Nothing. No blow. Just some grunting, like someone’s struggling. I look up.

Clay’s and the Sheriff struggle over the baton. Clay’s fingers grip the end. The Sheriff yanks on the handle. Clay spins and suddenly he’s at his father’s side. He draws a revolver from his father’s holster. There’s familiar click of the safety as Clay thumbs it down.

“Knock it off or I’ll shoot.” Clay digs his father’s revolver into his back.

The nasty smile creeps slowly over the Sheriff’s face. He turns around, his hands up. “You won’t shoot yer pa.” He reaches for the revolver.

When the gun explodes, I don’t know who’s more surprised, me or the Sheriff staring at the bloody hole in his chest.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

“That is enough!” a voice screams from behind us.

I blink and see Dr. Vandewater striding to the doors. “Get out of the way, you idiot!” she says as she pushes past Dr. Rayburn. The doors slide open.

The Sheriff staggers back. He pokes one fat finger at the three-inch hole in his shirt. The wound beneath is ragged, red and pulsing blood. “Nessa.” He looks at her pleadingly. “Help.”

She gives him a cold stare. “You made your own bed, Marlin.” Then she stomps out the door, Rayburn scuttling in her wake.

The room is still. Then both Betsy and Ethan erupt in talk that I can’t hear since there’s a buzzing in my ears, but I’m striding to Clay and putting my hands on him before I realize it. He shivers a little as if coming out of a dream and blinks at me.

“You okay?” I ask.

He looks at me, his face drained of color. He limps to face me and puts his hand delicately on my bruised cheek. “You?”

I nod, ignoring the pain flaring in my cheek and the dull ringing in my ears. Our eyes flick back to the Sheriff who staggers back to the wall and slumps against it. One hand leaves a red smear against the white paint. The man who used to terrify me looks small and helpless as he stares at his bloody hand in amazement. His shirt is sticky red. Blood puddles on the floor around him.

“Boy,” he says, his voice trembling. “Help … me.” He reaches his hand out.

Clay drops his father’s revolvers into his holsters as if they weigh a hundred pounds. He stares at the hole he’s made in his father’s chest. “She can save you.”

The Sheriff shakes his head. A trail of blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth, down his neck and spreads into the collar of his shirt. He slumps to a sitting position with is back against the wall. “Your ma …” he draws a gurgling breath, “is a spiteful bitch. You … gotta help me.”