Page 18 of In Honor’s Defense

Nate. The kid really needed to quit taking Luke’s gun without asking. Nice of him . . . to come back . . . though. . . .

“Mr. Davenport?” The urgency in the boy’s tone tugged Luke away from the darkness that beckoned. “Oh no, did they kill ya?” Tears clogged the kid’s voice. He grabbed Luke’s shoulder and shook him. “Please don’t be dead.”

Luke managed a moan, praying it was enough to get the kid to stop shaking him.

“You’re alive!”

Probably not for long if the kid kept trying to help him. Nate already had Luke’s arm wrapped around his neck and was attempting to pull him up. Not that Luke budged, of course. He was far too much dead weight for a boy to move. But the strain of Nate yanking on his arm pulled open the gash in his side and sent excruciating pain surging through his midsection.

“C’mon. You gotta get up.”

“No.” Luke managed the single word on a croak.

Nate, thank the Lord, stopped tugging on him. “You gotta get up. Those men could come back.”

“Won’t.” Oblivion’s pull dragged on him. Hard. Luke’s eyelids drooped closed. “Get . . . help . . .”

Nate gave a loud sniff, then finally released Luke’s arm. “I will, sir.”

Luke felt himself slip, but he clawed his way back from the brink. He had to tell Nate. “You’re a . . . good kid. Ain’t . . . your fault.”

“It is.” The boy’s voice faded into the distance as Luke lost his grip on consciousness. “But I’ll make it right. I swear.”

“Aunt Maris! Come quick!”

Damaris bolted upright in bed.

Nathaniel.

She threw off the covers and made it halfway to the door before sounds other than his panicked voice registered in her brain. A heavy thud from the front room. Footsteps pounding in the hall. A door banging against the wall.

An intruder?

Damaris wrenched open her bedroom door and ran into the hall, ready to battle for her nephew’s safety with her bare hands.

But no one was there. Only Nathaniel. One of the parlor lamps sat by his feet, illuminating the hall as he yanked blankets and sheets out of the linen closet and tossed them onto the floor.

“Nathaniel?” She slowed her step, not sure if he’d lost his mind or if she’d lost hers. “What’s going on?”

He made a little hiccoughing sound. “I-I need your help.”

His voice sounded . . . broken. She gentled hers. “With what, sweetheart?”

Standing behind him, she touched his shoulder. He turned, and her heart stopped. Tears coursed down his cheeks. Snot ran from his nose. He looked utterly lost.

Without waiting for permission, she clutched him to her chest and hugged him tight. “I’m here. Whatever you need. I’m here.”

He submitted to her embrace for a few precious seconds before pulling away. “We gotta hurry,” he said with a sniff and a wipe of his nose on his sleeve as he bent to pick up the pile of linens. “He’ll die if we don’t.”

“Who, Nathaniel? Who will die?”

“The Horseman.”

An image of rugged Mr. Davenport jumped into her mind. So large and strong. And kind to slightly unhinged ladies trapped in root cellars. She’d never encountered a man more competent, more virile. It seemed impossible that such a man should be at death’s door.

“He’s hurt real bad. He took on all four of ’em by himself.” Nathaniel juggled his armful of linens and met Damaris’s gaze. “He saved my life, Aunt Maris. Now I gotta save his.”

She had a hundred questions—the one topping the list being why Nathaniel had been in a position to need saving in the middle of the night—but this wasn’t the time. Her nephew had finally come to her for help, and if Mr. Davenport was really in as dire shape as Nathaniel described, they couldn’t afford any delays.