The Lady and the Lawman by Jennifer Zane

house, upstairs and into bed. It took
several minutes, with periods of quick rest. The man was huge—and
heavy! He didn’t stir even with their struggles, and the blood
continued to flow in a steady trickle from his thigh.
    Once
they settled the sheriff on the bed, Tom ripped his pant leg open to
see the wound more clearly.
    “ Bullet’s
still in there.”
    Oh
God. He'd spent the past few hours holding her tightly against him
all the while a bullet had been lodged in his leg. Petrified, she
said, “What...what do we do for him?”
    “ I
need to get the bullet out. Thankfully, he’s passed out. I’ll be
back in a few minutes. Holler if he stirs.”
    Left
alone with the sheriff's unconscious form, she surveyed his wound.
Blood oozed from the jagged hole. He was slowly dying. It had been
her fault. The man had been protecting her, keeping her safe and he'd
been the one injured. Possibly mortally. She tried desperately not to
cry but was soon lost to the tears as they coursed down her cheeks.
    Tom
returned with a large bowl of water, several cloths and a pair of
tweezers. “He’ll be fine. We just have to get the bullet out
before it gets infected. Then we can get this blood under control.”
    Wiping
her tears away with the back of her hand, she nodded and resolved to
be optimistic. Tom sure was.
    It
took a few tense moments to dislodge the bullet. When the metal hit
the china bowl on the nightstand it made a loud racket, startling
her.
    “ There
now.” Tom's dark eyes settled on her and he smiled. “Let’s get
him bandaged up.”
    She
helped to wrap the long strips of cloth around the wound, finishing
with tight
knots to staunch the flow of blood.
    “ He
looks a mess, but he’s alive. Let’s let him rest and when he’s
up again, we can get him cleaned up.”
    “ All
right.” She wasn’t as sure as Tom, but if he believed the sheriff
would be well again, who was she to argue?
    “ I’ll
stay with him for a while. You should get cleaned up, then get some
sleep. Follow me.” Tom led her into a bedroom across the hall.
“There's a pitcher of water and a cloth to wash off the blood. In
the chest at the foot of the bed you’ll find a few things of our
sister's you might be able to wear.”
    “ Thank
you,” she replied, looking down at her bloody hands and dress.
She’d forgotten her attire during the surgical ordeal.
    Tom
nodded and pulled the door closed behind him.
    Walking
numbly to the nightstand with the pitcher, she poured some into the
bowl and scrubbed the sheriff's blood off. When done, she was too
weary to take in her surroundings except for the large, inviting bed.
Afraid the bloodstains would ruin the crisp, clean bedding, she
stripped off her dress before climbing under the cool sheets, asleep
just seconds after her head touched her pillow.
    ***
    Margaret
awoke to soft light streaming through the window. It took a moment to
realize where she was. The bedroom Tom had shown her was painted a
pale yellow, like early morning sunshine. An oak dresser and chair
rested against one wall. The water pitcher and basin still sat atop
the nightstand next to the brass bed.
    All
was quiet except for the soft drone of grasshoppers outside. A slight
breeze through the open window put the white curtains in motion. She
stretched lazily and wiped some stray curls off her face as she
climbed out from beneath the covers.
    She
tidied the bed by pulling up the handmade quilt and smoothing out any
wrinkles. She went to the mirror above the dresser and stooped to see
her reflection. The last person to use this room must have been a
child or a petite woman.
    Seeing
her own reflection, she gasped. She had bright red lips, cheeks
stained a rosy red. Her hair was a riot of curls, tangled and snarled
about her. She’d forgotten her appearance after the wild events of
the previous night.
    Finding
a piece of ribbon, she tied her hair back loosely at the nape of her
neck. She sighed. There was no real way to tame her curls