Abigail’s eyes flicked to his, then back to Brigg’s wound. “I can keep him alive. But he’s weak. He won’t be walking out of here on his own.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened. He looked down at Brigg, whose grin had faded into a grimace. The man’s breathing was shallow, and his skin was clammy. But his eyes still burned with the same stubborn fire.
“I told you to ride,” Anthony said again, shaking his head. “Why the hell didn’t you listen?”
Brigg coughed, his voice little more than a rasp. “Same reason you never do, Hawk. Bad habit.”
“You look half-dead already,” Anthony said, shaking his head.
Brigg tried to grin, but he struggled. “Half’s better than all the way.”
Abigail’s hands moved quickly. She pulled free a pair of scissors, cut the shirt away from Brigg’s chest, and hissed softly under her breath when the full extent of the wound came into view.
The bullet had torn into Brigg’s side, near the ribs. The flesh was mangled, blood still seeping out around a clot that wasn’t holding.
“He shouldn’t be alive,” Abigail said bluntly, grabbing a fresh bandage. “Not with this much blood loss. He’s stubborn, that’s all.”
Brigg’s chuckle was a dry rattle. “Always said I was too stubborn to die.”
Anthony watched as Abigail pressed the bandage hard against the wound. Brigg flinched, teeth clenched tight. But he didn’t cry out.
“Hold it there,” she told Anthony, guiding his hand to keep the pressure. She dug through her bag again, pulling out a small bottle and a needle.
“You are stitching him up here?” he asked. “In the dirt?”
“It’s this or he bleeds out,” Abigail answered quickly. “I don’t have a choice.”
Anthony nodded once, swallowing hard. His hand pressed steady against Brigg’s side, his palm slick with blood.
The deputy’s eyes fluttered, but he forced them open again, focusing on Anthony.
“Still bossing everyone around, huh?” Brigg asked.
Anthony glanced down. “You don’t get to talk, not while you’re leaking like a stuck hog.”
Brigg’s grin was weak but real. “Fair.”
Abigail poured the contents of the bottle over the wound. Brigg hissed, his back arching as the liquid burned into the torn flesh.
“Holy hell—” he started, but Abigail’s sharp voice cut him off.
“Bite down.” She shoved a strip of leather into his hand. “Now.”
Brigg obeyed, clenching it between his teeth as she threaded the needle.
Anthony felt his stomach tighten as the steel flashed in the dim light. He had seen wounds patched before, but seeing Abigail’s small hands moving with such determination hit him differently.
She was still young despite the years of experience. Her face was smudged with grime, yet she didn’t hesitate.
The first stitch went in. Brigg groaned, his body shuddering. Anthony held him firm.
“Stay with us,” Anthony said, his voice low. “Keep your eyes open, Brigg.”
“Trying,” the deputy muttered around the leather. Sweat rolled down his temple.
Abigail worked quickly, pulling the wound together one painful inch at a time. Each stitch made Brigg’s jaw tighten harder, each tug of the thread pulling him back from the edge by sheer force of will.
Anthony kept his eyes on him, speaking steadily. “You came back when you didn’t have to,” he repeated. “Could’ve been riding north right now, clean and safe.”
