Malachi leaned against the hay. He winced, and she thought that his leg must be hurting him very badly for him to display even a hint of pain. "Cole can't wait for Matthew to come home. He hasn't got the time. They've got wanted posters up on him. You see, the man he killed has a brother. And the brother seems to own half the property in Kansas. He virtually controls his part of the state. Anyway, he's calling Cole a murderer. He wants him brought in, dead or alive. And he's got enough influence—and money—to see that things are done his way."
Shannon felt weak. She wasn't terribly sure that she could stand. She staggered. She couldn't believe it. Cole had fought long and hard for a chance. He had battled a million demons, and now he had found his peace. He had Kristin and the baby, and with them the promise that there could be a normal life.
And now he was branded outlaw—and murderer.
"He's going to have to head out and hide, Shannon, right away," Malachi said softly. "They'll know to come for him here."
She nodded, thinking that this was what Cole had heard earlier. He had quite possibly left already. But in a second, she was going to go back to the house to check. She would at least have to tell Kristin that the world of peace and happiness that she had just discovered was being blown to bits by the thunder of revenge.
"Why—why were they shooting at you? You weren't in Kansas with Cole,'' Shannon said.
Malachi grinned, a lopsided, caustic grin. "Why, darlin', I'm the man's brother. A Slater. According to the powers that be, I ran with Quantrill, and I butchered half the population of Kansas."
"But you were never with Quantrill. You were always regular cavalry," Shannon said.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I didn't think that you would rush to my defense."
"I wouldn't," Shannon said coolly. "Facts are facts."
Malachi shrugged, leaning wearily back again. "Well, it doesn't matter much anyway. You go on up to the house and get Cole. We'll ride out tonight. You seen Jamie?"
Shannon was sorry to have to shake her head. She liked Jamie. He was always calm and quiet. The peacemaker of the three brothers, she thought. The Slaters were close; she could understand that. She and Kristin were close. Too many times, Kristin had been all that she had had left.
Too many times…
In the days after Robert had died, she had wanted to die herself. She had lain there without eating, without speaking, without the will to move. Kristin had been there. Kristin had given her the desire to survive again.
She lowered her head, almost smiling. Malachi had even helped her then. It had been unwitting, of course. He had never allowed her the peace of silence, or the chance to dwell in self-pity. Since she'd met him he'd been demanding, a true thorn in her side. But his very arrogance and his endless determination to treat her like a wayward child had brought out her fury, and with that her passion to live.
"I'm sorry. I haven't seen Jamie," she told him softly.
"Well," Malachi said softly to the lamp. "Jamie is no fool. He'll lay low. He'll find us."
His words were a lie, Shannon thought. He was worried sick. She didn't say so, though, for there was nothing that either of them could do.
"You were in the same company," she said. "Why aren't you together?"
"Jamie set out a day or two before I did. He wanted to stop by to see some old friends who had lost a son." He gritted his teeth. "We've got to run. He'll know how to lie low."
"You're not running anywhere, not the way that you are," Shannon told him. She couldn't bear seeing the blood on his leg. She didn't know why. Most of the time she thought that not even the Comanches could think up a cruel enough death for Malachi. But tonight the sight of his blood disturbed her.
"What do you mean?" he asked her warily.
"Your leg."
"I can find a doc south of here to take out the ball—"
"The ball is still in it?" Shannon said.
He stiffened as he held his breath for several seconds, watching her. "Yeah, the ball is still in it."
Shannon whirled around and headed for the tack room. They kept some rudimentary surgical supplies there; it was a necessary precaution on a cattle ranch.
"Shannon!" he called to her. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I'll be right back."
She found the surgical box in the lower left hand drawer of the desk. She paused. They had no morphine; nothing for pain. Nobody did, not in Missouri. Not in most of the South.
She pulled open the next drawer and found a bottle of Kentucky whiskey. It would have to do.
Then, as she came out of the tack room, she paused, wondering why she was thinking of doing this for Malachi Slater.
Maybe she didn't hate him so much.
No…she hated him. He was Cole's brother, and if his leg wasn't fixed up, he might slow Cole down. That was it, surely.
She swept back to his side and kneeled down. She opened up the box and found a pair of scissors. She needed to slit his pants and find the extent of the wound.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked her harshly.
"I'm going to cut your pants."
"If you think that I'm going to let you anywhere close—"
"The wound is in your thigh, you fool. Here.'' She handed him the whiskey. "Drink some of this."
He didn't hesitate to swallow a good shot of the whiskey. He closed his eyes, wincing when he was done. "That was good. It was an inestimable piece of kindness from a Yank to a Reb. Now forget it, I'll find—"
"Sit still, Malachi, and quit whining."
"I'll be damned if I'm whining. Shannon! Shannon, stop!"
He clenched his teeth, but when he went to grip her wrists, he was too late. He hesitated. She already had the shears snipping at his pants, and to make a move might have been dangerous. He inhaled sharply.
She paused and met his eyes. She smiled sweetly. "Sit back now, Captain Slater. Relax."
"You move carefully there, Miss McCahy, or I swear, I'll make you sorry this very night!"
"Why, Captain Slater, I would take great care with those silly threats of yours at this particular moment."
He caught her arm and her eyes once again. "Shannon, I don't make silly threats. Just promises."
"You aren't in any position to make… promises, not at this moment, captain."
"Shannon—"
"Trust me, Malachi."
"The way I would a black widow, Shannon."
She smiled and stared at his fingers, which were still locked around her arm. She looked at him again. His eyes
remained clear and deep and blue upon hers. Slowly, he eased his fingers, releasing her.
She felt him inhale as she carefully snipped at the bloodstained wool. Seconds later, she pulled the material away from the wound. She could see the ball. It was sunk in just far enough that a man wouldn't be able to remove it himself. One swift slice with a scalpel and a quick foray with the forceps and it would be gone. Then she could douse it with some of the liquor and bind it, and his chances of a clean recovery would be very good indeed.
"Take another swig of the whiskey," she told him, staring at the wound because she didn't dare look into his eyes. "I'll just get the scalpel—"
His hand landed hard upon her wrist, and her eyes were drawn to his. "I don't trust you with a scalpel, Shannon."
She smiled sweetly. "You have to trust me. You have no choice."
"You bring it too close to any part of my anatomy that I consider near and dear, and you will regret it until your dying day."
"Alas, the ladies would be heartbroken!" she taunted in turn. "I will take the gravest care."
He released her wrist, but continued to watch her. There was a warning sizzle in his eyes that brought tremors to her heart. She had to steady her hands. "What the hell," she muttered. "Mr. Ego Reb. Were I to wound anything near and dear there's a likelihood that nobody would even notice."