Angel knelt in the cool mud at the edge of the waterhole and dipped up handfuls, splashing her feverish face with the blessed wetness. She hung there a moment and stared at her rippled reflection, at the image of a woman who seemed a stranger, and clenched her trembling hands into fists against her thighs.
God, help me. I can’t do this.
Behind her, Rane rummaged through the saddle packs slung across the backs of the horses that had belonged to Buck and Arch. Using his right hand, while his left hung useless at his side, he discarded one item after another, as if he searched for something in particular.
"¡Salud!"
Evidently, he’d found it. Angel looked over her shoulder. A whiskey bottle dangled from his hand. He moved away from the horses, found a spot next to a fallen slab of stone and eased to a sitting position on the ground.
Angel sat back, away from the lapping water, and picked up the white petticoat she’d worn on the stage. He’d kept it. For the past two days it had been stuffed inside his saddlebag. She ran her hand over the fine linen, wrinkled now, and remembered the day she’d stepped onto the train platform in New York. An educated society belle. It seemed long ago. Tears welled in her eyes as she gripped the garment between her hands and ripped.
Gunfighter. The epithet repeated, over and over, in her mind. Except for the wound on his body, the events of less than an hour ago—the fact that he’d killed two men—had left no outward mark.
He’s used to it. It has no meaning to him.
She still marveled at the feat she’d witnessed on the far side of the ridge. His blurring speed and deadly aim. The daring deeds of quick-draw artists such as Billy the Kid and Wild Bill Hickok had gained popularity in the dime novels back east in recent months. Out of curiosity, she’d read a few of them. The books all made the gunplay sound very noble and romantic. But she’d just seen the harsh reality.
The memory of his caress plagued her. How could the touch of his hands thrill her so when they were capable of ending a life with such dispassion?
"You ready?" he called.
Angel swiped at the tears brimming on her eyelashes and gathered the torn strips of linen in her arms. She stood and turned, and nearly stumbled back into the pool. He had removed his shirt and tossed it over the stone he used as a backrest. Dark blood smeared his chest and oozed bright red from the wound high on his left side.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
His dark, pain-filled eyes bored into her. "You’re a strong woman, Angel. Don’t go soft on me now."
No, she wouldn’t go soft. She was still a long way from home. And God only knew what she might have to endure before she got there. Shoving aside her instinctive revulsion, she crossed the distance and knelt beside him on the sand.
"I’m ready," she said.
