His blurred gaze wandered. Blood, smeared on the yellow flowers of the counterpane that covered the bed.
'Just Allie' wasn't going to appreciate that. He almost smiled when he thought of her, facing down the fine upstanding pillars of the community with her Henry repeater. He especially enjoyed the memory of Arnold Smith's kneecap disappearing in a blast of lead and fire, the smoke drifting away on the hot breath of the May afternoon. And, once here, the feel of Allie slipping beneath his shoulder to help him, her green eyes full of worry.
Something about that particular expression nagged him. It was familiar. Need to lie down. Ought to turn the bed back, get off this counterpane before I ruin it.
He slowly reached for the top edge of the covering, fumbling with the pillows. The graying darkness of unconsciousness began to creep into the borders of his sight, encroaching further as he tried to shake it off. He found the edge of the covers, but couldn't make his fingers close around them. The effort brought a harsh groan to his lips. His hand wasn't cooperating.
It has to be broken. I'm a dead man. The one piece of lead they'd managed to deliver to his left side wasn't enough to kill, and not even well-placed. But destroying the use of that hand…that was a death sentence.
He couldn't stay here. It was too dangerous for 'Just Allie'. Allie's raven locks of hair had borne the most tantalizing scent of citrus when she'd come under his shoulder to help him to the house. She was something. The satisfied gleam in her green eyes as she'd pulled the trigger on Arnold Smith rose up in his mind. His lips curved slightly. And then, the blackness took him.
****
Allie re-entered the room a few seconds later. She wasn't surprised to find Brandon passed out across her bed. How had he made it as far as he had? Crossing the room to where he lay, she began to assess the damage she could see. The vicious battering of his face had been done by a band of cowards. They'd held him, open and bound, to their onslaught. Blood at his left side. She bent over him in alarm, taking note of the fact that he had unsuccessfully tried to unbutton his shirt. The gun belt looked as if he'd started to loosen it, as well.
Gently, she pulled at what was left of the chambray shirt, taking up the task of unbuttoning it on the third button down where he'd left off. The bullet had tracked all the way through his side, and Allie closed her eyes briefly. What a thing to be thankful for – but she was. At least, she wouldn't have to put Brandon through the torture of removing a piece of lead from his flesh.
He moved slightly, a soft groan escaping him as he slept. Allie's heart caught, and she bit her lip, her fingers reaching to touch his long, raven-dark hair. Her hand rested on his forehead a moment, and she told herself she was checking for fever.
Then, her glance fell on his right hand, and what they had done to him. As she took in the brutal, deliberate damage they'd inflicted, hatred surged through her, strong and harsh. She'd forgotten how powerful that feeling could be. She moved her hand to his, but didn't touch it. Her fingers hovered over his mangled flesh and bone, but she was unable to bring herself to hurt him by picking it up to have a closer look.
Instead, she lifted his feet to the bed and positioned him as straight as she could. She needed to undress him completely, to see to his injuries.
Her gaze fell to the gun belt. The steel buckle seemed to mock her, daring her to unfasten it – and the other belt as well. She reached across him, exasperated with her own weakness. Grasping the buckle of the gun belt she undid it.
She sat beside him on the bed and reached for the placket of his jeans. She had released the first two buttons, when he muttered something and flinched.
"Brandon," she whispered, her blood-streaked fingers cupping his cheek.
"Dangerous…me bein' here," he muttered, his words slurred. His obsidian eyes flickered open and met hers for an instant; the pain, and regret and desperation all wrapped together in that look.
She could do nothing for the inner turmoil she saw there. What words could she possibly say to comfort him? It was dangerous for him to be there, but…what was the alternative? He drifted back to sleep again, relieving her of the need to answer.
He had protected her all those years past. Though he might not remember, she had never forgotten. It was her turn, now, to repay the goodness he had shown her a full ten years earlier. A kindness unplanned, that he'd done with no forethought. The consequences had forced him to leave the only haven he'd known in his life. He had become a drifter again. He'd done it for her, but it was obvious that he still didn't remember.