die.”
Sarah smiled. “Except me, Sam Gatlin. There’s something good left in you or you wouldn’t have bought me a dress or told that shopkeeper I was your wife. So I’ve made up my mind, and there isn’t anything you can do to change it. I love you.” She knew she made no sense, but Sarah had to start somewhere. If she was afraid of him, or hated him, she’d just be standing in the crowd. For some reason he’d married her, and he hadn’t forced himself on her. It wasn’t exactly a long list of good traits, but it was a start.
She cleaned the next wound while noticing his back had healed nicely. None of the bullet holes were as bad as she’d feared. The lead only grazed his arm deep enough to cause bleeding. His legs would heal as soon as scabs formed.
Finally all the blood was removed and the damaged skin doused with whiskey, sprinkled with Granny Vee’s herbs, and wrapped. She flattened her hand against his heart and felt the warmth of his skin along with the steady pounding. She’d done the best she could do. Maybe, if they ever made it into town again, she’d buy a medicine box.
Looking up, she found dark eyes staring at her. Pain still clung to the edges, but his gaze was clear.
His eyes were brown, she thought, deep chocolate brown.
Neither of them moved. They just looked at each other as if they had never seen the other before. She left her hand resting against his chest as she lifted her chin, slightly challenging her right to touch him.
“I’m not dying, Sarah.” He rubbed the bump on his forehead. “These were no more than scratches.” Bracing himself, he sat up slowly, nursing his bandaged arm.
“You can’t promise that.” She let her hand fall away, brushing against scars as she moved. “We’ve been married less than a week, and you’ve been attacked twice. I’d say you were accident prone, but none of these wounds are accidents.”
Sam stared at the bend where they’d turned off the road, then checked to make sure his Colt was within reach. “I’m not dealing with anything new here, Sarah.” He closed his eyes, as if dreading what he had to say. “I was ten when my father was killed in the War Between the States. I was big for my age, so I went along with my uncle and grandfather to bring his body home. My mother had died a few years before in childbirth. I guess the Yankee scouts thought we hauled supplies when they ambushed us. Within minutes the fighting was over. All my family, except my baby sister, died that day.”
His voice remained flat as if the memory had grown too old to stir emotion. “A Confederate scout found me a few days later on the road, a bullet wound in my chest. I told him I was walking home.”
Sarah’s fingers brushed over the scar on his chest. The twisted flesh lay only an inch from where she’d felt his heart pounding.
“The Reb took me to a doctor working behind the lines. The doc just glanced my direction and asked me to rest outside the hospital tent. I heard him say that with the amount of blood covering me, it wouldn’t be long. There was no use wasting time patching me up.”
Sarah felt a chill. “What are you saying?”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I fought along the frontier line near Fort Griffin soon as I got old enough to sign up. Twice I was left for dead by war parties, the only survivor in a scouting company. The first time the men welcomed me back to the fort, thinking I escaped death, but the second time they avoided me as if I’d somehow cheated it. The blessing became a curse.”
“Maybe you were just lucky.”
“No, if I’d been lucky, I wouldn’t have been shot in the first place. A few years after the army, an old doctor in San Antonio patched me up after a gunfight. He told me that I heal faster than most. He said some men get a scratch and die of poisoning in the blood, but with me it’s going to have to be a straight shot to the heart before I drop.”
“So, what are you trying to tell
Sarah smiled. “Except me, Sam Gatlin. There’s something good left in you or you wouldn’t have bought me a dress or told that shopkeeper I was your wife. So I’ve made up my mind, and there isn’t anything you can do to change it. I love you.” She knew she made no sense, but Sarah had to start somewhere. If she was afraid of him, or hated him, she’d just be standing in the crowd. For some reason he’d married her, and he hadn’t forced himself on her. It wasn’t exactly a long list of good traits, but it was a start.
She cleaned the next wound while noticing his back had healed nicely. None of the bullet holes were as bad as she’d feared. The lead only grazed his arm deep enough to cause bleeding. His legs would heal as soon as scabs formed.
Finally all the blood was removed and the damaged skin doused with whiskey, sprinkled with Granny Vee’s herbs, and wrapped. She flattened her hand against his heart and felt the warmth of his skin along with the steady pounding. She’d done the best she could do. Maybe, if they ever made it into town again, she’d buy a medicine box.
Looking up, she found dark eyes staring at her. Pain still clung to the edges, but his gaze was clear.
His eyes were brown, she thought, deep chocolate brown.
Neither of them moved. They just looked at each other as if they had never seen the other before. She left her hand resting against his chest as she lifted her chin, slightly challenging her right to touch him.
“I’m not dying, Sarah.” He rubbed the bump on his forehead. “These were no more than scratches.” Bracing himself, he sat up slowly, nursing his bandaged arm.
“You can’t promise that.” She let her hand fall away, brushing against scars as she moved. “We’ve been married less than a week, and you’ve been attacked twice. I’d say you were accident prone, but none of these wounds are accidents.”
Sam stared at the bend where they’d turned off the road, then checked to make sure his Colt was within reach. “I’m not dealing with anything new here, Sarah.” He closed his eyes, as if dreading what he had to say. “I was ten when my father was killed in the War Between the States. I was big for my age, so I went along with my uncle and grandfather to bring his body home. My mother had died a few years before in childbirth. I guess the Yankee scouts thought we hauled supplies when they ambushed us. Within minutes the fighting was over. All my family, except my baby sister, died that day.”
His voice remained flat as if the memory had grown too old to stir emotion. “A Confederate scout found me a few days later on the road, a bullet wound in my chest. I told him I was walking home.”
Sarah’s fingers brushed over the scar on his chest. The twisted flesh lay only an inch from where she’d felt his heart pounding.
“The Reb took me to a doctor working behind the lines. The doc just glanced my direction and asked me to rest outside the hospital tent. I heard him say that with the amount of blood covering me, it wouldn’t be long. There was no use wasting time patching me up.”
Sarah felt a chill. “What are you saying?”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I fought along the frontier line near Fort Griffin soon as I got old enough to sign up. Twice I was left for dead by war parties, the only survivor in a scouting company. The first time the men welcomed me back to the fort, thinking I escaped death, but the second time they avoided me as if I’d somehow cheated it. The blessing became a curse.”
“Maybe you were just lucky.”
“No, if I’d been lucky, I wouldn’t have been shot in the first place. A few years after the army, an old doctor in San Antonio patched me up after a gunfight. He told me that I heal faster than most. He said some men get a scratch and die of poisoning in the blood, but with me it’s going to have to be a straight shot to the heart before I drop.”
“So, what are you trying to tell
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