But the girl stayed put on her horse. She was covered in dust and her hair hung loosely in her face from where it had fallen out of the braided style she usually wore. “I’m fine, but you must come with me. Please, Lara needs your help.”
Bile rose up Mitchell’s throat. Lara—Miss Cummings—was hurt. “How bad is it?” He had to know.
The girl looked at him, confused for a half a moment before shaking her head. “No, she’s fine. It’s another lady. One we happened upon on the way back from town. Her wagon overturned and her horse ran off. She’s hurt really bad, and Lara stayed with her.”
Mitchell closed his eyes for just a second. Lara was fine. She wasn’t hurt. She was still here.
“King!”
His eyes flew open to find Arlen staring at him. “The horses.” It was a guess. He hadn’t heard a thing the man had said.
Arlen narrowed his eyes just slightly, and for a moment, Mitchell was certain the former sheriff could see right through him—from his unrelenting attraction to Lara to his close brush with prison in Denver. “You all right to go out? I can get George.”
Mitchell shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ll get the horses if you’re getting the wagon.” He strode toward the corral before Arlen changed his mind. His heart hadn’t slowed a bit since Hannah had come riding up alone. He needed to see Lara. Make sure she was whole and uninjured.
And he needed to stop thinking of her asLara. Because that sort of familiarity could lead to nothing good.
Well, he thought as he led Trip and another of the horses from the corral, itwouldbe good until her cousins ran him off their land with shotguns. How worth it would that be, when he’d finally found the place that felt the most like home?
He could have a brief moment with Lara—or he could have a lifetime at the Cummings-Thomas Ranch, with Lara just out of reach.
There was no in between.
Chapter Seven
Lara had never seena more welcome sight than a dust-covered Hannah returning with two equally dust-covered men driving a wagon. She’d assumed from a distance that both Arlen and George had come, but as they drew closer, it became clear that the man she thought was George was actually Mr. King.
Her heart thumped as she continued to wind the shawl Hannah had offered up around the injured woman’s mangled leg.
“Is that them?” The woman’s little boy—who’d proudly told Lara that he was five years old—pointed down the road to the horses and wagon.
“It is,” Lara said, tying off the shawl as best she could. “Help is coming.” She looked up at Mrs. White. “This isn’t the best, but it should help stop the bleeding until the doctor arrives.”
“Thank you.” The woman, who was maybe around thirty years old, raised herself to lean back on her hands. If they had been closer to the overturned wagon, she could have leaned against that, but Lara didn’t dare try to move her without help. “You’re an angel. I’m sorry, I know you told me your name, but I’ve forgotten.”
Lara smiled at her. “It’s quite all right.”
