The Outlaw's Angel (Daughters of the Prairie 1)

The pain throbbed. She reached to touch it, to soothe it, and a sticky substance coated her fingers. Blood. Had Bobby been shot? Didn’t matter. If he was leaving this earth, so was she. She wouldn’t stay here without him.

She gazed into his amber eyes. Were those tears? Was he in pain? She reached to cup his clean shaven cheek. Drops of water tunneled through the red on his face. He was hurt. Her man was hurt.

“Whither thou goest...” she said, her own voice unrecognizable.

And then the curtain fell.

Chapter Eleven

“Naomi! No! No!” He shook her, trying to will life back into her body. “Damn it, woman. You can’t leave me now!”

The stage rolled away rapidly, its wheels kicking up dust.

“Help me,” Bobby shouted, cradling Naomi in his arms. But the stage kept going, and he knew the driver couldn’t hear him anyway.

He touched her neck. Her pulse, though weak, lingered. Thank God. Quickly he reached under her skirts for her petticoats, ripped them, and tore them into strips. He bandaged Naomi’s shoulder and then checked her pulse again.

The next town was over four hours away on horseback. Naomi wouldn’t make it four hours, especially at the pace he’d need to keep.

There was a closer place to get the help she needed. Bobby grimaced, but he had no choice. He would go three miles north, to a Lakota encampment.

There he would beg the people he hated to help the woman he loved.

* * *

Harnessing his anger and hatred, Bobby rode into the Lakota camp. Years had passed since the Dakota uprising, and though he wasn’t certain it was the Sioux who had attacked his family all those years ago, he had his suspicions. He’d heard not all Indians practiced scalping, but that didn’t matter. They were still red savages. He gritted his teeth and rode firmly. These people were all that stood between Naomi and death.

Conical tents surrounded the tamped down grasses of the camp, and several maidens carried water, lowering their eyes to Bobby’s gaze. Barely clothed children stopped scurrying about and hid behind the women’s fringed skirts. Braves, dressed in buckskins, met his gaze with mistrust and uncertainty in their dark eyes. Could they speak to him? Would they?

One large man, his ebony hair twisted into two thick braids, approached Bobby and held out a bronze hand to touch Thor’s nose. His stern brown face exhibited an aquiline nose and high cheekbones.

“Why do you come here, white man?”

Bobby swallowed. He would not succumb to fear, doubt, or hatred. “I come for help. My woman has been shot.”

The Indian nodded. “I am Standing Elk. My wife, Summer Breeze, is a healer. Come. I will take you to her.”

Bobby followed on the stallion, ignoring the stares of the Indians. When they stopped in front of a large tipi, Standing Elk took Naomi from his arms. Bobby dismounted.

“You stay here,” Standing Elk said. “This is the healing tent. I will take her to Summer Breeze.”

Bobby shook his head. “I can’t leave her.”

“You must. My wife will not harm her.” The Indian extended his arm forward, still holding Naomi. “Stay.”

Though Standing Elk looked like a young man, possibly younger than Bobby himself, something in his demeanor commanded authority. Bobby nodded, and Standing Elk disappeared into the tipi with Naomi in his arms.

Everything in Bobby’s soul screamed at him not to trust the Indian, but he had no choice. Naomi wouldn’t have made it to the nearest settled town. These people were her only hope.

A young Indian boy, no more than three or four, appeared and scrambled around Bobby’s legs and into the tipi.

Within minutes, Standing Elk emerged with the boy.

“Your woman is in the care of Summer Breeze and her mother, Laughing Sun, who is also a gifted healer.”

“I need to see her.”

“No. You must stay out here. They will fetch you when you can see her. They must remove the bullet from the white man’s weapon. It is...a difficult task.”