The Ranger's Bride. Laurie Grant
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wound in the back of his shoulder where the bullet had exited. He felt her hesitate, so he muttered, “Go ahead and finish,” then set his jaw and held on to the mattress until she was done.
Once she had eased him onto his back, he concentrated on her face, willing the pain to recede. She was so pretty, despite the streaks of blood on her cheeks and neck and the smudge of dirt on her cheek. Her hair had mostly escaped the knot at the back of her slender neck, but its disarray gave her a wild, wanton look that was quite opposite, he guessed, from her normal appearance and personality. She’d be pretty as a silver dollar with her hair up and wearing a dress that wasn’t stained with a dead man’s blood. He guessed she had totally forgotten—if she’d ever noticed—the sorry state of her clothing.
He watched her tear strips from an old, well-worn man’s shirt to make a bandage, then realized, by the self-conscious way she worried at her full lower lip with her teeth, that his staring was making her uncomfortable. But he was damned if he could stop. After all, it kept his mind off the fiery ache above his collarbone.
“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
He hesitated. Could he trust her not to tell even one person when she went into town about his presence here?
“You gonna tell anyone I’m here?” he asked.
She looked mildly indignant at the question. “For now, no—I know you said it was important not to. Though I can’t see how it would hurt for the sheriff to know you’re here. Surely he’d be your ally in capturing the Fogartys.”
Miss Adelaide Kelly would probably be surprised at just how often a sheriff could be hand in glove with desperadoes, he thought. “Some small-town lawmen flap their jaws too much,” he said. “I don’t want to bet my life on whether this one does or not while I’m lyin’ here weak as a poisoned pup.”
“Sheriff Wilson doesn’t strike me as a gossip,” she said, coloring a little, “but I’ll respect your wishes.”
Something about the way she defended the man was a bit too enthusiastic, and his heart sank. Was she sweet on the sheriff?
He supposed he owed her honesty, after she’d brought him to her house and put him in her own bed—he’d guessed it was hers by the flower-sprigged wrapper and hat that hung from hooks on the door. “It’s Rede…Rede Smith,” he said.
“How do you spell it? R-E-E-D? Or R-E-I-D?”
“R-E-D-E. It’s short for Redemption,” he admitted sheepishly. “I guess you could say my ma had a Biblical bent when it came to names.” To make up for my father’s lawlessness. She’d taken the surname of Smith to hide their connection to the outlaw who’d been her husband.
Rede wondered what Miss Adelaide Kelly would think if she knew the leader of the band of killers who’d attacked the stage today had been his uncle, his father’s youngest brother.
“Redemption Smith,” she said experimentally. “A bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? I see why you go by Rede.”
He liked the sound of his name on her lips. “Rede will do. Or just plain Smith.”
Her nose wrinkled at his last sentence. “I’m not calling you Smith. Sounds like I’m some rich lady and you’re my butler. I suppose I should properly call you Mr. Smith.”
“Please, call me Rede. Can I call you Miss Addy? Adelaide’s kind of a mouthful, too. And it’s too stuffy a name for a pretty woman like you,” he added, purely for the pleasure of seeing her blush again.
Which she did, enchantingly, though she tried to put on a severe expression to counter it. “Horsefeathers,” she sputtered, after a moment. “I suppose it’s all right for you to call me Miss Addy. Most of the town calls me that or Miz Addy. Since I was widowed,” she explained.
He nodded obediently.
“But you needn’t think that means I’ll stand for any monkeyshines from you while you’re here, Rede Smith.”
Again, he nodded, trying to look lamblike.
“Which will be for as brief a time as possible, is that clear? I’m a respectable widow with a business to run, which will be difficult enough while you’re here. Just as soon as you’re well enough to ride out of here, you’ll be leaving, is that understood?”
This wasn’t the time to tell her he’d decided this was the ideal place to stay, not only while he recovered, but while he looked for the Fogartys’ hideout.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with all the meekness he could muster. Judas priest, but she was even prettier when she was riled, if that was possible.
“And now I had better get that bullet out of your arm, before you get blood poisoning,” she said. “I’ll just go and get a knife—”
The thought of her digging that bullet out made him queasy all over again. Ignoring the pain that lanced through him at the sudden move, he took hold of her arm before she could step away from the bed.
“Not just yet,” he said. “I mean, it’s gettin’ pretty late, isn’t it? You’d better go report the attack so someone can go out and pick up those bodies before the varmints get to ’em.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, looking down at his hand.
Reluctantly, he let her go. “Remember now, when they ask you about the dead folks, tell ’em Rede Smith is the one lyin’ out there with the star on his shirt.”
She shuddered. “But how would I know he was Rede Smith? We didn’t all introduce ourselves while we were traveling. I couldn’t tell them the names of the others. If I just knew your name, it would make it look as if we were…well, carrying on a flirtation or something. And I’m a respectable widow—I have a reputation to maintain here,” she told him tartly.
She had starch all right, Addy Kelly did.
“All right, just be sure and mention you noticed the man was wearin’ a Texas Ranger badge.”
She nodded her assent, started to walk out of the room, then suddenly asked, “Who wants you dead, Rede? Why don’t you want anyone to know you’re alive?”
“The Fogartys. The same bast—Excuse me, ma’am, the same outlaws that attacked the stage today.” He’d been trying to come into the area secretly, to find their hideout before they knew he was here, but somehow the word had gotten out.
Which meant someone in his Ranger company had talked. He’d have to find out who that was, preferably before the company joined him to capture the Fogarty Gang. It could be that one of them had just babbled too much while drunk. He didn’t want to think that a Texas Ranger could be bribed.
She seemed to want to discuss it further, but he wasn’t ready to trust her that much yet. “Are you up to drivin’ that stage into town?” he asked, to divert her.
Addy nodded. “I think so. I—I don’t like to think of that man lying dead in there, right in front of my house.”
He was glad she felt that way, because that meant the sheriff wouldn’t be nosing around here right when Addy was about to dig that bullet out.
His stomach clenched all over again at the thought. “Say, Miss Addy, maybe you’d better buy some whiskey while you’re there. Sure would be easier to stand you operatin’ on my arm if I could get good and drunk before you start.”
“Now how am I going to explain a sudden fondness for whiskey?” she demanded.
He hadn’t thought of that. Good Lord, was he going to have to go through this ordeal sober?
He must have looked as uneasy as he felt, for she smiled. “Don’t worry. Fortunately for you, there’s still some of my uncle’s supply here. My aunt didn’t dispose of it when he died—I think she used to sip it herself. There’s one bottle left. You want it now?”
Rede