12

"HAZEL," he cried out to be heard above the storm as he scrambled to his feet and ran to her.

She wore only her camisole, corset, and torn petticoat, all hopelessly stained with mud. As Shepard stumbled across the rocky ground and drew near, she made no sound or attempt to move.

His heart seized in his chest.

Kneeling beside her, he pressed an ear to her chest and held his breath until he heard the strong beat of her heart. Shepard closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, then pulled back far enough to get a good look at her.

Smoothing tendrils of hair off her cheeks and scraped forehead, he said, "Jonesy?"

He cradled her face, wincing when he saw the bruised and bloody goose egg near her left temple. "Hazel, honey, can you hear me?"

She moaned, her eyelashes fluttering before succeeding in opening for a brief moment. "Shepard?"

Unable to speak past the lump of emotion lodged in his throat, he nodded—not that she would have been awake long enough to hear anything he wanted to say, because, in the next heartbeat, Hazel fell unconscious once again.

Muttering a curse, he leaned over her, blocking the rain as he pulled his shirt up and over his head and draped it over her chest to shield her scratched and exposed skin from the elements. He then reached for the pocket knife sheathed in his right boot and sliced the bindings around her wrists.

The crack of a rifle carried back to him, followed by another that was nearly drowned out by a crash of thunder. Shepard ground his teeth, hoping that meant Jeremiah had killed Dynamite and not the reverse.

"Jonesy?" Shepard murmured, cupping Hazel's bruised jaw in his trembling hand and willing her to open her eyes and look at him.

Her eyelids didn't even flutter.

Dragging her into his arms, he clutched her to his chest and clenched his eyes shut as he pressed a kiss to her brow. He needed to get her back to town and seen by a doctor if there was one, but he couldn't find the desire or strength to move. Checking her pulse, he focused on its steady, reassuring thrum and held her.

"I'm sorry, Jonesy," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears.

"DAMN WEASEL GOT AWAY," Jeremiah hollered as he rode up. He hunched over, coughing into his fist for several moments. When the fit passed, he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, his face grimacing with pain at the action.

"You don't sound too good," Shepard murmured.

"I'll be fine." Jeremiah cleared his throat and swallowed again before reining in and saying, "I shot him, but it sure didn't seem to slow him down any. Might not be more than a flesh wound." He stared at Hazel cradled against Shepard's chest with worry in his eyes, "She alive?"

Shepard nodded.

Dismounting, Jeremiah covered a cough in his elbow and cleared his throat. "Well, that's some good news on an ugly night like this." He walked over and crouched next to Shepard, resting a hand on his right shoulder as he said, "We oughta get you two back to town; you both look like you've been ridden hard and put away wet."

"We never should have left her alone."

Jeremiah bowed his head and slowly nodded, "I know." Heaving a sigh that turned into another cough, he looked Shepard in the eye, "It's a mistake we won't make again, son. On that you have my word... now, what do you say we get out of this rain?"

The rain eventually lessened to a light drizzle toward the end of their ride into town—just enough moisture to ensure their clothes remained annoyingly wet and uncomfortable. By the time they reached the Morning Glory, they were chilled to the bone, sore, and undeniably exhausted. Smoke rose into the night sky from the burnt remains of Hazel's living quarters.

Several people, many of which stood in their nightclothes now streaked with soot, halted in passing buckets of water down the line to stare at Shepard and Jeremiah rein in at the saloon.

Thomas broke from the bucket brigade the instant he spotted a still unconscious Hazel in Shepard's arms once his feet were both firmly on the ground. Wiping a hand across his sooty brow, he marched up to Shepard, his eyes blazing with fury and deep concern.

But before he could speak a word, Jeremiah pressed a hand to Thomas's chest and shook his head. "If you have a lick of sense in that curly head of yours," he murmured, "you'll keep your mouth shut and resume your place in line till that fire's out."

Thomas' gaze darted to Hazel, his lips pressed into a firm line, then met Shepard's for a moment before returning to Jeremiah. "Is she alive?"

Jeremiah nodded, covering a cough.

Thomas swallowed and settled his hands on his hips as he bowed his head, "All right then." He nodded at his boots, then looked up and caught Shepard's gaze before obeying and returning to the bucket brigade.

They watched him for a moment before Jeremiah leaned in close and whispered, "I think it's fair to say you and I have stepped in a steamy pile on this one. I'm gonna go send a message to Bertie and fetch a doctor."

Shepard nodded to Jeremiah and readjusted his hold on Hazel. Clenching his jaw and fighting to keep a tight rein on his temper where the eager Thomas was concerned, he spun on his heel and entered the saloon, not stopping until he carried Hazel to his room and laid her on the bed.

Sometime later, every nerve, muscle, and bone in Hazel's body ached with such a fiery torment that the pain broke through her blessed unconsciousness like a slap to the face. Where was she?

The last thing she remembered was shoving her elbow into Dynamite's ribs while atop his galloping horse. She'd realized she'd hit a tender spot from his yowl of pain seconds before he slapped her upside the head.

She'd elbowed him again and received another blow for her efforts at attempting to wriggle free, but then suddenly she was falling off the horse—or had Dynamite thrown her? She couldn't remember and wasn't even sure it mattered so long as Shepard finding her afterward hadn't been a hallucination.

Someone close was coughing, the sound accentuated by a warm fire crackling nearby, popping embers onto the stone hearth with a soft sizzle. Rain pattered against the window to her right and brought a frown to her brow.

With more effort than it should have taken, Hazel forced her heavy eyelids to open and choked back a gasp at finding herself in a room that wasn't hers. It took her foggy mind a couple minutes to recognize the tasseled mauve velvet curtains as those belonging to one of the bedrooms in the Morning Glory.

Shepard leaned against the wall, gazing out the rain-splattered glass, and completely unaware, she studied him for a moment before she tore her eyes away and looked at her surroundings instead while her brain fog cleared.

Yellow and green floral patterned wallpaper covered all four walls, softening the otherwise understated room. The fireplace stood opposite the double bed she lay on, dispelling the chill in the air and casting her surroundings in a soft amber glow.

Two unlit oil lamps with delicately painted flowers on the porcelain shades rested on mismatched nightstands on either side of the bed. A mauve coverlet covered Hazel from the waist down, drawing her confused gaze to the collared shirt she wore in place of her corset and petticoats.

Who'd changed her out of her soaked undergarments? A vague awareness that it had been Shepard flitted about within her mind, bringing with it a giddy excitement and a blush to her cheeks.

Hazel gave herself a mental shake and forced her attention onto the first thing unrelated to Shepard Devereaux and nearly sighed in relief when her gaze fell on the large framed landscape next to the door.

The only painting in the entire room was a tasteful, albeit rough interpretation of the Big Horn Mountains and hung across from the window like a broken mirror reflecting the view.

Shepard adjusted his position, cradling his ribs and biting back a pained groan as he gazed out at the charred beams of Hazel's room across the street while listening to Jeremiah coughing up a lung in the other room. From what he could see of the smoldering damage, most of the building was spared from the fire.

The only actual loss was a portion of the roof, one and a half walls of her bedroom, and what looked to be most of Hazel's personal belongings therein. His gut clenched at the knowledge that it could have ended a whole lot worse if not for the rain and quick action of the bucket brigade.

Movement from the bed caught his attention, and his gaze collided with Hazel's. His heart pounded, and his stomach lurched to his throat, then fell to his toes, setting his limbs to quivering with relief.

However, despite wobbly, aching legs, he was at Hazel's side in three giant strides. "Jonesy?" He murmured, perching on the bed near her right hip as he took her hand in his. "You're looking a little flushed. How're you feeling, honey?"

"Wonderful," Hazel whispered with a poor attempt at humor, her voice low and hoarse.

She tried to ignore the warmth encasing her heart, seeping through her limbs from hearing the tender endearment fall from his lips. He probably hadn't even realized he's said it. Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she took in his battered, handsome face.

His wet hair was still caked with mud and slowly dripped brown droplets onto his naked chest and shoulders. A cut above his left eyebrow with three dark sutures sticking out like spider legs seeped blood down to the corner of his eye. Hazel had never seen a more beloved sight than him at that moment.

Shepard brushed her tears away with the pad of his left thumb, his brow puckering in a concerned frown. "What's wrong? Are you in pain?" He paused, but when no answer fell from her lips and her tears increased, his gut knotted in alarm. "I'll go get Doc Graham; he's tending Jeremiah in the other room. Maybe he missed something earlier when he checked you."

He moved to stand, but a whimper escaped Hazel before she could stop it. She tightened her hold on his hand and refused to let him leave.

Settling back on the bed, Shepard braced his arms on either side of her and leaned down close, "What is it?"

Unable to speak past the lump lodged in her throat, Hazel pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around his neck, and clung to him as though her life depended on it. Her mind bemoaned such a foolhardy move when she needed to be keeping him at bay, but her heart rejoiced when Shepard slipped his arms behind her back and returned her tight embrace.

Shepard clenched his eyes shut and tucked his head in the crook of her neck, giving himself over to the tangled mix of emotions crashing through him. His ribs screamed in protest at his hunched position, but Shepard pushed the discomfort away and savored the feel of her in his arms.

Not once in Shepard's life had he held a woman and known such a deep sense of rightness and contentment, clear down to the marrow of his bones—until now with Hazel. He never wanted to let go.

The thought ricocheted within his mind and echoed in his heart with alarming intensity until he forced himself to release her and straighten. Considering what she'd been through, the last thing she needed was to have him latched onto her like a leech.

He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced when his fingers encountered a gob of foul-smelling mud. "Damn... near forgot; I'm dirty as a hog right now."

He stood, wiping the dirt on his thigh as he mumbled an apology for soiling the trousers she'd given him. "Probably stink like one too."

"It's all right, Shepard," Hazel said softly, not knowing what else to say with her nerves and emotions all a jumble. "You mentioned Jeremiah's in with Doctor Graham... is he hurt?"

Shepard opened his mouth to answer, grateful for a safe topic but snapped it shut when a sharp knock sounded at the door. He held a finger to his lips and withdrew his revolver, then cocked the hammer as he crossed the room. "Who is it?"

"Your fairy godmother," Jeremiah grumbled from the other side.

By the time Shepard twisted the key, turned the brass knob, and opened the door, Jeremiah was hunched over in a coughing fit that made Shepard's throat and lungs ache in sympathy. "What'd the doc say?"

Jeremiah stood with a groan, holding a fist against his chest as he shuffled into the room and plopped down in the mustard wingback chair.

Leaning his head against the tall back, he closed his eyes and took several wheezing breaths before answering. "Said I'm too old to go chasing after outlaws in the rain, 'bout made me want to throttle him then and there."

"You said something similar two weeks ago if I recall correctly," Shepard murmured with a slight chuckle, glancing back at the door to make sure he'd locked it, then studied the flushed and clammy-looking Marshal.

Jeremiah scoffed, "I know I'm old, son, but it's a damn sight harder to swallow coming from a man with a hook nose more befitting a bird of prey than it is when I speak the words myself after being shot and toppled from my horse."

Shepard and Hazel chuckled, though Jeremiah's coughing drowned out the sound of their merriment.

He dug in his pocket for his bandana, pressing it to his mouth until the spasm passed, then wheezed, "Also, said it sounds like I've got glass beads rattlin' inside my lungs." He covered another deep, hacking cough and sighed, his entire body melting into the chair when it finished. "Feels like it too."

"You should rest," Shepard said, his brow lowering in a worried frown.

"I will, if for no other reason than Bertie'll tan my hide if I up and die on her out here," Jeremiah rasped, sounding like he was holding back another cough. He swallowed and sighed as his tired gaze met Shepard's, "Just thought I'd see how Miss Hazel's faring."

Rolling his head until he could see her, as though any other kind of movement required too much effort, his lips curled in a drowsy smile. "Sure is good to see you awake."

Hazel blushed at the paternal affection shining in his eyes and smiled in return, "Thank you, Jeremiah."

He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut as a deep, wet-sounding coughing spell wracked his entire body with spasms. Once it ended, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and pale, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his bandana.

Shepard was quickly at his side, and his brow furrowed in concern, "Come on, old man, let's get you to bed."

Jeremiah grumbled in protest but allowed Shepard to help him stand. He braced a shaky hand on the chair and swallowed, then shook off Shepard's attempts to help him walk to the door. "Don't think for a moment just cause I'm acting all old and feeble, that I'm weak and helpless," he grouched, scowling at Shepard as he opened the door for Jeremiah.

"I'd never presume to make such an erroneous judgment about you," Shepard mumbled, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Jeremiah nodded, "You're a smart man."

"However," Shepard continued as though the Marshal hadn't spoken, "I do intend to walk you to your room."

"Better be because you want to see the pretty view from my windows, not because you believe I'm too worn out to get there by myself." Jeremiah arched a brow and, at Shepard's nod, draped his arm across Shepard's sturdy shoulders. "I believe you look a little wobbly, son; why don't you lean on me for support."

Shepard fought the urge to smile and glanced at Hazel to find her grinning from ear to ear. "I'll be right back, Jonesy, after Jeremiah helps me admire the view from his room." He winked at her, then pulled the door closed behind them.

Hazel giggled and shook her head, finding it hard to believe the two men had only been back in her life for less than seven hours instead of months and years. She covered a yawn and snuggled in deeper to the bedding, pulling the coverlet up to her chin.

She smiled at hearing Shepard's low mumble carry to her through the far wall. Her heart pounded against her ribs in joy at having him back in her life, a sensation she was slowly growing accustomed to the more time she spent with the man.

Lulled into a sense of security by the steady tick-tock of the small clock on the mantel and Shepard's soothing voice in the other room, her eyes grew heavier by the minute, and her aching body relaxed.

By the time Shepard had Jeremiah tucked into bed and dosed with the medicinal tonic the doctor gave him for his cough, he returned to his room to find Hazel asleep and quietly snoring. He stood over her for several minutes, allowing his eyes to drink their fill while the night's events flashed within his mind.

It was difficult to believe only a few hours had passed when so much had happened. Shepard scratched his chest, surprised to find he wasn't wearing a shirt. Shaking his head at his forgetfulness, he raked a hand through his hair, his lips curling in disgust when several small clumps of dried mud ricocheted against his shoulders on their descent to the floorboards.

Heaving a sigh, he quickly retrieved his dried trousers and the shirt Hazel gave him earlier, drying in front of the fire, and then left the room. With any luck, the bathhouse he'd spotted would be open; if not, a trough or wash barrel with enough water to clean up with would do for now.

He slung his shirt over his shoulder and hurried downstairs, ignoring the curious stares cast his way, and headed outside.