The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(56)

The man stared up in disbelief. “Quillan?”

Quillan didn’t answer, mostly because his fury and disgust were choking him.

Dennison’s eyes smiled above the kerchief. “Well, I’ll be hogswallowed. Here I thought we were in trouble.”

“No trouble if you take your men and go. Or do you still leave them behind?”

Dennison cocked his head. “Now, that was not my fault. If you’d have followed orders—”

“I’m giving them now.” Quillan saw Dennison’s eyes spark, and he slid his finger to the trigger. “Clear out before people get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?” Dennison’s own finger twitched. He’d been a terrible shot, but that was fourteen years ago, when Quillan had been impressed by his august age of eighteen and every honeyed word that proceeded from his mouth. Fourteen years was time enough to develop skill with a weapon, especially when it appeared he used it for his livelihood.

The other men were looking tense and uncertain. Quillan knew the longer they waited the tighter the nerves would get. He glanced quickly at the agent, who seemed relieved to have backup but not sure where to go from there.

“This is not your day, Shane. Call off your men and go.” Quillan wasn’t sure why he assumed Dennison was in control, except that his was the bully personality always taking the fore.

“Why don’t you step over and disarm that agent? We could use another hand. Give me a chance to make up for the last time.” Dennison made his voice reasonable, but Quillan almost laughed. Two parts gall, one part stupidity—that was Shane Dennison.

“There’s payroll in that box, Quillan.” Again the eyes smiled.

“Pay that other men have earned.”

One of Dennison’s party laughed, but Shane didn’t. “So you’re a bleeding heart now. Sure a long way from the reverend’s personal devil.”

Quillan heard hooves. In a moment there’d be another gun to face. He stepped inside the car and aimed his rifle at Dennison’s chest. “Time to move on.”

“To move you on—to the next life.” Dennison raised his gun and fired.

Carina’s heart seized like a fist clenched as gunfire exploded in the next car. Per favore, Signore, per piacere, keep my husband safe, keep them all safe.

Miss Preston rushed between the seats to the window. The outlaws’ horses stood empty-saddled, except the one man galloping from the front. “Yoo-hoo.” Miss Preston tapped the window, waving at the outlaw on horseback. “Hey, look over here. I want to see your face.”

The man spun and fired, splintering the wood beside the window. Carina flung herself at Miss Preston, slamming her into the wall, then dragging her down. “Are you crazy? Pazzesca? You want to get someone killed?”

Priscilla Preston’s skin flushed fiery red. Her eyes bulged farther than ever. “Get off me this instant. I want to see his face.”

Carina looked at her aghast. “Come to your senses!”

But Miss Preston struggled free and ran for the door and through it. Carina stared in disbelief. As the outlaws scrambled to their horses and galloped away, one last gunman emerged from the freight car and leaped to his horse, firing wildly. He took a bullet in the chest and fell, but not before Miss Preston crumpled on the tiny balcony. Two men reached out and dragged her inside. Her shoulder was bloody, and she shrieked, then flipped her head side to side, moaning.

Reluctantly, Carina knelt and took Miss Preston’s head in her lap. “Is anyone a doctor? See if there’s a doctor on board.”

A man rushed to check the other cars. Carina wanted to scold and scream at Miss Preston. Genius indeed. How could anyone be so stupid? But Carina had no emotion to spare. Where was Quillan? Signore! She stared at the door flapping open and shut. The one opposite on the Express car was splintered. She could see motion inside, but little more.

A man pressed in to where she knelt, and Carina recognized a doctor’s authority. “Hold her head up,” he said.

Carina adjusted it in her lap. He pulled on Miss Preston’s eyelids and felt her pulse. Then he tore her dress at the shoulder seam and checked the wound. Carina looked on with no squeamishness. She’d seen plenty of blood. The bullet looked to have entered beneath the clavicle, but whether it had lodged against the scapula or passed through she couldn’t tell.

Carina had a desperate urge to drop Miss Preston and find her husband. But she held on as the doctor urged the shoulder up and searched for an exit wound. Finding none he said, “I’ll have to cut.” He looked into Carina’s face. “Perhaps someone else . . .”

“I have assisted surgeries.” She could hardly believe she had said it. Why should she succor Priscilla Preston? And where was Quillan? What if he, too, lay injured . . . or dead? She started to shake, but it wasn’t at the thought of the doctor’s knife.

Miss Preston began to thrash, and the doctor ordered, “Hold her while I prepare.” He went to his bag and began assembling instruments.

There was a commotion behind her, and Carina turned. Quillan entered with his companions. He supported the groundhog shooter, whose leg was bloody above the knee, but whose face was kindled with pride. Quillan’s own sleeve was bloody and torn, but he was alive. Grazie, Signore!

Quillan eased his injured man onto a seat. Then he looked down at Miss Preston and frowned. “How—”