Page 10 of At Love’s Command

Mr. Hanger sobered at the reminder, and Josephine wished she could take the words back. Well, not really. They’d needed to be said. But still . . . she hated to see the weight return to his shoulders.

“No need to send word,” he said. “I’ll be parked in that infirmary chair tonight.” He speared her with a look that made it clear arguing would do no good.

Her pulse ratcheted up a notch. In irritation, she assured herself. “Your choice,” she said as if she didn’t care where he passed the night. “But don’t expect me to fix the crick in your neck tomorrow morning.”

With that, she left him to stew in his own stubborn juices and marched back into her office. At least Mr. Wallace didn’t give her any trouble. Sleeping, injured military men were much more compliant than the healthy, alert ones.

Josephine checked the pulse at Mr. Wallace’s wrist and was satisfied with the steady beat beneath her fingertips. The loss of blood had weakened him more than the gunshot itself. Once he regained his strength, he and his captain would be out of her hair. They didn’t seem the type to hang around if they could sit a saddle, and one didn’t need both arms in working order to accomplish that feat. She’d advise against it, of course. The body healed faster when not strained by unnecessary exertion. But she doubted Matthew Hanger would listen. Warriors didn’t loll about when there was a battle to fight.

Although, if they’d managed to capture the rustlers, they might be between battles. Josephine glanced in the direction of the street where she’d left Matthew Hanger, even though she couldn’t actually see him through the walls of her clinic. What did cavalrymen do when there was no battle to fight?

“That’s none of your concern,” she murmured under her breath as she straightened her patient’s bedding.

She turned to leave and spotted the wooden ladder-back chair sitting stiffly in the corner. It was about as pliant as the man who planned to spend the night in it.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Josephine rolled her eyes, flounced out of the infirmary, and mounted the stairs on a quest for pillows.

Matt led Phineas and Cooper to the livery, paid extra for a bag of oats for each animal in addition to the hay that came with the boarding fee, then set to work relieving them of their gear and brushing them down. He tended to Wallace’s horse first, ensuring Cooper had fresh water, clean hooves, and a liniment rubdown. The kid always pampered his gray. A carryover from his own pampered upbringing back east. Not that the horse didn’t deserve it. A cavalry mount was as much a part of the regiment as the soldier on its back. Taking care of the horse’s needs wasn’t just a responsibility, it was an honor.

Matt moved to the next stall and patted Phineas’s dark red coat as he eased in alongside him. A vision of the lady doc’s hand brushing Phin’s neck, her long, pale fingers combing through the black of the horse’s mane, jabbed into his brain. He frowned.

The last thing he needed to be thinking about was a woman. Especially a bossy one who thought she could keep him away from his team. She might have managed to remove a bullet, but that didn’t mean he trusted her with Wallace’s life. She didn’t know the kid. Didn’t share a history with him. She might care about his health on a professional level, but she could never care the way Matt and the other Horsemen did. Bonds forged in the heat of battle were ironclad.

A woman couldn’t understand that. Shoot, most men couldn’t understand that.

Matt had seen soldiers sicken after being injured on the battlefield. Blood poisoning. Fever. Gangrene. All after successful surgeries. He’d keep his own watch on Wallace. The lady doc with her sassy mouth and gut-slamming green eyes would just have to accept that.

He lingered in the stable for the hour he’d promised, giving Phineas and Cooper the thorough care they deserved and giving his head a chance to clear. Seeing Mark go down had shaken him. He’d been able to concentrate on nothing past getting the kid the help he needed. But he’d accomplished that objective, at least in the immediate sense, which meant he could turn his mind to other matters. Like the rustlers and ensuring they received the punishment they deserved. Like the next job the Horsemen would take.

Francis Kendall had funneled a handful of requests to him, but none of them seemed terribly urgent. The Austin newspaperman who managed their correspondence in exchange for reporting their stories researched the letters sent to Hanger’s Horsemen in care of the paper and verified the authenticity of the requests before passing them along. The thin, bespectacled reporter made an odd member of their team, but he served his purpose and saved Matt the headache of culling through the letters himself.

Maybe he’d read through the requests again. He had to pass the time somehow while he waited for Wallace to wake up.

Matt swung his saddlebags over his shoulder, then grabbed the pair that belonged to Wallace. He pulled both rifles from the saddle scabbards, then trudged back to the clinic. He wasn’t about to leave their guns unattended. Preach and the others would be back later tonight. They could take charge of the weaponry then. In the meantime, Dr. Jo’s infirmary was going to double as an armory.

A grin quirked Matt’s mouth. She was gonna love that.

CHAPTER

FOUR

You can’t bring all of that in here!”

Somehow Matt managed not to smile at the sputtering doctor as she sprinted from the examination room to run him down in the hall. He’d made no effort to silence his entrance, knowing the picture he made strapped shoulder to boots with guns, ammunition belts, and knives. Too bad he didn’t have Preach’s saber. It would’ve been a nice addition. He knew he was being ornery, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to get a rise out of Miss Josephine. She was as headstrong as they came. Opinionated. Obstinate. Taking her off her high horse would be just the distraction he needed.

She squeezed past him and used her body as a blockade to keep him from advancing down the hallway. Arms spread wide, her fingers brushed the top edges of the white wainscoting. Her chest heaved slightly, either from her mad dash to stop him or from the passion that set her green eyes ablaze. Either way, it looked good on her.

“This is a place of healing, not a . . . gladiatorial arena.”

He raised a brow at her. “You thinking to hold me at bay by stackin’ a bunch of highfalutin words between us? Won’t work.”

She blinked, then tilted her head. Frown lines creased her forehead.

Yep. Throwing her off her game was a pleasure, indeed.

“I know you’re an educated woman while I’m just a . . . what did you call me? A gladiator?” He could think of worse monikers. He kind of liked that one, actually. “But I ain’t afraid of fancy vocabulary. Spout it all you want. I’m used to dodging real bullets. Verbal ones won’t scare me.”

“What are you talking about?” Her arms slowly lowered. “I’m not trying to engage you in . . . linguistical fisticuffs. That’s just the way I speak.”