Love on the Range (Brothers in Arms #3)(36)

“She passed out.” Cheyenne pulled back Rachel’s thick coat, then opened the top buttons of Rachel’s dark red shirtwaist. The bullet was high on her chest. Better than Cheyenne had feared. It had missed her heart, probably missed her lungs. Maybe it wasn’t deep enough to sever her spine. Maybe Rachel had a chance. Taking frantic assessment of the bleeding wound, Cheyenne dragged her knife out of the sheath at her waist, cut a strip off Rachel’s black riding skirt, and formed a large pad. She pressed it to the wound and felt the hard lump of the bullet. It wasn’t in deep.

Looking away from the trail, Falcon’s eyes flashed with fury. “I didn’t see anyone until a rifle moved, aimed. They hit exactly who they wanted to hit. I think they’d’ve killed us, too, and not minded when they were firing after that first shot, but we weren’t the targets. She was. Even knowing that, we don’t dare round that corner. We have to go back.”

With one jerking nod, Cheyenne said, “Bring me your knife. It’s got a better edge on it. I can feel the bullet. I can almost judge the distance that dry-gulcher was from here because that sounded like a Henry rifle. I know its range, and this had to be near the end of it for the bullet not to have gone in farther.”

Falcon whipped out his knife and extended it to Cheyenne.

She took it and probed the wound. And heard the sickening scrape of metal on metal. “It’s barely beneath the skin. Falcon, she may make it.” Cheyenne was surprised by the sigh of relief. “Hold her still, in case she takes a notion to wake up while I’m doing my ham-handed doctoring.”

They were both silent while Cheyenne gritted her teeth and dug the bullet out. Rachel groaned once and tried to roll away from the pain. Falcon held her in place.

The bullet came free, and the wound bled faster. Cheyenne pressed the pad of cloth hard against the entrance wound. While she worked, she glanced up at Falcon, who wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he kept his eyes on the trail and the woods around them. On guard, as wary as a wild creature.

Quietly, using more torn cloth to tie the bandage on, Cheyenne said with grim certainty, “This has to be connected to Hawkins somehow, doesn’t it? There’s no other reason to want her dead.”

“He didn’t know she was here.”

Cheyenne’s eyes flickered up, then back to her doctoring. “Someone did. And someone knew we were heading for White Rock.”

“They even knew we were taking a route to avoid Casper. And no one knew that.”

“Unless someone listened while we planned it.”

“Another traitor on the RHR?” Falcon came to crouch beside Rachel, regret shining in his eyes.

“But who?” Cheyenne gripped the letter in one gloved hand.

“I don’t know.” Falcon’s jaw tightened. “But someone sure enough did. And Wyatt is over there.”

“Wyatt?” Cheyenne, already so tense she nearly snapped, heard his tone, and it was worse. “What about him?”

“It strikes me that whoever did this managed it in the same way Wyatt was shot. Right down to him being with us.”

“We figured one of the men who died when we went after Ralston and brought in his gang had done it.”

Falcon glanced at the horses, which had trotted off but were now skittishly coming back. He looked at the trail they’d been heading down and now had to go back on.

Then he looked at Rachel Hobart. A tough woman who’d insisted she could ride to town in the dark alone, but nope. She needed the protection of a savvy Tennessee mountain man and feisty lady rancher. Rachel Hobart now lying unconscious and bleeding on the ground.

At last his eyes came to Cheyenne’s. “I’d say we figured wrong. And I’d say now is our chance to find out who did this before he does it again. It’s time to stop him once and for all.”

“We’re not going back?” Cheyenne could feel fire flashing in her dark eyes. As if the fire came from inside, burning right out of her core.

“Nope.” Falcon turned to face the direction of the gunfire. “We’re going forward.”

“Good.”



Mr. Hawkins—Molly was careful to always call him that, to his face, to Wyatt, even in her thoughts, in an effort to behave in a respectful way that wouldn’t alert him to her suspicions or her contempt—dawdled at the kitchen table, drinking a third cup of coffee while she cleaned up after breakfast.

He liked to watch her. She had to force herself to keep working and not glance over her shoulder to try to catch him leering.

A hard knock sounded at the door as she dried the last pot.

Hiding a sigh of relief, she glanced at Mr. Hawkins. “Do you want me to get that?”

Without anyone getting the door, it swung open, and Wyatt walked in. She saw Mr. Hawkins scowl briefly before his wide smile appeared.

“Wyatt, nice to see you. Join me for coffee?”

“No, not now. Thank you, but I’ve got a few questions, and a report on the cattle. Can you come out to the barn?”

The scowl returned. “I’m sure however you want to do the work is fine. You’re a skilled rancher, Wyatt. I won’t meddle in your way of doing things.”

Molly turned back to hang up the pans on hooks over the stove. Mainly so Mr. Hawkins wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. Meddle? It was his ranch. He was supposed to meddle. And it wasn’t meddling to run your own property.