Defiant Read Free Page A

consciousness, but nothing worked.
    She looked up at Jeff. He was wiry and strong for his age; together, they might get him into the buck-board.
    Mary Jo walked over to the horses and guided them close to the stranger. To her son she said, “Help me get him into the buckboard. You take his legs and be gentle.”
    He nodded. She leaned down, grabbing the man between his shoulders, and lifted. Dear Lord, he was heavy. Slowly, she and Jeff hauled him into the wagon.
    â€œYou cradle his head and shoulders,” she told Jeff as she lifted her now bloodstained skirt and climbed up onto the wagon seat.
    The wind had picked up, chilling the air, and she felt the first few raindrops on her skin. Big, thick, heavy ones. Mary Jo clicked the reins, and the horses started to move. She prayed that the worst of the storm would hold off until they got home. She’d seen these storms before, knew how vicious they sometimes became.
    It was the longest trip she’d ever made, each minute seeming like an hour, with the stranger’s pain-carved face vivid in her mind. She thought she heard him groan, but it was hard to tell for sure now that the wind was screeching through the trees.
    Jake was running alongside, barking encouragement, oblivious to the rain beginning to pelt down, but Mary Jo felt it soak her dress and run in rivulets down her face.
    The log ranch house had never looked so welcoming. She drove up to the door and hurried down from the seat to tie the ribbons to the hitching post in front. She rushed back to the wagon bed, wiping the rain from her eyes.
    The stranger had not moved. Jeff looked at her with anxious eyes, his hands holding the man’s shoulders. “He’s awfully still, Ma.”
    She nodded. She ran to the door and opened it wide, paying little mind to the sheets of rain pouring on the wood floors. Lightning streaked through the sky, dancing in accompaniment to great roars of thunder.
    Mary Jo and Jeff somehow managed to carry the man inside and into Mary Jo’s bed. He was soaked. His blood was running pink over what remained of his deerskins.
    Jake shook himself, showering everything with rainwater. Mary Jo sighed.
    â€œHeat some water on the stove,” she told Jeff, “and start a fire in here.” She hesitated. “You’d better get the horses inside the barn, too.”
    Jeff paused. “Will he be all right?”
    Mary Jo went over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was the only sign of affection he believed manly. Hugs, he said, were for babies. “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”
    â€œI want him to be all right.”
    â€œI know, love,” she said. “So do I.” And she did. She didn’t know why this stranger’s fate had become so important, but it had. Perhaps because she’d put so much effort into helping him. Perhaps because Jeff had already known too much death. “The water,” she reminded him.
    She lit one of the kerosene lamps and placed it on the table next to the bed.
    Dear Lord, he was pale. There was something vulnerable about a man downed by illness or wounds, especially a man like this. The knife, the way he wore his gunbelt, indicated he was probably dangerous. She had seen enough of such men over the years to recognize the breed.
    Who was he? And how had he gotten the wounds? She’d heard of no trouble around here. No outlaws. No recent Indian trouble. She swallowed hard. This man was obviously trouble. And yet …
    She brushed aside a lock of her damp hair, and drew a chair next to the bed.
    She started untying the thongs at the top of the stranger’s shirt before realizing she would have to tug the shirt off over his head. She couldn’t do that without jostling the wounded arm. She would have to cut the shirt off. The pants would have to go, too.
    And then he would have no clothes at all.
    She took the knife from his belt, then, holding her