standards for decency."
"Sheriff!" They both turned toward the sound, and Emmett set off at a run when he saw a rider slowing in front of the jailhouse with a slender figure slumping down from behind his saddle.
"Whoa, whoa," the man called out, sliding out of the saddle to grab Jesse as he sank into the dirt.
"Ira!" Emmett yelled, recognizing his new deputy cradling Jesse on the ground. He ran until his lungs hurt, and hit the ground hard beside them, his hands jutting out to press at Jesse's chest and stomach, to see where he'd been shot.
"Sheriff, it's all right, he's not hurt that I can tell," Ira said, glancing up and down the street worriedly, as if they'd been chased.
"What's wrong with him?" Emmett's heart wouldn't stop thundering like hoof beats.
"Help me get him inside. He was walking, more or less, 'fore he fell asleep like this."
"Asleep? He isn't moving," Emmett said, grabbing under Jesse's arms to pull him inside while Ira hefted his legs.
"He's got whiskey on his breath. Think he's drunk?" Ira asked, closing the latch on the front door once they had Jesse inside.
"Drunk? No… He. Oh God." Emmett laughed, sprawled out on the floor with Jesse bunched up against his chest.
Ira crouched and fanned his hat at Jesse's face. "What is it?"
"He's just drugged, most likely. Find Doc Milton, will you?"
Ira took off for Milton's place while Emmett pressed his lips to Jesse's hair and willed his body to stop trembling.
Charley gave them a long look and said he'd stay outside on guard, in case someone up at the big house had gotten wind of what had happened.
When Milton and Emmett carried Jesse to Emmett's bedroom and stripped him down to get him cooled off, they found the map in his boot.
"Sorry you had to see to this, Doc," Emmett said gruffly, tucking the folded map into his pocket. "Don't want you in danger on account of our dealings."
Milton sat on a low stool next to Emmett's bed and pinched Jesse's wrist, his expression far-away. After a few breaths, he grunted something that sounded like approval and stood as if his knees were made of driftwood.
"Is that it?" Emmett asked, frowning at Jesse's motionless features.
"He'll sleep for another hour or so, I'd wager. If another individual ingested the majority of that tincture," Milton said vaguely, "I'd imagine he'd sleep for a whole day."
"We'll ride before dawn," Emmett said, standing to shake Milton's leathery old hand.
"And I'll be prepared for your return, Sheriff."
*~*~*
Ira and Charley stood guard at the jailhouse, playing a jittery game of cards on Emmett's desk while Emmett rode to the Weeping Willow.
"Is he all right?" Roscoe asked in low tones, meeting Emmett in the back lot before he could even get inside.
A twinge of jealousy made Emmett's next step feel uneven, and he frowned deeply, unaccustomed to being caught unawares by those sorts of feelings. "Yes, he drugged himself somehow, it seems."
"Sounds like Jesse." Roscoe laughed, opening the door for Emmett. His relief echoed what Emmett felt on the floor in the jailhouse. But it irritated Emmett. None of this was funny. It was deadly serious.
"Yes, well. He'll sleep it off at the jailhouse where he'll be safe for the night."
"Good plan, Sheriff," Roscoe said, walking up the stairs ahead of Emmett.
"In my bed," Emmett added.
Roscoe stopped at the first landing and turned, studying Emmett. "I'd go to my grave for anyone under this roof, Sheriff. They took me in when I was in a bad way."
"That isn't important right—"
"I've never bedded him, and I don't intend to," Roscoe said, no mirth left in his gaze.
Emmett felt his face heat and gritted his teeth, knowing Roscoe could see it. With his damnable freckles, he'd never been able to hide a flush.
"There's no going back from what we're starting, I figure," Roscoe went on, once he could tell Emmett wasn't doing much but swallowing. "I'll follow you, and fight for these girls, but if you—"
"I won't hurt him."
Standing there,
"Sheriff!" They both turned toward the sound, and Emmett set off at a run when he saw a rider slowing in front of the jailhouse with a slender figure slumping down from behind his saddle.
"Whoa, whoa," the man called out, sliding out of the saddle to grab Jesse as he sank into the dirt.
"Ira!" Emmett yelled, recognizing his new deputy cradling Jesse on the ground. He ran until his lungs hurt, and hit the ground hard beside them, his hands jutting out to press at Jesse's chest and stomach, to see where he'd been shot.
"Sheriff, it's all right, he's not hurt that I can tell," Ira said, glancing up and down the street worriedly, as if they'd been chased.
"What's wrong with him?" Emmett's heart wouldn't stop thundering like hoof beats.
"Help me get him inside. He was walking, more or less, 'fore he fell asleep like this."
"Asleep? He isn't moving," Emmett said, grabbing under Jesse's arms to pull him inside while Ira hefted his legs.
"He's got whiskey on his breath. Think he's drunk?" Ira asked, closing the latch on the front door once they had Jesse inside.
"Drunk? No… He. Oh God." Emmett laughed, sprawled out on the floor with Jesse bunched up against his chest.
Ira crouched and fanned his hat at Jesse's face. "What is it?"
"He's just drugged, most likely. Find Doc Milton, will you?"
Ira took off for Milton's place while Emmett pressed his lips to Jesse's hair and willed his body to stop trembling.
Charley gave them a long look and said he'd stay outside on guard, in case someone up at the big house had gotten wind of what had happened.
When Milton and Emmett carried Jesse to Emmett's bedroom and stripped him down to get him cooled off, they found the map in his boot.
"Sorry you had to see to this, Doc," Emmett said gruffly, tucking the folded map into his pocket. "Don't want you in danger on account of our dealings."
Milton sat on a low stool next to Emmett's bed and pinched Jesse's wrist, his expression far-away. After a few breaths, he grunted something that sounded like approval and stood as if his knees were made of driftwood.
"Is that it?" Emmett asked, frowning at Jesse's motionless features.
"He'll sleep for another hour or so, I'd wager. If another individual ingested the majority of that tincture," Milton said vaguely, "I'd imagine he'd sleep for a whole day."
"We'll ride before dawn," Emmett said, standing to shake Milton's leathery old hand.
"And I'll be prepared for your return, Sheriff."
*~*~*
Ira and Charley stood guard at the jailhouse, playing a jittery game of cards on Emmett's desk while Emmett rode to the Weeping Willow.
"Is he all right?" Roscoe asked in low tones, meeting Emmett in the back lot before he could even get inside.
A twinge of jealousy made Emmett's next step feel uneven, and he frowned deeply, unaccustomed to being caught unawares by those sorts of feelings. "Yes, he drugged himself somehow, it seems."
"Sounds like Jesse." Roscoe laughed, opening the door for Emmett. His relief echoed what Emmett felt on the floor in the jailhouse. But it irritated Emmett. None of this was funny. It was deadly serious.
"Yes, well. He'll sleep it off at the jailhouse where he'll be safe for the night."
"Good plan, Sheriff," Roscoe said, walking up the stairs ahead of Emmett.
"In my bed," Emmett added.
Roscoe stopped at the first landing and turned, studying Emmett. "I'd go to my grave for anyone under this roof, Sheriff. They took me in when I was in a bad way."
"That isn't important right—"
"I've never bedded him, and I don't intend to," Roscoe said, no mirth left in his gaze.
Emmett felt his face heat and gritted his teeth, knowing Roscoe could see it. With his damnable freckles, he'd never been able to hide a flush.
"There's no going back from what we're starting, I figure," Roscoe went on, once he could tell Emmett wasn't doing much but swallowing. "I'll follow you, and fight for these girls, but if you—"
"I won't hurt him."
Standing there,
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