Love on the Range (Brothers in Arms #3)(5)

Wyatt had to be satisfied with that. For now.

Molly helped him eat the rest of the soup, and he ate a slice of bread and drank more water.

“I feel like I’ve got some energy from the food. My arm hurts like mad, and it’s useless, but the rest of me is feeling decent. In fact, I’m feeling mighty good.”

“Your fever has come up and gone down a few times. But you’ve never been this clearheaded nor shown any interest in eating.” With a pleased nod, she said, “You’re on the mend, Wyatt.”

“Can I come downstairs?” He cringed a little because it sounded like he was asking permission. This was his ranch. He ran it. No one told him what he could and could not do. Except maybe his doctor.

“Are you willing to wait until one of the men comes back? I think you should come down. You’re up to it, and it might do you some good to get out of bed for a while. But a fall down the stairs might be very serious, and you’ve only one arm to steady you.”

She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him as if, instead of giving orders, she was trying to sweet-talk him into it. He had the sense that she was mocking him, or at least being some odd kind of flirting girl, only sarcastic under it. But it didn’t stop him from doing what she wanted.

Truth was, with those pretty blue eyes batting at him, there weren’t many orders he wouldn’t take from this bossy woman.

And he didn’t want to fall down the stairs, either.

“I’ll wait.”

Molly stood and reached for the tray and the empty dishes.

Without really thinking, Wyatt reached out and caught hold of her wrist. She stopped and looked at him.

“What is it? Do you need something more? You’ve only to ask.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You saved me, Molly.”

A pink blush rose on her cheeks. “You’re a strong man, Wyatt. You were always going to make it.”

His grip tightened. “Don’t dismiss what you’ve done for me. I appreciate it. I know you . . . you . . . well, you fell asleep beside me. . . .” He hadn’t meant to bring that up. Clearing his throat, he forged on. “You fell asleep out of pure exhaustion. Yes, maybe I’d’ve healed up all on my own if they’d’ve just tossed me on a bed and gone on about their business, chasing outlaws and getting married, but . . .”

Her hand came and rested over his where he held on. “Doctoring you needed doing, and I knew what to do. If I lessened your suffering—”

“Or did things that’ll help my arm heal straight.”

She nodded. “Then it was my pleasure to do it, Wyatt. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

For one second, one lunatic second, his hand drew her forward. She didn’t seem averse to being drawn.

Then he realized his focus was on her lips. His memory was of her in his arms. That wasn’t what he should be thinking of. That was no way for a man to truly thank a woman for her care.

He let her go, and she straightened, her hand rubbing her wrist where he’d held her. The color in her cheeks going from pink to rose.

“I’ll send someone up for you as soon as they get home. Maybe you could get in a bit more sleep.” She snatched up the tray and left so quickly it could almost be described as running away.

He smiled as he watched her leave. Then his smile faded. With a full belly and his head clear for the first time in a long while, he settled in to figuring out who’d tried to kill him.





Three




Falcon Hunt stepped into Sheriff Corly’s office with three women in tow.

Every single one of them more bloodthirsty than he was.

Strange feeling.

Amelia Bishop, who’d shot one of the dead men, Norm Mathers. She hadn’t killed him, but she’d opened the ball, taking the first shot. And she’d winged him a couple of times, which sent him to shooting wild. And it looked like in his aimless shooting, Mathers had killed Percival Ralston.

Cheyenne, who’d taken the killing shot at Mathers, though not for lack of trying on Amelia’s part. But Amelia was shooting with more rage than aim.

And the Pinkerton agent, Rachel Hobart, a cool, ruthless character if ever Falcon saw one. Hobart wanted out. She wanted to take her found-alive missing person back to Minnesota, wherever that was. Hobart probably had cash money to collect for the job.

Most everyone involved in the search—Amelia’s pa, the state senator; her brother, the army general; and Hobart herself—had figured Amelia for dead, so taking her home alive and well, even if killin’ mad, would make Hobart a hero.

Falcon led the three women in, hoping to make this quick because the woman who’d actually killed a man had agreed to marry up with him as soon as they were done.

And then it got complicated.

Oliver Hawkins showed up.

Falcon knew Hawkins had asked Cheyenne to marry him. She’d been sorely tempted when she lost her ranch.

Amelia, then later Hobart, had been his housekeepers, though Hobart had been what she called undercover. It sounded like the woman was a liar for a living, but she seemed to have no problem with that. Falcon decided to let that be between her and God and didn’t bother fretting.

Hawkins strode into the jailhouse like a proud banty rooster. His eyes went straight to Amelia Bishop. “Amelia, where have you been? What is going on?”