Rowan carried Morrie toward the large sectional sofa near the fireplace, trying not to look at the familiar details that triggered unwelcome memories. The kitchen doorway where he’d stood listening to his mother and stepfather argue. The staircase where he’d learned to make himself invisible. The corner where he’d once hidden after Alden’s fist had split his lip.
He doused them and tucked them away for now.
“Rowan?” Mack appeared from the den. “What happened?”
“Found Morrie shot at the junction. Lost a lot of blood.” Rowan eased the foreman onto the floor. No need to get blood on the sofa.
Catherine appeared with towels and a first aid kit. “Maybe we should drive him to the hospital?”
“Renegade Mercy is forty-five minutes, minimum. And in this weather…” Mack shook his head.
“Saxon is calling it in. Help is on its way.”
Rowan stripped off his wet jacket and knelt, checking Morrie’s pulse again. Still weak, still thready. The older man’s weathered face was gray and pale in the lamplight, his beard matted with rain and blood. Even unconscious, Morrie looked tough. Still, even the hardiest of men could succumb to this kind of injury. Please don’t die. Sierra couldn’t lose someone else.
“Apply pressure here.” Rowan guided Catherine’s hands to the wound. “Keep it steady but don’t press too hard.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“He seems tough. If anyone can pull through this, it’s a tough cowboy Morrie.” Rowan hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
Heavy footsteps on the staircase. Alden. Rowan tensed, muscle memory from childhood.
“Rowan,” Alden said. “What’s this?”
Rowan didn’t look at him. “Morrie’s been shot. Saxon called 911. They’re on the way.”
“How long ago did this happen?” Catherine asked, still maintaining pressure on Morrie’s wound.
“Not sure. He’s been missing for about four hours, but the wound looks relatively fresh.”
The sound of vehicles approaching made everyone look toward the windows. Headlights cut through the rain-streaked glass—multiple vehicles moving fast up the long driveway.
“That was quick,” Mack said, moving toward the door.
A man came through the open door, lean, early thirties with sandy-brown hair and intelligent green eyes. He carried a medical bag and moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to emergency situations.
“I’m Jackson Stewart, with the South Eagle EMS. What’s happening?” His voice carried easy authority as he surveyed the scene.
“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Exposure. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
Two more EMTs came in behind Jackson, who knelt beside Morrie. “Pulse is thready, blood pressure’s low. Let’s get an IV started.” Jackson started checking Morrie’s wound. “We’ll get a pressure bandage on this.”
And that’s when Saxon appeared in the doorway, shaking rain from his dark hair. “Got here as fast as I could. Where’d you find him?”
“Drainage ditch about half a mile south of here. Just lying there in the rain.” Rowan’s voice was grim. “Single gunshot wound to the abdomen. Professional or lucky amateur, hard to say.”
“Wait.” Jackson looked at him. “You said the junction of the three properties?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“That’s the same area where Sierra found Tom Hendrick last week.”
Rowan stared at him. “You think there’s a connection?”
“Two bodies in the same general area?” Saxon said. “Could be coincidence, but…” He shrugged. “I don’t believe in coincidences anymore.”
Jackson addressed his other EMTs, now carrying in a backboard. “He’s stable enough for transport, but we need to move fast.” He stood up as they worked to move him onto the backboard.
