Chapter 5
Owen sat up with Marley, and he was on hand to notice Clive was running a fever. It irked him, but he probably had oughta help.
He knelt beside Clive and pressed a cool cloth to his forehead.
Clive was more asleep than awake, but wherever that bullet had hit him, it hadn’t pierced anything vital or the man wouldn’t still be alive.
And the bullet had gone right through him, so it was a mercy that Owen and his ham-handed surgery wasn’t required to dig a bullet out.
Lucky for everyone. Owen had dug bullets out of people before, and it was a miserable business for both him and the patient.
Probably worse for the patient.
Clive’s eyes flickered open, and though they had a glaze of fever about them, he focused on Owen. “You should just ride off and leave me. My kin will find me, and I’ll tell them to let you ride on. Easier for you and me both.”
Owen sat back on his heels and studied the kid. “Easy don’t interest me much. You wouldn’t last long on your own, and you’re guilty of murder. I’m not going to let you go, Clive.”
He got the rag wet again to cool it, wrung it out, and pressed it to Clive’s forehead. “Don’t you worry where you’ll spend eternity, boy? You’re getting ready to face it, so you should try and make peace with God.” Owen figured he might be wasting his breath, but it was his to waste.
Clive made no response other than to shove weakly at Owen’s hand, as if it bothered him to have his head bathed by another man, let alone Owen.
Owen would be in this room for the night with the other men. Tex had returned from standing watch, and Morgan took over to keep watch for the early hours of the night. That left Delaney the bedroom. No bed, no door, but at least she had a wall between her and the men.
He worried more every hour about Boone, still unconscious. It was coming up on two days now. A blow to the head like that from a grazing bullet could be tricky. It was way past time for the youngster to wake up.
“Rest of my family is in hell and playin’ poker with Old Scratch,” Clive said at last. “They’ll deal me into the game.”
Making a joke of it. Owen wasn’t surprised.
But it awakened compassion in him to see someone raised so poorly.
The kid had little chance with that kind of learning.
“That’s not in the Bible anywhere, Clive.
” He tried to reach past the boy’s arrogance.
“There’ll be no pleasure to be had. No family reunion to enjoy.
I reckon hell is pure misery. Maybe you’ll get a glimpse of paradise and then know you’ll never see it again.
Why would you want to abandon the hope of heaven when you have a choice? ”
“Let me be, will you? Why try and cool me down if it’s just to save me for eternal fire? Quit wasting both our time.” Clive closed his eyes.
Owen eased back from him. The kid was so young, so misguided. Owen thought of the story he’d told about rescuing a woman. Shaking his head, he checked the ropes binding his prisoner, then leaned back against the wall to doze for a while.
Delaney had slept a couple of stretches and woke up to the early light of dawn. The house was in utter silence, and the realization that Boone was hurt slammed into her like a fist. Yet Owen was sitting up with the injured. He’d promised to wake her if Boone stirred.
She was mercifully alone in the back room and let herself quietly cry. No sense putting the menfolk through her weeping.
She tried to get it all out. Well, not all. Not when he was still so injured, but she needed to get out the useless waste of her tears so she could focus on what needed doing.
When the tears began to ebb, she stood to her feet and was mopping her burning eyes when Owen stepped into the doorway. He frowned at her tear-streaked face, then walked into the room and pulled her into his arms.
The shock of being held left her frozen for a minute, and then the floodgates opened again.
“I’ve heard it said that a woman needs a shoulder when she cries.”
Delaney hadn’t known that because she so rarely cried. But right now it was the pure truth. He tucked a crumpled-up kerchief into her hand, and that simple kindness made her cry all the more.
“I-I’m sorry. Such foolishness . . .”
“I don’t do much crying myself.”
That caused Delaney to laugh even as she wept.
“But if a woman can’t cry over her brother being shot, then God shouldn’t have invented tears.”
Delaney burrowed closer, and Owen’s arms tightened just a bit. His strength woke up some of her own.
“Morgan said you’re a woman to ride the river with. A fine hand with a rifle and on a trail. Those are high compliments from Morgan. I’m afraid we’ll be having a rougher journey than expected.”
She buried her face into his chest. The simple kindness of Owen letting her lean on his strength knitted something together in her frightened, broken heart.
Steadier now, she said, “We should be able to ride the trail from Denver to Cheyenne without having to fight for our lives. That’s a settled land these days.
But it looks now like we should’ve had the cavalry ride along with us. Who’d’ve ever considered that?”
“Right. We figured five Marshals would be more than enough.”
There was a moment of silence as Delaney pondered how they’d started out with five, but now Stan Ross lay buried far from anyone he knew or loved.
She felt the tension in Owen, and suddenly his arms around her felt selfish.
She wasn’t the only one who needed a shoulder; maybe Owen could use one, too.
Her arms wrapped around him. She’d never held a man before.
The unfamiliar feeling should have been awkward, but instead it was wonderful.
“We were told you and your brother were mighty tough. It felt more like extra warriors going along. But without need because there was no war.”
Very gently, he said, “I didn’t come in here to catch you crying. Boone’s stirring. I think he’s waking up. Your brother has decided nap time is over.”
Delaney pushed back far enough to see his eyes. The steadiness in them, together with the good news, helped her get ahold of herself.
Owen gave her a gentle smile. “He’s not alert or talking, but his eyes flickered open for just a second.”
With a gasp of excitement, she nearly knocked Owen over getting to Boone. She heard his soft chuckle and felt embarrassed for rushing away from him when he’d been so generous with his support. She dropped to her knees beside her brother. “Boone, can you hear me? It’s Delaney.”
His head tossed a bit. She saw his eyes open a bit, then close again.
“No, Brother, wake up now.” She remembered Owen’s words and smiled. “Nap time is over, Boone.”
His eyes slowly opened, and this time they stayed open. He focused on her as she leaned over him. “Delaney . . .” he breathed.
She leaned down to kiss his forehead. The bandage was in the way, but she didn’t mind. “Boone, you were shot, but you’re going to be all right.”
“Sh-shot?” Boone raised an unsteady hand to his bandage. “In the h-head?”
“You’ve been unconscious a long time. I’ve been so worried . . .” Her voice broke. “The bullet cut your scalp, but it didn’t penetrate your skull. It would’ve done you no good rattlin’ around in your brain.” She tried to smile at that.
His eyes met hers. “T-tired. Need sleep.”
“Have a drink of water first.” She had a cup handy, and Owen came to kneel across from her and help Boone sit up.
She glanced at him. He’d stayed back to give her a moment with her brother, but he’d been close to lend a hand.
She appreciated it so much, she had to shake off the urge to weep again. Enough of that.
Boone looked at Owen, and his brow furrowed.
Delaney didn’t give him time to do any thinking. He needed to let his brain rest. She got the water to his lips and let him sip, then sip again.
Giving him a few seconds to see if the water would stay in his belly, she gave him another drink, and he emptied the cup. When it was gone, Owen lowered him back to the floor where the blanket from Boone’s bedroll had been stretched out.
Boone was asleep in seconds.
Delaney raised her head from her brother and looked at Owen. She felt her lips tremble when she asked, “He is going to make it, isn’t he?”
“Yep, your brother is probably good enough we can let him sit up on his horse. We’ll tie him to his saddle horn. Better way to ride than draped over the saddle.”
Studying Owen, she saw a rugged man. All of the Marshals were.
In truth, her pa was such a man as this.
And her brothers. Goodness, rugged pretty much described her ma, too.
She reckoned she was rugged herself. She wondered if the U.S.
Marshals allowed women into their ranks.
She expected to see if Cheyenne needed any teachers, but she’d heard there were women Pinkerton agents, so why not women Marshals?
She thought she had the skills necessary for the job. Well, some of them anyway. She’d prefer not to get into a fistfight with a man twice her size. When it came down to it, it’d probably be impossible to outfight a low-down polecat trying to dodge the law, but she’d bet she could outthink him.
She thought of the shiny new Winchester and how skilled she was with it. Yes, she could be a Marshal for certain.
She realized then she was still looking Owen in the eye, and he was looking right back—the man she’d let hold her, let comfort her. That rugged face. His blue eyes. He hadn’t shaved in a week or two. He could sure use a haircut.
He tilted his head, staring at her with eyes surprisingly kind for such a hard man. She was relieved to see that there was nothing in those eyes that indicated he was thinking improper thoughts, only concern.
“I suppose you don’t deal with weeping women too often in your line of work.”
He laughed. “Nope, it’s not the usual way things go for me.”
She smiled back at him. She could smile now without it feeling like a betrayal of her wounded brother. “You have a talent for it, I’d say. Though I can’t recall ever having anyone hold me when I cried before. Of course, I can’t remember the last time I cried.”
“You shed a tear or two when Boone was shot.”
Shaking her head, she said, “This will be a trip to remember.”
More quietly, she said, “You have a talent for giving comfort, Owen. Thank you.” Yet she regretted he’d come upon her crying in the back room. Even so, he’d been nothing but kind, and he showed no dismay at having a weepy woman along. Instead, he showed decency.
“You’re very welcome, Miss Bridger.”
“Call me Delaney. We’ve been through a lot the last few days. It seems only right.”
“It’s Owen, then, Delaney. I’m sorry this trip has turned into such a struggle. But we’ll get through it together.”
“I’ll not listen to you say you’re sorry when your fast thinking saved us.” She paused. “Except for Marshal Ross. Five men shot, but four of them will survive and heal. I thank you for that.”
“We’ll see how everyone is doing when we hit the trail.”
She wondered if he was telling her they were moving out today. She thought it was too soon, but Owen was a man she could trust. If he thought it best that they get going now, she would follow his lead.
“We’ll let Boone and Marley rest for another day or two, but your brother is definitely going to make it. The wound shows no sign of suppuration. He doesn’t have a fever, and he’s awake, if a little bit dazed.”
“He said my name. Did you hear it?” She sniffed and swiped her hand across her eyes. She was not starting that again.
She wasn’t sure just how she sounded, but Owen reached across a sleeping Boone and rested his strong hand on her wrist. “I did hear it. I also noticed he didn’t seem to know who I was.”
Delaney’s breath hitched as she listened to what Owen might think about that.
“It’s not uncommon to forget things that happened in the hours or even days before and after a blow to the head. Yet that’s nothing to worry about, Delaney. He’s going to be fine.”
She nodded and took a deep breath, slowly letting it out to steady herself.
“Thank you.” Then she swallowed hard and squared her shoulders.
Time to get on with what all needed doing.
“Would you like me to take over cooking? I saw what Morgan brought in, the wild vegetables as well as the venison. I can make a decent stew out of that.”
Owen was still holding her wrist and only now seemed to notice. He tightened his grip on her arm for a moment, then released it and grinned. “That would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.”