RenegadeHeart Read Free Page B

at the sound of voices but his eyes
refused to open and when he tried to speak, the words would not come. Rough
hands endeavored to wrest the six-gun from his grasp, but he batted them away,
refusing to relinquish his hold on the .44.
    “Shit, Candido, let him keep his iron,” Joe Cahill growled.
Then, remembering where he was, he murmured, “Sorry, Miss Rachel.”
    “It’s all right.”
    “He ain’t gonna turn loose of that Colt,” Cahill mused, “but
he ain’t got the strength to cock the damn thing, neither.” Color crept up the
back of Cahill’s bull-like neck. “‘Scuse me again, Miss Rachel.”
    Rachel smothered a grin. When the men got excited, they
often cursed in her presence. Always, they were embarrassed and quick to
apologize.
    “Leave the gun for now,” Rachel said.
    Cahill nodded as he followed the cowhands out of the room.
If anyone could pull the stranger through, Rachel Halloran could. Many a man on
the Lazy H owed life or limb to her nimble fingers and quick thinking.
    Rachel quickly gathered several clean cloths, scissors,
disinfectant and a bowl of warm water. Then, taking a deep breath, she began to
undress the man lying on the bed. The wound in his side was red, swollen, and
infected. Fortunately, she had been blessed with a strong stomach and steady
hands and the sight of blood and torn flesh did not send her running for her
smelling salts as it did so many of her friends. As the only woman on the
ranch, she was often called upon to nurse the sick and tend the wounded. When
times were hard and they could not afford the extra help, she often pitched in
to work the cattle, occasionally she helped with the branding and the calving,
sometimes she helped with the castrating, which was hard, dirty work at best
and usually left to the men.
    With cool efficiency, Rachel began to wash the wound.
    Tyree groaned as unseen hands probed for the slug lodged
deep in his left side. The slightest touch caused him agony, and he clenched
his teeth as the slug was pried from his flesh. Through it all, he held fast to
the Colt, finding comfort in the weight and feel of a gun in his hand without
remembering why. Rachel gnawed on her lower lip, her brow knit with
determination, as she removed the slug, washed the wound a second time, then
swabbed the whole area with strong carbolic.
    With a soft grunt of exertion, she rolled the semi-conscious
man onto his side so she could remove the sodden, blood-stained linen from the
bed. It was then she saw his back. It was badly scarred. She knew men in prison
were often flogged for disobedience and she drew back, chilled to the bone by
the thought that the man tossing restlessly on the bed might be an escaped
felon.
    As though hypnotized, she continued to stare in horrified
fascination at the broad, scarred back, feeling a surge of pity well in her
heart. No human being, no matter what his crimes, should be subjected to such
cruel abuse.
    With tender concern, she washed the broad expanse of
sun-bronzed flesh, spread a clean white sheet beneath him, then pulled the
bedcovers up over his shoulders.
    That done, she studied the man through boldly curious eyes.
He was a big man, tall and whipcord lean. Though he was terribly thin, she
could see he had once been powerfully built. A thick black moustache and
bristly black beard covered the lower portion of his face, making it difficult
to determine if he were young or old, handsome or plain.
    His language, when he mumbled in his sleep, was coarse,
filled with the kind of profanity no lady was ever permitted to hear. Even
Rachel, accustomed to the curses of the men who worked the ranch, had rarely
heard such foul expletives.
    Abruptly, the man began to toss fitfully. His eyelids
flickered open and he stared, unseeing, at Rachel.
    “You dirty sonofabitch,” he growled in a voice edged with
pain. “If my hands were free, I’d take that whip and give you a taste of your
own medicine.” He lay still, rigid, as though listening