there was something majestic about the stone house where she had come into the world. A body couldn’t see the missing porch step, the hole in the roof, or the tear in the screen door. This far away, the tangle of wild honeysuckle covering the entire east side gave it a stature worthy of a castle. Her grandfather had constructed the dwelling half a century ago from natural limestone he quarried and hauled down from the mountain. The durable structure had withstood Texas twisters, drought, and spring floods. She tried to wet her dry mouth, but nothing came—not enough moisture for spit. The godforsaken heat had sucked the life from the land. Nothing thrived but tumbleweeds, wild honeysuckle, and broken dreams.

She patted Caesar’s neck and gave him a nudge with her knee. “Get along, you flea-bitten bag of bones. We’re home.”

Her youngest sister came flying out to greet them, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

“Glory, guess what!”

The ten-year-old’s enthusiasm evoked twinges of jealousy. Patience didn’t have to worry about food supplies or meeting the payments on the banknote. In fact, the pigtailed youngster had few things to disrupt her sleep. Like it or not, Glory meant to keep it that way for however long she could.

“What, Squirt?” She halted at the stone fence that surrounded the house and dismounted. “What happened today?”

“Miss Minnie had kittens. Four of ’em. They’re so cute.” Patience squinted against the sun. “Who’s the stranger, Glory?”

“Name’s McClain. Don’t rightly know more than that.”

“He’s bleedin’. How’d he get shot? Huh? Stage robbers shoot you, mister?”

“Patience Ann Day! Where are your manners?”

McClain roused. “This jabberjaw your sister?”

“Afraid so. Can you get down?” Oh, Lord, she hoped so. She didn’t need to get close to him again. He’d ruined her breathing and turned her brain to mush once already.

“Think I can make it. If nothin’ else, I can fall—”

Before he could complete the sentence, he slid from the paint and crumpled to the ground in a heap.

“Go get Hope.” She pushed the girl toward the house. “I need help.”

“Hope, come quick!” Patience shrieked as she ran to the house. “Glory’s brought home a man.”

The statement brought a fluster on which she had no time to dwell. She touched his forehead. Cold and clammy.

“What’s wrong?” Hope’s hurrying stride whipped the skirts about her ankles.

Glory met her middle sister’s worried gray eyes. “Please help me get him into the house. I think he’s in shock.”

With McClain between them, each draped an arm around their neck. He roused again and helped relieve their burden somewhat by hobbling on his good leg. Patience held the door and they maneuvered him inside.

“Where’s Mama?” Glory peered into the tidy parlor.

“Lying down. She had one of her headaches.”

“In that case, let’s put him in my bed.” She shifted the weight, ignoring sharp needles that shot through her neck. “I’ll sleep in the barn.”

“You can share my bed.” Hope panted under the load.

“We’ll worry about that later.”

Half dragging him, they dropped McClain onto the bed in a little alcove off the kitchen. Glory exhaled sharply.

“Who shot him?” Her mother’s voice came from the doorway. Ruth Day leaned against the wall, holding one hand to her forehead. The ruckus had evidently awakened her.

Not sure what or how much to tell, Glory stared silently at the circle of faces.

“Sorry for the noise, Mama,” she said gently. “Go lie back down. We’ll take care of him.”

“Who is he and what is he doing in my house?”

Her mother seemed determined to have answers despite her frailty and ill health.

A wince and a deep breath later, Glory wished she could soften the blow. “Name’s McClain, and I shot him.”

Shocked gasps flew around the small, windowless cubbyhole.

“You what? Why on earth?”

“An accident, Mama.” She rubbed her eyes wearily. “Mad Dog Perkins grabbed my Winchester and it went off.”

“Mad Dog Perkins, the outlaw?” Her mother struggled to comprehend. Worry creased Ruth’s forehead. “Glory Marie, I think you’d best explain yourself.”

The man called McClain groaned and opened pain-clouded eyes. “Mystery Lady?” he asked, his voice soft as a whisper.

“I will later, Mama. But first I need to tend to our guest before he bleeds all over my feather mattress.”

“It’s not proper to have a strange man in our house.” Ruth twisted her hands nervously. “Whatever will folks say now?”

“Sorry, ma’am. Don’t mean to cause no harm.” McClain tried to sit up. “I’ll just be on my way.”

“No, you won’t.” Glory held him down firmly. “I shot you and I’ll patch you up.” She gave her mother a clipped answer. “Besides, since when did it matter to us what others say?”

Hope quietly added her opinion. “I don’t think they can spread worse rumors than they already have.”

“Elevate the man’s legs. I once saw a doctor do that,” her mother cautioned, swaying and holding her head in both hands.

“Patience, take Mama back to her room, then put some water on to boil.” Glory lifted a pair of scissors from a sewing basket beside the bed before turning to Hope. “We need bandages.”

“What’re you planning to do with those, little missy?” McClain’s eyes held more than a hint of nervousness as his gaze centered on the scissors.

“I can’t pick out these pellets through your clothing. Now lie still.”

“But…but, you can’t just strip a man of his pride without a never-you-mind. Don’t I have a say-so in the matter?”

“No.” She snipped the material while he continued to object.

“Ain’t there any other choices here? Can’t I—”

“No.”

She kept her mind on her task, ever mindful of the closeness of the wound to his important…stuff. Bothersome thoughts tripped over each other inside her head. Things like how firm his flesh was and how the muscles twitched just beneath the surface. The downy hair on his leg brushed against the back of her hand and she jerked back.

Dear Mother Mary! Her palms grew sweaty and her pulse raced as if she were running for her life. Or in this case—away from trouble in the form of a stranger on a paint horse.

“I did what you said, Glory.” Patience skipped into the room, her reddish-gold pigtails bobbing.

“Asked. You did what I asked,” she corrected, quickly jerking the sheet over the man’s naked leg. “You don’t need to be in here right now. Run along. Go see what’s keeping Hope.”

“Oh, phooey. I’m not a baby, you know. When I grow up—”

“Scoot!” This time Glory added a firmer tone and reached for the tweezers, ignoring the familiar pout.

“Anyone ever tell you what pretty eyes you have, miss?” It seemed as if McClain willed her to meet his gaze, for he stole her power to do otherwise. “Your ma’s right, me being here is gonna cause…”

Inky-brown depths pulled her into a place of mystery and odd contentment. Breath left her in a sudden rush.