Page 6 of At Love’s Command

“Do my best . . . sir.”

“That’s all I ask, son.” Matt clenched his jaw as Preach stepped up to hold the kid while Matt mounted.

Matt glanced heavenward as he swung into the saddle, knowing God would read the plea on his heart to spare Wallace’s life. All I ask.

Matt rode to town as fast as he dared with Wallace fading in his arms. By the time he got to Purgatory Springs, the kid slumped against him, unconscious.

“Hang on, son,” he murmured, shoving the panic away and focusing on what he could control—getting Wallace to the doctor.

Purgatory Springs consisted of nothing more than a half-dozen nondescript buildings along a single main road. Matt scanned for the post office sign, spotted it, and immediately steered Phineas to the white clapboard building across the street.

“Dr. Joe!” he yelled as he halted Phineas. “Get out here! Got a man down.”

He pulled his right foot from the stirrup, braced his left leg, and shifted Wallace’s weight against his shoulder. Slowly, he swung his right leg over the back of the horse, concentrating on keeping Mark steady.

“Here. Let me help.” A woman reached up to support Wallace and take a good portion of his weight.

Where was the doc? It didn’t seem right for a woman to be doing the heavy lifting. Though, Matt had to admit, she seemed capable. Strong too. She propped up Wallace’s back as Matt eased to the ground. As soon as he got his foot free of the stirrup, he relieved her of her portion of the burden and caught Wallace beneath the knees.

The sensible woman didn’t stand around gaping but immediately pivoted, scurried back to the office door, and held it open. “Bring him this way.”

Matt had already followed on her heels and angled Wallace through the door. The nurse—for that was what she must be, with her bibbed white apron and dark blue dress—seemed to catalog Wallace’s condition with her gaze as Matt eased him past her.

“Gunshot?” she asked as she scooted around him in the hall and led the way to an oak-paneled room filled with glass cabinets and a wooden examination table.

“Yep.” That was all the answer Matt could manage while lugging around 175 pounds of dead weight.

It seemed to suit the nurse, though, for she asked nothing more. Just skittered around the cabinet and stomped on a pedal of some sort. The inclined table lowered into a horizontal position.

“Lay him here.”

Matt did so. She immediately pressed two fingers to Wallace’s neck.

“Weak, but regular. That’s a good sign.”

Matt nodded, the words easing his apprehension enough to allow him to take a full breath. But then the woman started unwrapping the kid’s bandages.

Matt slapped his hand over her wrist. Her head jerked up, shocked eyes wide. Shocked, remarkably green eyes. The kind of eyes that could make a man forget what he was about. Or would have, if he wasn’t in charge of fetching competent medical attention for a man he loved like family.

“The kid’s lost enough blood already. I’d just as soon wait for the doctor to get here before you go unraveling things.”

Those wide eyes narrowed as she tugged her hand free of his grasp. She straightened to her full height, which placed the top of her head even with his chin. “The doctor is here,” she said, enunciating each unbelievable word with metronomic precision. “Dr. Josephine Burkett at your service.”

Dr. Joe was a woman?

“Now, if you and your antiquated assumptions will get out of my way,” she said as she pushed past him and reached for the bandages again, “I have a patient to tend.”

CHAPTER

TWO

Josephine turned her back on the frowning stranger whose broad shoulders took up far too much space in her examination room and focused instead on the more compliant one sprawled unconscious on her table.

Whoever had applied the dressing had done a fine job. Even with all the jostling the two men must have endured on horseback, pressure on the wound had remained steady and minimized blood loss. She stole a peek at the stiff fellow who had yet to reanimate after suffering rapid-onset paralysis. A condition commonly brought on by the pronouncement of her medical expertise. Josephine shook her head. The poor male brain. So susceptible to gender-oriented shock. Unable to process female capability in areas beyond child-rearing and housekeeping. Women doctors existed only in myth. At least that was what most military men believed. And this gent had military written all over him.

The posture. The bearing of command. The blue vest that buttoned all the way to his collar. An officer, most likely. Ex-cavalry, if she didn’t miss her guess. She’d seen enough of his kind at her father’s ranch to recognize the type. Sure of themselves and their ideas. Even when they were wrong.

The end of the unraveled bandage drew her complete focus back to her patient. She gently pried the dressing away from the wound and frowned at the torn, bloodied flesh marred by a weapon that civilized people should be able to settle disputes without. Then she pressed the dressing back in place and attempted to roll the young man over far enough to check for an exit wound.