The Outlaw's Secret Page 16

  “Thought we were splittin’ up,” Fletcher said as he untied Silas’s horse, his stormy expression trained on Tate.

  “We did until I found his horse wandering around a few miles back.” Tate jumped to the ground and hurried to help the injured man. “He’d passed out.”

  Clem glanced at Silas, his face nearly as ashen as his friend’s. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s not good,” Tate said, scooping Silas off the horse.

  Essie stood frozen beside the fire, unable to take her gaze off the dark stain, the size of a dinner plate, on Silas’s pant leg. “Is he...?” She couldn’t bear to voice the rest.

  Tate carried him toward the fire. “He’s still alive, but we’ve got to stop the bleeding and get him bandaged.” With obvious care, he set Silas on the ground near Essie. “Clem, go get some water.”

  “Not so fast,” Fletcher barked, his arm blocking Clem from walking off. “The way I see it, you might as well have pulled the trigger on him yourself.”

  A muscle in Tate’s jaw flexed and he slowly rose. “And why is that, Fletch?”

  “’Cause you tried to rob that bank before, cowboy. And yet you didn’t see the need to say somethin’.” He waved a hand at the limp Silas. “Silas took a bullet that was meant for you.”

  “We aren’t going to treat him, then?” Tate asked, his words as hard-edged as steel.

  Fletcher sneered. “We aren’t, but you are. And if he dies, cowboy...” The threat punctured the air like the boom of a cannon. “Well, let’s just say we won’t be buryin’ him alone if that happens.”

  For some reason the bitter warning snapped Essie out of her horrified trance. “I’ll help.” She stepped forward to stand next to Tate, half expecting Fletcher to protest. Thankfully, he didn’t.

  Tate threw her a grateful look. “Will you get some water?”

  Nodding, Essie emptied the biscuits onto a plate, then wrapped the still-warm handle of the pan in the folds of her skirt and carted it down the hill to the ravine. Making her way into the gully proved a little tricky, but she managed to half slide, half walk to the stream below. Clem had told her during their supper preparations that the storm had caused the once-dry creek bed to fill.

  Essie rinsed the pan as best she could and filled it with water. Going back up the ravine’s side was even harder than coming down as she tried to keep the lifesaving liquid from spilling. But she at last made it to the top. Fletcher and Clem were eating, though the outlaw cook appeared in distress. Tate had cut away Silas’s pant leg and was examining the wound.

  “I know a little about nursing,” Essie said quietly, setting the pan of water beside him.

  He glanced up and, though he didn’t smile, a momentary spark flashed in his blue eyes. “From your writing, I suppose?”

  A small smile tugged at her mouth. “Yes.” She glanced at the wound, but it was bleeding too much to ascertain the extent of the damage. Ripping a piece of material from her underskirt, she dipped the cloth in the water and pressed it against Silas’s leg. “Get something to eat,” she urged Tate.

  He looked from Silas to the waiting food, a look of hunger passing over his face. “Maybe just a bit.”

  Quiet, fraught with tension, settled over the group. In its wake Essie could hear the sounds of the men chewing and a pair of birds chirping in one of the nearby trees. She continued to apply firm pressure to Silas’s wound, hoping and praying they could help him.

  Please, Lord, let him live. Not just for his sake but Tate’s, too.

  After a few minutes she lifted the cloth away to dab at the drying blood around the wound. Tate abandoned the rest of his supper. “Is the bullet still lodged in there?”

  Essie gently lifted the man’s leg to examine the other side, her mind filling with information she’d gleaned from a doctor in Evanston. “I don’t think so because here’s the exit wound.”

  Tate blew out a long breath and shot her a tentative smile. “That’s a blessing.”

  The words sounded strange coming from the mouth of an outlaw, but she let the contradiction go. Silas still needed tending. “We ought to bind the wound and then see if he’ll eat anything.”

  “I agree.”

  Tearing more fabric from her skirt, Essie soaked it in the water and wrung it out, while Tate carefully washed the back of Silas’s leg. The poor man let out a moan every few minutes that ripped at Essie’s heart, but he mostly stayed silent, lost to pain and unconsciousness. When they’d largely stanched the bleeding, Tate tied the bandage tightly around the injured leg.

  “You don’t have any medicine, do you?” she asked, certain she already knew the answer.

  “No.” Tate shook his head. “If it becomes infected...”

  Essie pressed her lips together as reality washed over her anew. They were far from any doctor or medical supplies, which greatly reduced Silas’s chances. And if he died... She shuddered but refused to follow the chain of such a thought. They would do what they could and perhaps there would be something more to help him at the hideout. At least she hoped so.

  “Did you eat?” Tate motioned to the leftover food.

  “I will.” Though supper didn’t sound at all appealing. “Then let’s see if he’ll drink something. I can make him a little gruel, too.”

  Tate lifted the pan and dumped out the used water. “I’ll get some fresh water.”

  As he headed down the hill to the ravine, she dished herself some food and tried to stomach the now-cold beans and a biscuit. Fletcher and Clem were off to the side, seeing to the horses. Like Tate, she couldn’t finish her supper. But she had to do something to keep her thoughts from wandering back to what danger lay ahead for Silas and Tate.

  She glanced at the dirty dishes and felt renewed purpose. She would wash them. Gathering up the soiled plates, she followed in the direction Tate had gone.

  At the edge of the ravine, she paused, trying to determine if the way she’d gone down before was the best route. Below her, she could see Tate crouched on one knee beside the stream, his head hung low. The pan in front of him overflowed with water, but he didn’t make a move to pick it up. Instead he remained there, eyes shut, whispering words Essie could not hear. With sudden understanding, she realized he was praying.

  Confusion flooded her, but also the feeling of something light and joyful. Could this outlaw truly believe in God and prayer and faith? Hope, as sharp as it was welcome, pierced her worries. Surely if Tate was a praying man, he could be persuaded to lead a different life. A law-abiding life—with her.

  Not wishing to interrupt him, Essie fell back a step to wait for him to finish. But her foot knocked a rock and sent it tumbling down the ravine. Tate jerked his head up at the noise and spun around. When he saw her standing there, he slowly rose, his gaze imploring and searching hers. An unseen but tangible current of emotion flowed between them, making Essie’s heart jump and her cheeks flush.

  “I...um...thought I’d wash the dishes.” She hoisted the pile in her hands, unsure whether to say anything about him praying or not.

  The intensity in his eyes faded as he walked toward her and held out his hand. “Let me help you down.”

  She placed her fingers in his, which didn’t help her already-pounding heartbeat. “Thank you.” At the stream, she plunged the dishes and her trembling hands into the water, grateful when the coolness helped assuage the warmness of her face and her erratic pulse. At least until she gathered courage to speak to Tate...

  Crouching, he lifted the full pan of water from the stream and set it aside. “Can I help?” He nodded at the dwindling pile of dirty dishes.

  “All right.” She passed him a bean-stained plate, their fingers brushing as the dish passed from her hand to his.

  “Did Clem keep his gun stowed while we were away?” he asked, throwing her a quick glance.

 
Essie dipped her chin. “He did. I don’t think he really would have fired it.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “I’m sorry about Silas.” She accepted the clean plate he handed back to her and set it aside. “I’m also sorry about Fletcher. That was wrong of him to make you care for Silas by yourself and tie his possible death with your own. His being shot isn’t your fault.”

  Tate removed his hat and stared at it, his expression taut. “It isn’t?”

  Gathering the clean dishes, Essie climbed to her feet. “No. All three of you had a choice whether to rob that bank or not, regardless if one of you tried to do so before. We aren’t responsible for others’ choices, Tate.” She offered him a hopeful smile. “We’re only responsible for our own.”

  She glanced at the pink-and-blue sky. “I’m going to make Silas some gruel before it gets dark.” She started toward the side of the ravine, but Tate reached out and stilled her movement with a hand to her arm.

  “Essie, wait.” He put his hat back on, his gaze skirting away then back again. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat or two as she moistened her suddenly dry lips. “Actually, there’s something I wish to ask you, too.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Do you want to go first?”

  She shook her head. Perhaps his question would make hers obsolete. Perhaps he meant to ask if she would write him letters or allow him to court her once he gave up being an outlaw. Fresh hope pressed hard against her ribs. “Go ahead,” she urged softly.

  Lowering his hand, Tate folded his arms and shifted his weight. His entire manner breathed agitation. If only she could reassure him that she would gladly accept his offer to pursue their relationship after he left his life of crime. But she kept silent.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today.” Tate rubbed a hand over his chin.

  “And what have you been thinking about?”

  The trace of a smile appeared on his mouth. “You.”

  Essie pressed the wet dishes to her dress to still the twisting sensation in her middle. “I’ve thought a lot about you, too.” He hadn’t asked his question yet, but she couldn’t wait any longer to ask hers. “In fact, I wanted to know—”

  “I think you ought to leave, Essie.”

  Rearing back as if she’d been slapped, she blinked in surprise. “Leave?”

  “Yes.” His voice was edged with frustration. “You need to leave and return to Evanston.”

  Her thoughts swirled like cotton seeds through her mind and she desperately tried to capture one. “But...but I haven’t interviewed Fletcher yet. And I can’t until we reach the hideout.”

  “Then don’t interview him.” Tate stalked a few paces away then wheeled around. “But you can’t stay here anymore. It’s too dangerous.”

  Her stomach tightened with chagrin and anger. He wasn’t going to ask to write her or to court her. He wanted her gone. “I think I’ve handled myself quite well,” she declared, straightening to full height.

  “No one’s arguing that fact. But I can’t protect you anymore. Do you understand that? Not with Fletcher clamoring for my death should something happen to Silas.” He paced toward her, stopping only a few inches away. “I can’t bear to see another innocent life ruined by these men...”

  Essie frowned in confusion. “What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense, Tate.”

  A look of panic crossed his face before he schooled it behind a casual demeanor. “What I’m saying is I’ll help you leave tonight. But you’ve got to go.”

  Lifting her chin, she glowered at him. “No, I don’t. I’ve been fine so far, with or without your help, and so I’m staying.”

  His expression clouded, turning thunderous. “This isn’t some silly game, Essie. And it’s not a story you can write yourself out of if things get out of hand and your life is threatened again.”

  A dull buzzing started inside her head and she felt as if the wind had been knocked from her lungs. The word silly pecked at the old wounds in her mind until they split open, leaving them raw and aching.

  Tate thought she was silly, that she didn’t take things seriously, just as her family had. She could hardly breathe through the pain of such a realization. He was supposed to be different, to be her one true friend. The one who saw her humanness and, even more important, saw her.

  “I’m not leaving,” she managed to say over the lump clogging her throat. “Silas needs my help until he recovers, and I won’t leave without my interview with Fletcher.”

  Tate reached his hand toward her then let it drop back to his side. “Essie, I’m just trying to keep you safe. I don’t want something to happen to you...”

  The entreaty, while sweet, didn’t diminish her determination to stay or to ease the pain of his earlier words. “I’ll be fine.”

  “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  An ache clutched at her heart as she shook her head. “It’s nothing.” Especially now.

  She turned and scrambled up the ravine, the clean dishes still pressed tightly to her chest. Moisture filled her eyes. If only she could find a secluded place to mourn the loss of something she’d been so hopeful about only minutes before. But reality often had a way of cutting down dreams.

  Like the one that she and Tate were meant to be.

  Sniffing, she ran the back of her hand across her wet eyes. She didn’t have time to cry. There was an injured man to care for and, in another day or two, her final interview to conduct. The trick would be keeping herself mentally and physically busy in the interim. So busy that perhaps her heartache over Tate wouldn’t fully touch her.

  Fletcher threw her a sharp look when she approached the camp, but Essie ignored him. She wasn’t going anywhere and she was helping to nurse his wounded friend. He had little to complain about. Except for when he learns I never sent that telegram. Another source of troublesome thoughts.

  She pushed the concern aside to attend to Silas. Since Tate hadn’t returned with the water for the gruel, and she wasn’t going to traipse back down to the ravine, she checked on Silas’s bandage instead. A bit of new blood had leaked through, but it looked as if their limited doctoring had helped stanch the flow.

  Tate finally returned and set the pan of water by her. He attempted to catch her eye, but Essie busied herself with making the gruel in a cup, using the water, some flour and crushed biscuit. Silas emerged from his semiconscious state a few minutes later and asked for a drink. She let Tate assist him while she finished preparing the simple food. Once the gruel was ready, Tate propped Silas’s head against his knees and Essie spooned the mixture into the injured man’s mouth.

  We make a good team, she thought sadly, glancing at Tate. Too bad it can’t last.

  “No more,” Silas said in a hoarse voice after half a dozen mouthfuls.

  Essie frowned. “It’ll keep your strength up, Silas.”

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “No more. Let me rest.”

  Tate removed his jacket and placed it beneath Silas, then lowered his head onto the bunched fabric. The simple, humane act tore at Essie. While he might be an outlaw who dismissed her as silly, Tate was still a good man, a kind man.

  Not wishing to attract any nocturnal animals with the food, Essie trekked back to the stream and rinsed away the remaining gruel. She filled the cup with fresh water for Silas to drink, but she paused to stand beside the stream.

  “Lord, I feel so alone,” she whispered to the first stars glittering overhead. “Nothing has been quite as I expected since I left that train. But I do want to be here.” And she did. Even if romance hadn’t worked out with Tate, she was still grateful for his friendship and protection over the last few days. “I’m nearly done with my interviews and then I just want to go home. Bless Silas with Thy help...and Tate, too. He’s a g
ood man, Lord, even if he doesn’t know it.”

  She ended the prayer with a murmured “Amen” and headed back to camp. The men sat near the fire, except for Silas, who appeared to be sleeping. A groan escaped his lips as Essie drew closer. She wished she had something to give him for the pain. But if he needed a drink during the night, they could at least oblige him that.

  “I’ll sit up with him awhile,” Tate said as she set the cup of water near Silas.

  She offered a silent nod and went to collect two blankets, feeling Tate’s gaze follow her.

  One she placed over Silas and the other she spread out nearby for herself. Exhaustion filled every one of her muscles, leaving her bone-weary and unable to think. It would be the first night since she’d come along with these men that she hadn’t written in her notebook. Hadn’t stayed up and enjoyed talking with Tate.

  She caught sight of his tense expression right before she shut her eyes and rolled onto her side, her back to him. There was nothing more to say or to do tonight. She would try to listen for Silas and give him a drink if he needed one.

  Sleep stole all consciousness from her, and it was full dark when something nudged her back to wakefulness. She opened her eyes to see no one near her. All the men had taken to their bedrolls for the night. Craning her neck, she eyed Silas in the light of the moon. He was still sleeping.

  Not wishing to wake him, lest the pain return full force to his mind, she closed her eyes and attempted to return to sleep. Only then did she realize the reason for her waking in the first place. Fletcher and Clem were conversing in hushed tones on the other side of the camp.

  “No lawmen...can’t make it into the valley...we’d see ’em comin’...”

  She half listened until the conversation wound down, but most of the words simply floated off into the night, refusing to take root inside her sleepy mind. Should she get up and write down what she could recall? Was any of it important? They had chosen to talk after everyone else was presumably asleep.

  Opening her eyes, she slid a look at Tate to confirm if he was also sleeping. His brows and mouth appeared relaxed with slumber but he could be pretending sleep while he eavesdropped, too. She hesitated another moment, debating what to do, then made a decision. It was late and exhaustion was once again reaching out to claim her captive.