in his palms, then grabbed hold of the rope, nodding.
“One … two …”
Another voice cut in sharply. A woman’s voice. “Deacon, move on back from there. You’re too close.”
“… three.”
And as Patrice watched in horror from the back of her brother’s scruffy mount, she saw the entablature collapse almost in slow motion, parts of it dropping straight, other pieces breaking off before plummeting downward—right at Deacon. As she screamed his name, he threw up his arms to protect his head just an instant before the debris knocked him to the ground.
Reeve and Jericho were already pitching boards off him when Patrice knelt at her brother’s side.
“Deacon? Deacon? Is he all right?”
A moan answered her, then a curt, “Get off me. I’m fine. We’re wasting time here.”
“He’s all right,” Reeve said with a touch of dry amusement as he levered off the last of the wood. Then he wasn’t smiling. “Deke, don’t move.”
“I’m fine. Let me up so we can get back to—”
The heel of Reeve’s hand struck his shoulder with a stay-put force, pinning him to the ground.
“What do you think you’re—”
Deacon’s angry sputter died off at the sound of Patrice’s gasp.
“Oh, Lord … Deacon, do what he says!”
Deacon followed her wild-eyed stare and paled dramatically.
A long, jagged splinter pierced the meat of his forearm just below the wrist, exiting near his elbow, where the rest of it was buried deep in the dirt, holding his left arm erect like a flagpole. If not for his instinctive cover-up, the lethal spear would havegone straight into his chest. Fatally. Deacon stared at it, shock numbing him from the full brunt of pain … for the moment.
“Jericho, hold him down.”
Deacon turned toward Reeve. “What are you—?” The rest was lost as Reeve cuffed his wrist, braced his upper arm with his other hand and pulled up firmly. Surprise and a sudden flame of agony tore a raw cry from him.
Reeve had his big knife out to cut away coat and shirtsleeves. Patrice gave a low moan and looked away.
“We’ve got to get him to town. He needs a doctor.”
Recovering himself, Deacon said, “I don’t have time to go to town. It’s not deep. Just pull it out.”
Reeve was examining it more closely. “An’ leave hundreds of little splinters you’ll have to dig out later? It’s your arm, Deke. You want to lose it?”
“Have you got a better suggestion, Garrett?” Deacon hissed between clenched teeth. He was hurting now, in great throbbing waves from shoulder to fingertips. The later were trembling uncontrollably.
“It’s just below the skin. If I cut a groove above it, I should be able just to lift it out.”
“Reeve, you can’t.”
Deacon’s head tossed restlessly side to side. “Do it.”
“But Deacon—”
Deacon held up his good hand for his sister’s frantic grasp. “It’s all right, Patrice. He knows what he’s doing. Don’t you?”
Reeve looked to Jericho. “You got any alcohol, any whiskey around here? A needle and somethread?” When Jericho nodded and ran to get what was needed, Reeve positioned Patrice so that she was kneeling with her brother’s head on her lap, her knees bearing down on his shoulders. Reeve lifted the injured arm, placing it atop Deacon’s rapidly moving chest, then looked into the sweat-slicked face.
“You gonna hold together for this?”
Deacon drew a single deep breath, and his entire system steadied. He regarded Reeve with a cool, flat gaze.
“Do it.”
“Patrice, you hang on to his hand and elbow. Don’t let him move.”
“I won’t move,” came Deacon’s cold assurance.
No , Reeve thought, he probably won’t. And he started to cut. Deacon never made a sound, his arm never twitched as the blade opened skin and muscle to expose the wicked shard of wood. Reeve picked it out carefully, then took the bottle of rye Jericho handed him.
“This is going to—”
Deacon cut through his quiet warning. “Just do
“One … two …”
Another voice cut in sharply. A woman’s voice. “Deacon, move on back from there. You’re too close.”
“… three.”
And as Patrice watched in horror from the back of her brother’s scruffy mount, she saw the entablature collapse almost in slow motion, parts of it dropping straight, other pieces breaking off before plummeting downward—right at Deacon. As she screamed his name, he threw up his arms to protect his head just an instant before the debris knocked him to the ground.
Reeve and Jericho were already pitching boards off him when Patrice knelt at her brother’s side.
“Deacon? Deacon? Is he all right?”
A moan answered her, then a curt, “Get off me. I’m fine. We’re wasting time here.”
“He’s all right,” Reeve said with a touch of dry amusement as he levered off the last of the wood. Then he wasn’t smiling. “Deke, don’t move.”
“I’m fine. Let me up so we can get back to—”
The heel of Reeve’s hand struck his shoulder with a stay-put force, pinning him to the ground.
“What do you think you’re—”
Deacon’s angry sputter died off at the sound of Patrice’s gasp.
“Oh, Lord … Deacon, do what he says!”
Deacon followed her wild-eyed stare and paled dramatically.
A long, jagged splinter pierced the meat of his forearm just below the wrist, exiting near his elbow, where the rest of it was buried deep in the dirt, holding his left arm erect like a flagpole. If not for his instinctive cover-up, the lethal spear would havegone straight into his chest. Fatally. Deacon stared at it, shock numbing him from the full brunt of pain … for the moment.
“Jericho, hold him down.”
Deacon turned toward Reeve. “What are you—?” The rest was lost as Reeve cuffed his wrist, braced his upper arm with his other hand and pulled up firmly. Surprise and a sudden flame of agony tore a raw cry from him.
Reeve had his big knife out to cut away coat and shirtsleeves. Patrice gave a low moan and looked away.
“We’ve got to get him to town. He needs a doctor.”
Recovering himself, Deacon said, “I don’t have time to go to town. It’s not deep. Just pull it out.”
Reeve was examining it more closely. “An’ leave hundreds of little splinters you’ll have to dig out later? It’s your arm, Deke. You want to lose it?”
“Have you got a better suggestion, Garrett?” Deacon hissed between clenched teeth. He was hurting now, in great throbbing waves from shoulder to fingertips. The later were trembling uncontrollably.
“It’s just below the skin. If I cut a groove above it, I should be able just to lift it out.”
“Reeve, you can’t.”
Deacon’s head tossed restlessly side to side. “Do it.”
“But Deacon—”
Deacon held up his good hand for his sister’s frantic grasp. “It’s all right, Patrice. He knows what he’s doing. Don’t you?”
Reeve looked to Jericho. “You got any alcohol, any whiskey around here? A needle and somethread?” When Jericho nodded and ran to get what was needed, Reeve positioned Patrice so that she was kneeling with her brother’s head on her lap, her knees bearing down on his shoulders. Reeve lifted the injured arm, placing it atop Deacon’s rapidly moving chest, then looked into the sweat-slicked face.
“You gonna hold together for this?”
Deacon drew a single deep breath, and his entire system steadied. He regarded Reeve with a cool, flat gaze.
“Do it.”
“Patrice, you hang on to his hand and elbow. Don’t let him move.”
“I won’t move,” came Deacon’s cold assurance.
No , Reeve thought, he probably won’t. And he started to cut. Deacon never made a sound, his arm never twitched as the blade opened skin and muscle to expose the wicked shard of wood. Reeve picked it out carefully, then took the bottle of rye Jericho handed him.
“This is going to—”
Deacon cut through his quiet warning. “Just do
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