His grip tightened. “Don’t dismiss what you’ve done for me. I appreciate it. I know you . . . you . . . well, you fell asleep beside me. . . .” He hadn’t meant to bring that up. Clearing his throat, he forged on. “You fell asleep out of pure exhaustion. Yes, maybe I’d’ve healed up all on my own if they’d’ve just tossed me on a bed and gone on about their business, chasing outlaws and getting married, but . . .”

Her hand came and rested over his where he held on. “Doctoring you needed doing, and I knew what to do. If I lessened your suffering—”

“Or did things that’ll help my arm heal straight.”

She nodded. “Then it was my pleasure to do it, Wyatt. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

For one second, one lunatic second, his hand drew her forward. She didn’t seem averse to being drawn.

Then he realized his focus was on her lips. His memory was of her in his arms. That wasn’t what he should be thinking of. That was no way for a man to truly thank a woman for her care.

He let her go, and she straightened, her hand rubbing her wrist where he’d held her. The color in her cheeks going from pink to rose.

“I’ll send someone up for you as soon as they get home. Maybe you could get in a bit more sleep.” She snatched up the tray and left so quickly it could almost be described as running away.

He smiled as he watched her leave. Then his smile faded. With a full belly and his head clear for the first time in a long while, he settled in to figuring out who’d tried to kill him.

Three

Falcon Hunt stepped into Sheriff Corly’s office with three women in tow.

Every single one of them more bloodthirsty than he was.

Strange feeling.

Amelia Bishop, who’d shot one of the dead men, Norm Mathers. She hadn’t killed him, but she’d opened the ball, taking the first shot. And she’d winged him a couple of times, which sent him to shooting wild. And it looked like in his aimless shooting, Mathers had killed Percival Ralston.

Cheyenne, who’d taken the killing shot at Mathers, though not for lack of trying on Amelia’s part. But Amelia was shooting with more rage than aim.

And the Pinkerton agent, Rachel Hobart, a cool, ruthless character if ever Falcon saw one. Hobart wanted out. She wanted to take her found-alive missing person back to Minnesota, wherever that was. Hobart probably had cash money to collect for the job.

Most everyone involved in the search—Amelia’s pa, the state senator; her brother, the army general; and Hobart herself—had figured Amelia for dead, so taking her home alive and well, even if killin’ mad, would make Hobart a hero.