Ry stirred, then grimaced. His head throbbed as if a judge were pounding a gavel in his skull, and there seemed to be a branding iron pressed into his shoulder. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, then fisted his hands against the pain that shot through his leg. Thunderation! It felt like he’d been mule kicked.

      Was that grass under his hand? Had his horse thrown him? He couldn’t think straight—his mind felt thick as sludge. He tried opening his eyes, but only managed slits.

      Then the memory of what had happened came stampeding back and his heart slammed in his chest as he struggled to get up. He had to make sure Scarcheek didn’t get to Miss Wylie—

      “Whoa there.” A hand pressed him gently but firmly down.

      Relief surged through him. That had been her voice. She was okay. Thank You, Lord!

      But where was Scarcheek? He renewed his efforts to get up. “My gun!” Was that croak really his voice? “Where—”

      She cut off his words by pressing him down again, this time wiping his brow with a damp cloth.

      “Easy. No need to get stirred up. We’re in the clear now.”

      Had his last desperate shot found its mark? If only he could remember…

      As if reading his mind she answered his unvoiced questions. “Clete won’t be bothering anyone—not ever again. And Otis is long gone. High-tailed it out of here, bleeding like a stuck pig, as soon as he saw you fall.”

      Realizing he’d obviously blacked out, leaving her to deal with a hornet’s nest on her own, he wanted to howl in frustration and self-disgust. How long had he been unconscious?

      Whatever had happened, it was a good thing the gun-wielding outlaw was gone. He couldn’t even sit up right now, much less fight off anything more threatening than a gnat.

      He studied Miss Wylie, looking for signs of injury. “What about you? Your horse fell—”

      “Got bruised up a mite, nothing serious.”

      Her tone was light but the strain in her expression told a different story. Was she hurt worse than—

      The memory of Scarcheek’s threat suddenly slammed back into him. He grabbed her wrist. “Did he touch you? So help me, if he did there’s no place far enough—”

      “Whoa there, hero.” Her smile was more genuine this time. “Otis never laid a hand on me. Thanks entirely to you.”

      Hero—hah! Ry suppressed a groan at her attempt to make him feel better. Still, he couldn’t help but admire her courage and fortitude.

      This woman was unlike any he’d ever met. How could she find something to smile about after all she’d just been through? Most women he knew would be hysterical, would be looking for him to comfort them.

      Aware that he was still squeezing her wrist, he released her and leaned back. He realized there was a bandage on his head and another on his otherwise bare arm.

      A woman of many talents, it seemed, and one who didn’t let squeamishness get in the way of doing what had to be done.

      She reached beside her and lifted a canteen. “How about a drink of water?”

      At his nod she rested the canteen on his chest then twisted around, reaching for something he couldn’t quite see. “First, let’s try to get you propped up a bit.”

      A second later he realized she was maneuvering a saddle into place behind him.

      “Easy now.” She slipped a hand under his neck, supporting him while she nudged the makeshift prop under his shoulders. She was surprisingly strong. No doubt due to her work at the livery. Funny how nice those callused hands felt against his skin.

      He tried to keep the wince from his expression as the movements dug the branding iron deeper into his shoulder. He wasn’t going to add to her already piled-high worries.

      “There now,” she eased him back, “how does that feel?”

      “Better, thanks.”

      “Good.” She held the canteen to his lips, once more supporting his neck. The water tasted heavenly and felt even better going down. The liquid smoothed away the sawdust lining his mouth and throat. He couldn’t get enough of it, as if he were a parched bit of earth that hadn’t seen rain in months.

      “Easy now,” she repeated, a touch of humor in her voice, “There’s a whole stream of this stuff over yonder so there’s no need to worry we’ll run out before you’re quenched.”

      Her teasing surprised an answering grin from him. “Are you maligning my table manners, Miss Wylie?”

      She shrugged, her expression bland. “Not me. I’m used to being around animals that drink from troughs, remember?”

      Ry chuckled at her unexpected dry humor. At least the day’s events hadn’t robbed her of her spirit.

      “And there’s no need to be so formal, especially considering the fix we’re in. Just call me Jo.”

      He hesitated, not wanting to offend her, but not certain he wanted to comply. The use of Miss Wylie had been a deliberate effort to make up for his having mistaken her for a man, even if she wasn’t aware of his gaffe. Calling her Jo, a man’s name, just didn’t sit right with him after so ungentlemanly a blunder. But she didn’t seem like a Josephine either. “What if I call you Josie instead?”

      A flash of surprise crossed her features. But her only response was an offhand “I reckon that’ll do.”

      “And of course you can call me Ry.”

      With a nod, she raised the canteen to his lips again. He took care to drink more slowly this time, taking the opportunity to look around. She’d built a fire while he was out, one that was emitting enough smoke to cure a side of bacon. A second saddle lay on the ground next to him and what looked to be the rest of the tack and gear from two horses was placed in neat piles nearby.

      A whicker drew his gaze toward the stream. A horse stood tethered there. Not the horse she’d charged in on and certainly not Scout. How in the world had she managed to find another mount out here?

      Then he spied what was unmistakably a body covered by a couple of horse blankets.

      His gaze shot back to her.

      Her smile was gone and her jaw tightened. “It’s Clete,” she said. “I thought covering him up was the decent thing to do.”

      Ry leaned back against the saddle, glad for its support.

      Her fingers fiddled with the cap of the now empty canteen. “I didn’t see him go down. I don’t know which one of us—”

      “It was my shot,” he said quickly, realizing what she feared.

      “Oh.” She searched his face for a moment, then the tension in her eased. She stood and waggled the canteen. “Better refill this.”

      Ry shifted again, chafing at his weakened condition as he watched her limp toward the stream. She was hurt, yet she hadn’t spoken a word of complaint. How long had she been sitting there, wondering if she’d been responsible for taking a man’s life?

      His opinion of her character rose another notch.

      “How long was I out?”

      “About thirty minutes or so,” she called back over her shoulder. “Had me worried for a while.”

      Again, her light tone didn’t quite cover the underlying strain. He knew it wasn’t all due to the physical pain and exhaustion she must