Leather and Lace

Chapter 4

“Casey!”

She held her breath and watched Tim ride up beside her. His hardened life had chiseled so many lines in his face. The once-boyish features were now rigid and drawn.

“Did you think you could really get away?” He swung his leg over the saddle and took long strides toward her. His pale blue eyes blazed, and his jaw tightened. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hit her. He snatched her rifle from her hands.

“Tim, help me.” She swallowed hard. He hated whining. “He’s dying.”

“I’ve already done more than you deserve.” He grabbed her arm, but she jerked free. “And you owe me for all this trouble.”

“Please.” Heat flooded her face.

“Don’t beg, ’cause I ain’t listening.”

Casey hated what the outlaw life had done to them. “I’m not begging. I’m asking for help.”

He cursed. “I ain’t helping you with nothin’. All you’ve ever done is cause me trouble since the day I lit out on my own and you followed.”

She reached deep within her to find strength. “Then don’t tell Jenkins where I am. Let me get out of your life for good.”

“Jenkins ain’t finding nobody. His leg’s got a hole in it and broke. But I’m bringing you back.” He stepped forward, and she moved just beyond his reach. “You’re his woman whether you like it or not.”

“Let me get away from all this. You won’t ever have to deal with me again. Just turn around and ride away.”

“Hey, Tim,” a familiar voice echoed from the trail below. “Have you found ’em?”

She lifted her chin and captured his gaze.

“Tim,” the man shouted again. “You got Casey and that feller she’s with?”

He narrowed his eyes. Every part of him seethed with loathing. Moments ticked by. “No need. The two are gone.” He tossed her rifle at her feet. Without a word, he mounted his horse and headed back down the rocky path.

Casey unclenched her fists, unaware her fingertips had drawn blood from her palms. She took a deep breath and turned her attention to Morgan. The sight of torn flesh didn’t cause her to cringe. She’d grown used to it from mending the knife wounds and bullet holes of Jenkins’s men.

“I’ve seen worse,” she whispered. Who was she trying to convince? Death had a stranglehold on the man.

She wrapped pieces of her shirt around his chest while blood dripped onto the dirt and rock beneath him. She’d learned about herbs and remedies from Franco, a Mexican who used to ride with Jenkins. He’d taught her well, even the language. Franco wanted her to leave the gang and go with him to Mexico, but Jenkins got wind of it and shot him. No matter. She didn’t have any of those remedies with her now.

Morgan wouldn’t live long without help. She’d risked this much, and she refused to let him die.

Once, he opened his eyes, and she saw a flicker of recognition. But a moan escaped his lips, and he drifted back into unconsciousness. Already the makeshift bandage seeped blood.

While Casey treated Morgan’s leg, she neither heard a sound nor saw any movement from his limp form. The ashen color of his skin and his uneven breathing filled her with dread. What if the bullet had punctured his lung? No blood spilled from his mouth and nose. Good. Maybe there was hope.

They couldn’t stay in the clearing.

She could only imagine the outlaw leader’s rage when he learned of their escape. He wouldn’t waste any time sending men after them or raising the reward. She’d caused Jenkins a lot of grief, and now he nursed a bullet wound and a broken leg. His misfortune might slow him down long enough for them to escape—if Morgan lived. But what about the others? They were a greedy lot and eager to land a stake in Jenkins’s money.

Casey shuddered. With Jenkins laid up, that left Tim to lead the gang. How long would her brother stall them? She didn’t want to think of another meeting with him. He’d change his mind for sure.

Stoney nuzzled up against her and rubbed his soft nose against her hand. She patted him gently. Strange how the horse’s touch calmed her nerves.

She fretted over how to get Morgan to Vernal. Her gaze swung from the unconscious figure to his horse. She had no choice but to build a travois. Glancing about, she saw several broken limbs left from the heavy winter snows. It had to be enough, for she couldn’t risk dragging up pieces of wood from below. Using Morgan’s rope, she tied together a wooden frame between two trailing poles, then fixed his blanket on top. Tugging and pulling, she positioned the injured man onto the travois, certain she’d killed him in the process. At least in his current state, he couldn’t feel the pain. She covered him with her blanket and used her rope to tie him securely.

They had miles to cover, and she didn’t want to think about Morgan dying along the way. When they reached Vernal, Doc would tend to him. He boasted of a lucrative practice in mending the bullet-and knife-ravaged bodies of many men—good and bad.

Unfortunately, Jenkins also needed Doc to yank out a bullet and set his broken leg, and she sure didn’t need the outlaws getting there first. The thought made her weak, dizzy.

*****

White-hot pain seared every inch of Morgan’s body, as though he’d been branded and a fiery poker prodded at his open wounds. His mind swam in a haze that floated in and out. At first he fought the unconsciousness, but when his mind numbed, he didn’t hurt. Didn’t feel like screaming. Jenkins had succeeded in killing him. The outlaw had won. Only a breath of time stood between Morgan and God. He groaned. Whatever dragged him along had hit something. More torture? He tried to focus on what he could remember. The unseen outlaw . . . the anguish tearing through his body. His mind cleared slightly, long enough for the torture to wield its sword into his chest and leg.

Oh God, release me from this pain. Take me to You.

Casey O’Hare. He hadn’t cared what happened to her until he saw her courage in the face of death. All he wanted was a way to trap Jenkins. He’d banked on the outlaw agreeing to an exchange for her and stepping out in the open. The four-year search would finally be over, but the haunting in his soul told him he still wouldn’t rest. Hate had driven him for so long that he wasn’t sure he wanted the pursuit to end. He’d survived on revenge. Without it, he had no reason to go on.

What happened instead staggered him. They’d been trapped, and when she offered to stay behind, he realized he couldn’t send a woman to her death—not even an outlaw. How well he understood the price she’d pay for leaving Jenkins. No woman deserved his torture. Still, a nagging question needled him. Why had she stayed seven years with an outlaw gang?

Morgan struggled to talk. He had to warn her . . . persuade her to leave him behind before one of the Jenkins gang caught up with them . . . pray for her. He could do that. She needed help to start her life over. The kind of help only God could give.

Was she guilty of everything he’d read and heard? Didn’t matter now. He was heading to his Maker. Help her, I beg of You.

Blackness swirled in his mind, and he faded into blissful darkness.

*****

The trail to Vernal led straight south through dry canyons where nary a soul existed, not an easy path to venture with a badly wounded man. Time played an important part in whatever happened. If only she had medicinal herbs. She’d cleaned Morgan’s torn flesh with whiskey, then bound the wounds tight. Nothing more she could do.

A moan from Morgan caused her to stop and check on him.

“Don’t you dare die on me.” Casey wanted to shake him. “You’re a strong man. You can make it.”

In a distant but not forgotten corner of her mind, she recalled the frail figure of her mother praying over Tim’s fevered young body. He’d gotten pneumonia in the wet and cold while looking for their drunken pa. Ma had kneeled beside him for hours, and Tim had recovered.

Casey looked up into the late afternoon sky, a cloudless canopy of deepening blue. Tears flowed freely over her cheeks for a man who appeared more dead than alive. Could this be why the two of them had met? Did Morgan sense his destiny?

Oh God, I haven’t prayed since I was a little girl, and I don’t know if You have any idea who I am, but if You’re really there, would You listen for a moment? This man’s dying because he tried to help me. I’m not sure what kind of man he is, but he’s done an honorable thing by me. What I’m asking is for You to please spare him. I’d be greatly obliged. Amen. She paused. And, God, no matter what happens—whether he lives or dies—I’m finished with the past. My ma taught me how to live right, and I know she’s with You now. So if You don’t mind, I’d like for You to please tell her I’m changing my ways. Maybe someday Tim will, too. Thank You for listening.

Casey wiped the wetness from her cheeks. Something about this man made her react like a female, a trait she’d long since ignored. She inspected the ropes that secured him to the travois and thought about all the men she’d seen die. Glancing into the heavens, she sighed and hoped there lived a God who heard prayers.

*****

Casey rode with a firm hold on the rope leading Morgan’s horse. Her fingers grew numb from the grip. Her palms laid raw against the rough rope. She’d tucked her gloves inside a saddlebag when they became too cumbersome each time she stopped to check on Morgan. The profuse bleeding and his uneven breathing told a grim story. He clung to life by a mere thread.

She attempted to toss aside a sickening thought. Had Morgan been betrayed by Jenkins? Was her opinion of the dying man based on fool’s ground? Surely not. Surely she had not been blinded by the dream of freedom and the possibility of a man she could trust.

For most of the journey, Morgan remained unconscious. In rare moments, low, guttural sounds rose to his lips. At those times, she stopped to moisten his lips with water and wipe droplets of sweat from his face, sweat that came from the battle he was fighting. He resembled a mangled animal: bloody and helpless. She agonized if her efforts were killing him or helping him cling to life.

My fault. My fault.

Normally the solitude of the open country offered a reprieve from an angry world. This time she ignored it all and focused on the critical matters ahead. Finding Doc to care for Morgan stood foremost in her mind. Once Morgan was treated and the danger had passed, she’d leave Vernal for the sake of those two men. No one, absolutely no one, would ever risk his life for her again.

With the slow progress, she continuously focused her attention in all directions for signs of Jenkins’s men. The threat of being discovered tarried in the air, and her head felt like someone kept hitting her with a closed fist. Sleep, she needed sleep.

Casey’s mind raced with loathsome memories of Jenkins. She shook her head and refused to dwell on the past. In the beginning, Tim had tried to protect her. Then he became like one of them. He’d come to her aid today, but he wouldn’t again. She could feel it in her bones.

Her gaze rested on the figure behind her. She wanted to believe Morgan was different from Jenkins. The outlaw stood for all the dark and contemptuous parts of her past, while Morgan offered hope. But they could have been working together and something had gone wrong. She desperately craved for Morgan to be a good man, but she couldn’t afford to be stupid. Stupid got you killed. She had to be ready for the truth, as ugly as it might be.

A faint cry from Morgan interrupted her thoughts. “Casey,” he whispered.

She reined in Stoney and hurried to his aid. “Leave me,” he said between gasps. “I’ll . . . slow you down.”

“No, sir. We’re in this together. Jenkins was shot, and his leg’s broke. So we have a head start. We’re okay for now, and besides, I’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

He mouthed the word. “Vernal?”

“Yes, and we’re nearly there.”

It took several long moments for him to form his words. More beads of sweat rolled down his face. She brushed them away with her fingertips. “Won’t make it . . . . Leave me.”

“No.” She checked the blood-soaked bandages and noted his colorless face in the evening shadows. “You just hush and save your strength.”

She mounted her horse, and Stoney trudged ahead. Soon darkness wrapped its cloak around them and concealed the pair from the daggers of night. A clear sky filled with glimmering stars, and a slice of moon offered a silver path. Every step inched them closer to safety.

In the wee hours of the morning, they arrived in Vernal. The town resounded with drunken men and laughter, and the crack of rifle fire sparked a wave of anxiety. Were they waiting at Doc’s, hiding in the blackness and waiting for her to appear? She dismounted and cautiously led the horses in the hope that one of Jenkins’s men wouldn’t emerge from the faceless voices.

Only Morgan’s needs kept her planting one foot in front of the other. He was the driving force that pushed her on past the extreme exhaustion and hunger warring against her body. Each time she felt like giving in to fatigue, she recalled the deeds of the injured man tied to the travois. And her mind wrestled with the whole matter again.

She slipped within the shadows of the main street and pulled both mounts through a pathway wide enough for a wagon. It turned sharply to the left and down a dark, narrow street to Doc’s house. Rifle in hand, cocked and ready, she peered around for one of Jenkins’s gang, the men she knew by name and deed.

Standing motionless, Casey studied the small frame house belonging to Doc. When reasonably assured no one shared the surroundings, she mounted the steps to the porch, silently cursing their creaking. She rapped lightly, then harder when Doc didn’t answer. Only silence greeted her. She kicked the door, partly in anger and partly in frustration. A bellowing voice responded.

“I’ve got a badly injured man.” She stared into the darkness behind her and wondered if another pair of ears heard her plea. Her voice lowered. “He’s been shot in the chest and lost a lot of blood.”

Doc cleared his throat. “He’s most likely dead.”

“Doc, this is Casey O’Hare. Please, open up.” Not prone to emotion, she knew any more words were locked in her throat. She took a breath. “I don’t think this man is an outlaw. He got hurt trying to help me.”

“All right,” Doc said. “The whole town has heard how you left Jenkins.”

She swung around, expecting the click of a trigger and a bullet etched with her name on it. In the next instant, she fought the urge to blow a hole through the door. “Are you going to open up or not?”

“Oh, I guess I’ll see what I can do. Bring him in.”

Casey looked back at the sad remains of Morgan. “I need you to give me a hand. I’ve got him tied to a travois.”

She heard Doc utter a long string of complaints—“How is a man supposed to get any sleep,” and “I’m not about to get myself killed over any outlaw dispute.” The latch lifted. He towered in the doorway and lifted high a kerosene lantern.

Barefoot and bare chested with suspenders holding up loose-fitting trousers, Doc presented a less than welcoming figure. His shoulder span reminded her of a grizzly. For certain, his size alone caused most men to think twice about crossing him.

Doc cut Morgan from the wooden frame and lifted him into his arms. “Best hide those horses in the shed behind my stable,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s empty right now, but there’s extra feed and water. I wouldn’t want any of Jenkins’s men finding your horses.” He handed her the lantern. “Get on out of here. I’ve got plenty of work to do. This man is more dead than alive.” His voice thundered, but that was Doc’s way.

“One of Jenkins’s men may be here to fetch you.” She hoped the warning didn’t change his decision to treat Morgan. “Jenkins’s leg’s broke, and he’s been shot.”

Doc nodded and disappeared into the small house. She stared after him a good bit before turning her attention to the horses. The animals needed to be fed and rubbed down. Besides, what could she do for Morgan?

Her heart plummeted with the realization of just how quickly Jenkins could find them. In one fleeting breath, she considered running, but her commitment to the injured man robbed her normal way of thinking. She couldn’t leave him with Doc, not just yet. For now, she must stay in Vernal until Morgan took a turn for the best, or she learned he was one of them, or he died. The not knowing clawed at her heart.

Morgan had mentioned Vernal when talking about his family, said he had a few friends there but didn’t say what kind. The decent folk stayed off by themselves. They avoided the wanted men and didn’t deal with them unless forced to. Past emotions, past deeds, and a yearning for a clear conscience stopped her from contemplating that the injured man might walk among the corrupt. She wanted to believe he had the same values as she yearned to find. Then again, she’d never learn the truth if he died.