Page 99 of Texas Destiny
“No!” she cried, her heart screamed.
Another retort of gunfire filled the air, and the last rider slumped forward before tumbling from his saddle. Amelia urged Sorrel into a gallop, a litany of prayers rushing through her mind. She drew the horse to a halt where Houston had fallen. She scrambled out of the saddle and fell to her knees beside him.
Bright red blood soaked through his shirt. “No,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “No, no, no.” Ignoring the pain as the rope bit into her wrists, she ripped off a portion of her petticoat and pressed it against the wound, desperately trying to staunch the flow of crimson. The white cotton rapidly became red.
Houston opened his eye. She touched her palm to his cheek. “Don’t you die on me. I’ll never forgive you if you die on me.”
“I didn’t run,” he rasped.
“But you should have, you fool! You should have stayed with me!”
A corner of his mouth tilted up. “That would have been the easy way. You deserve better than that.”
He sank into oblivion, his breathing shallow. A shadow crossed over his face. Amelia jerked her head up as Dallas dropped to his knees, knife in hand, and began to cut away Houston’s shirt.
“Why in the hell didn’t he stay on the horse? I wasn’t that far behind—”
“He had something to prove to himself,” she said quietly, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
Chapter Nineteen
In his entire life, Dallas had never met the next moment without a plan of action, had never known what it was to feel useless, without a purpose. He sure as hell felt useless now, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
He’d gathered up the stolen horses and had left the men he and Houston had killed to the buzzards and coyotes. He hadn’t been cruel out of vengeance, but he had recognized that time was rapidly becoming his bitter enemy. The bullet had entered and exited through Houston’s shoulder, leaving a relatively clean wound, but two gaping holes through which the blood could flow. And flow it did.
As much as Dallas had hated to do it, he’d wrapped a rope around Houston to keep him from falling out of his saddle. They’d ridden through the night, keeping the horses at a slow, steady walk, their planned destination the ranch. Near dawn, when Houston’s cabin had come into view, Dallas had decided not to push his luck.
He had carried Houston, unconscious, into his log cabin and laid him as gently as he could in the bed. He’d helped Amelia clean, sew, and dress the wound, his admiration for her growing as her competent hands handled each task with efficiency. She’d grown pale, her hands had trembled from time to time, but her jaw had been clenched with determination, her eyes challenging death.
She was one hell of a woman.
When Dallas had decided he’d done all he could for the moment, he had left his brother in Amelia’s care while he’d raced to the ranch, horses in tow, to give orders to his men, sending four men in opposite directions to scour the countryside for a doctor. He’d sent another man to find Reverend Tucker, praying harder than he’d ever prayed in his life that he wouldn’t need the preacher’s services.
Austin had returned to the cabin with him. They would have taken turns relieving Amelia as she tended to Houston’s needs if she had let them. As it was, they simply sat in the shadows and worried.
It hurt. It hurt to watch his brother lying so still as though he were simply waiting for death’s arrival. It hurt to watch Amelia hovering over Houston, wiping the fevered sweat from his brow, his throat, his chest, talking to him constantly, softly, gently. Always talking to him about his horses, his dream of raising them, and how she didn’t want to be part of a dream that died.
Amelia Carson was everything Dallas had wanted in a wife. A survivor, someone with an appreciation for the South as it had been, a willingness to reach out to the future. She was full of grit, determination, and courage.
He thought he’d never forget the way she’d looked riding back for Houston: fearless, angry, terrified. Or the depth of despair he’d seen reflected in her eyes as she’d knelt beside Houston and tried to stop his blood from spilling into the earth.
Dallas rose to his feet, stretched the ache and tightness out of his back, and walked to the hearth. He took a wooden bowl off the mantel, bent down, and ladled the simmering stew out of the pot. Houston’s house was about as simple as a man could make it: a table with one chair, a bed, a wardrobe, a chest, a small table by the bed, and a stack of books. No mirrors. Not one goddamn mirror.
Straightening, he glanced over his shoulder at Austin, who was sitting on the table since Dallas had confiscated the chair. He was surprised the boy’s elbows hadn’t created holes in his thighs. He looked as though he was awaiting a hangman’s noose. “You want to check on his horses?”
Austin shot to his feet and bobbed his head. “Yes, sir.” He headed out the door.
Dallas crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. “You need to eat.”
Amelia gave him a weak smile. “I can’t get his fever to break. Where’s the doctor?”
“I sent my men to find one. It’s as hard to find a doctor as it is to find a wife.” He spooned out a bit of stew and lifted it up. “Come on. Eat for me.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then eat for him.” He tilted his head toward Houston. “‘You won’t do him any good if you get sick.”
She opened her mouth, and he shoveled in the stew. Licking her lips, she took the bowl from him. “I am hungry after all.”
