She wove her fingers between his. “Then we should get back as soon as possible. She’ll want help.”
If he weren’t hurting so bad, he might have chuckled at her need to care for others, even after what she’d been through.
He squeezed her hand. “We will.”
Robert moved closer, crouching to lift the blanket from James’s extended legs. His brother’s expression tightened as his gaze traveled from knee to ankle, taking in the torn splint and the dark stains that probably weren’t sweat.
The scrutiny made him want to pull away, to insist he was fine, but the swelling spoke for itself.
“This needs proper attention.” Robert straightened, his jaw set with that Balfour determination. “Thomas, help me get him to the wagon. We’ll tie Vincent to his horse and lead him back.”
The next few minutes blurred in waves of pain. His brothers lifted him—careful as they could be—but every movement sent fire shooting through the broken bone.
Rose hovered close, holding his splinted leg steady as Thomas and Robert maneuvered him through the cabin door and into the pale morning light.
The cold air bit at his face, sharp enough to clear some of the fog from his head.
The wagon sat where he’d left it, the horses blowing clouds of steam in the frigid air.
After the others eased him into the bed, Rose climbed up with him, settling herself so his head could rest in her lap. Her fingers found his hair, her touch soothing even as his leg screamed.
At last, his brothers had Vincent draped over the back of his horse—apparently the way he’d made Rose ride out here, like cargo—and tied securely in place.
Thomas climbed onto the wagon bench and guided the team in a slow back-and-forth to turn the rig around in the cramped space. At last, they faced the trail back to Walnut Springs, and Robert climbed up into the wagon bed with James and Rose. He sat facing the three saddle horses tied to the back of the wagon, including the one bearing Vincent, and kept his rifle in his lap where it would be easy enough to lift and shoot should a threat arise.
The wagon lurched forward, and James bit hard on his lip to keep from crying out. He forced his breathing to stay even, forced his face to remain still despite the sweat dampening his collar. Rose had been through enough. Watching him fall apart wouldn’t help her.
Her fingers wove through his hair in gentle strokes, and he focused on that instead of the pain. On the warmth of her lap beneath his head.
On the fact that she was alive, safe, and had agreed to marry him despite everything.
After what felt like hours, Rose lowered her head to speak quietly in his ear. “We’re coming up on Walnut Springs.”
He wanted to sit up, to see the town for himself, but his body refused to cooperate. The pain in his leg had settled into a constant throb that made even the smallest movement feel impossible. He settled for turning his head a little, just enough to catch a glimpse of the buildings above the wagon’s side rails.
The familiar shapes of Walnut Springs emerged from the morning fog—the mercantile’s weathered facade, the saloon’s hanging sign, the boarding house where Vincent had found Rose.
His chest tightened again. How close he’d come to losing her again—maybe even forever.
Thomas guided the team down the main street, and a few townspeople braving the cold morning stopped to stare. Word would spread fast—the Balfour brothers returning at dawn with one of them laid out in the wagon bed and a man tied to a horse like a criminal.
Let them stare. Let them talk. Rose was safe, and that was all that mattered.
The wagon rolled to a stop in front of the jail, and Thomas spoke from the bench. “Robert, I’ll tell the deputy what’s going on if you want to see if the doc’s in town.”
Robert vaulted over the side of the wagon, his boots hitting the packed snow with a soft crunch. He strode toward the doctor’s office, his long legs eating up the distance in seconds.
James tried to focus on something other than the fire in his leg—the way Rose’s fingers still moved through his hair, the cold morning air against his face, the muffled voices of Thomas and the deputy as they discussed Vincent’s crimes. But the pain kept pulling him under, waves of it that made his stomach churn and his vision blur.
Rose’s hand stilled in his hair. “James?”
“Still here.” The words scraped past his raw throat.
Her expression softened, but worry creased the corners of her eyes. He wanted to tell her he’d be fine, that this was nothing, but the lie wouldn’t form.
Boot steps approached the wagon, and Dr. Morrison’s lined face appeared above the side rail. His sharp eyes took in James’s splinted leg, the torn trousers, the swelling that had turned the limb into something barely recognizable.
“Let’s have a look.” His tone was matter-of-fact, kind even, but the way his jaw tightened told James everything he needed to know about how bad it looked.
