Darting from her cover, she slid across the dirt as bullets whistled past her ears. Men shouted and cursed. The whole basin was fire and smoke, but she kept low with her Colt clenched in her fist.
Her heart was pounding like a war drum.
“Red Hawk!” she shouted, ducking behind the shattered wagon where he’d taken cover.
His dark eyes met hers, fierce despite the pain. “Go back!” he barked, voice strained.
“Not a chance,” she shot back. She holstered the Colt, already reaching for her satchel. Her fingers were shaking, but her training took over. She tore at the strap, pulling free a small roll of cloth and a flask of whiskey.
Red Hawk gritted his teeth, sliding down until he sat propped against the wagon’s ruined wheel.
“I fight,” he growled, trying to push himself up again.
“You’ll bleed out in two minutes if you don’t let me do this,” Abigail snapped, shoving him back down with surprising force. “So shut up and let me work.”
He blinked at her, startled. Then he gave a short nod, jaw clamped tight.
Abigail tore the shirt open at his side. The sight made her stomach lurch. It was raw and red. There was a line of torn flesh where the bullet had carved him. Not a clean through-and-through. Lodged.
She swallowed hard, pressing the cloth to the wound. Blood seeped fast, warm against her fingers.
Red Hawk hissed between his teeth but didn’t cry out. He watched her with hawk-like eyes, unblinking, testing her resolve even now.
“Hold still,” she muttered, pouring whiskey over the wound. The liquid hissed and foamed against torn flesh, and Red Hawk grunted deep in his chest. His hand clenched the wagon wheel so hard his knuckles went white.
“You fight like a warrior,” he said through clenched teeth. “Even now.”
“I’m not here to fight,” Abigail replied, wrapping the cloth tight around his side, pulling it into a makeshift bandage. “I’m here to keep you alive.”
The air cracked with gunfire. Bullets tore into the wagon above their heads, splinters raining down on them. Abigail ducked instinctively, shielding Red Hawk’s torso with her own body.
Anthony’s voice rang out somewhere nearby. “Keep pressure on the west flank!”
Abigail’s heart hammered. She could almost see him, moving fast between rocks and shadows with his Colt and bow both flashing death. He was everywhere at once, shouting orders, firing, pushing the men forward.
Then, suddenly, his eyes landed on her.
Even across the chaos, she felt it. His gaze burned through the smoke. For an instant, his expression froze, confusion andfury warring on his face. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She knew it. He knew it.
But there was no time for him to come storming over and drag her back. A bullet screamed past his head, and he had to roll, fire, and vanish behind another boulder. His focus snapped back to survival.
Abigail exhaled, turning back to Red Hawk. The bleeding had slowed, but his face was pale, sweat slicking his brow. She pressed the bandage tighter, tying it off with trembling fingers.
“There,” she whispered. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold.”
Red Hawk’s lips curved into the barest ghost of a smile. “Strong hands,” he said. “A healer.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, shoving her revolver back into her grip. “You’re still breathing. That’s all that matters right now.”
Red Hawk shifted, testing the bandage. He winced but managed to grab his rifle with his free hand.
“I fight,” he said again, voice hoarse but determined.
“Fine,” Abigail replied, cocking her revolver. “But you do it from behind cover this time. You owe me that much.”
The wagon shuddered as another bullet slammed into it. Abigail pressed her back against the wood, breathing hard. She felt the weight of Anthony’s brief glare still lingering in her chest, but she shoved it down. There would be time for lectures later...if they lived through this.
For now, she was in the fight. And she wasn’t leaving.
