Rode Hard, Put Up Wet: Cowboy Romance (Rebels & Outlaws 2)

She ran her fingers through his hair and let him eat. Now she just had to hope that in spite of everything, he'd be there. The chance that he wouldn't wasn't one that she particularly wanted to take.

Thirty-Six

Chris ought to have gone faster. That would have been the best chance at getting the Sheriff back home safe, with most of his blood still in his body. The good news was that he still grunted a little, if the bartender shook him. It was a poor consolation, compared to the paleness of Roberts' skin.

Minutes counted in keeping the Sheriff's wife married. But riding hard, he quickly realized, was just too much of a risk. The big man could barely keep the half-conscious Sheriff on the saddle in front of him at any decent speed, and the cries of pain left little question of how well he was enjoying the ride.

So it was slow going in spite of Chris's best hopes and intentions, and as the sun started to slip down the horizon, he finally rode into town. If he'd been able to make it to the doc's office before someone noticed, that would have been enough. All he'd needed, no more.

That wasn't what happened. Someone noticed him riding in, and once they'd looked his way it wasn't hard to notice the body, halfway laid out along the horse's neck, a position that couldn't have been pleasant for any involved. Then the shout went on ahead and before he could say 'boo' there were folks coming out of the woodwork to come and see what was happening.

Chris let out a yell and tried to force his horse through. This was exactly what he'd expected to happen. Like clockwork, they'd done what they always did, and he wasn't going to be surprised by something like this. Just work through and try to get the Sheriff to help. The folks would figure it out and let him through, though they'd be clinging real close to see how it all went down. To see the exact moment when they can start claiming that he got the Sheriff killed. 'Almost' just didn't hold the same sort of appeal.

None of that surprised him. He was even a little bit used to it, as if he'd have been disappointed by the town if they hadn't bothered. But he was surprised by the horse pulling up in front of him, blocking what little gap the bartender was able to make for himself.

"I wasn't done talking to you, you yellow-bellied coward."

Chris's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer, heading his horse off to the side. He got the response he expected when his brother moved to intercept him. He worked the action on his rifle, a little threat to remind him that it was loaded.

"I need to get this man to a doctor. He's hurt bad."

Jack lowered the barrel of the rifle until it was leveled at his younger brother. "Yeah? That's a damn shame to hear."

"You can't do this, Jack–"

The murmur of the crowd rose in a ripple. With the name, suspicions were being confirmed. A face to go with the name. 'Smiling' Jack wasn't smiling–not that he ever did. But at least he'd managed to keep Chris's name out of the papers, and off the wanted posters.

"You watch me. You think I have a problem watching some law-man bleed to death? You got another thing coming."

"Jack, I don't know what your problem is, but you got no quarrel with him. You want me, you got me, but let this fella get help."

There was a glimmer of something in Jack's face that might have been consideration. Then his flat expression returned and he reaffirmed his target was dead on.

"I ain't gonna have you running off again. You're good at that, boy, and I ain't lookin' forward to another five years trackin' you down again."

"Is that how long it was? How long did it take to decide I weren't dead when you left me behind?"

There was a moment, in Chris's head, when he'd hoped that Jack was going to be so stung by the comment that he would let them both go, at least just long enough. The way that he tightened up his jaw, though, told the whole story of how naive that idea had been.

"Fuck you. If you were fine, y'ought to have come along behind. Sammy'd still be around if you had brought up the rear."

"If I'd been a quick shot, you mean. If I took on a posse by myself, I might have had a chance."

Jack's expression shifted from righteous fury to stubborn fury. It was a subtle shift, but to Chris, he might as well have moved a mountain.

"I don't care what kind of clever words you got to say. You left us to die."

Chris bit back the words in his chest, and then looked at the hexagonal barrel of that rifle, pointed right at his chest.

"I ain't done nothing. Not to Sammy and not to you. You're foolin' yourself."

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch. It was in your power, but you were too weak to do what needed doing."

"Jack, look at yourself, and when you're doin' it, realize that you're the one got Sammy killed. If we'd given up that life when we was ahead–hell, if we'd picked at the dirt a little–"

"Is that what you thought they wanted? Live life with nothing to look forward to? Just dirt-farmin' and barely making enough to survive?"

"Better than looking forward to a bullet."