Chapter Twelve
The clank of handcuffsand the low murmur of the sheriff's orders filtered through the air as Deborah rushed down the barn ladder, her skirts grasping at each stride. Her heart thrummed with urgency. "Tim! Amos! It's Aaron—he's hurt bad."
Tim looked up from where he stood, his hat shading eyes that had seen too much sorrow. "Lead the way, Deborah," he said, his voice steady despite the worry that creased his brow.
"Where is he?" Amos asked, adjusting his hat with a practiced tilt.
"Out by the north pasture," she replied, breathless.
Without another word, the men spurred their horses into action. Tim's mount moved with purpose while Amos kept pace, riding alongside Deborah, who directed them with quick, sure gestures.
"David's gone for the doc," Tim called over to Deborah, squinting against the sun.
"Good thinking," Deborah acknowledged, trying to keep the tremble from her voice.
"Look there!" Amos pointed ahead, where a huddled shape lay near the fence line.
"Lord have mercy," whispered Tim under his breath as they dismounted.
Deborah's hands were already reaching out, her fingers gentle yet efficient as she assessed Aaron's condition. His face was etched in pain, yet the sight of friends brought a grimace that resembled a smile.
"Hey, big guy," Tim greeted Aaron, his usual stoicism giving way to concern. "We're gonna get you fixed up."
"Much obliged," Aaron managed, his voice rough like gravel on the ranch road.
"Let's get him home," Amos said.
Together, they lifted Aaron with care, mindful of his pained groans, and settled him onto Tim's horse. Deborah mounted behind him, wrapping an arm around Aaron to steady him.
"Keep your head high, Aaron. You're tougher than old boots," she murmured, her words intended to comfort even as her own heart raced with fear.
"Always am, Deb," Aaron replied, though his voice was faint.
"Let's ride," said Tim, and the group turned back toward the house.
*****
THE SMELL OF SMOKEclung to the air as men hustled back and forth, carrying buckets of water from the trough. They doused the flames with swift, determined motions, their faces set in grim lines yet edged with the relief that the worst had passed. The fires, which had moments ago threatened to consume everything in their path, sputtered and died under the steady assault.
"Keep at it, boys," called out one of the ranch hands, his voice a rallying cry in the midst of the chaos. "These flames ain't got nothin' on us!"
Meanwhile, Tim's horse trotted up to the homestead, the journey back seeming much longer than the one out to Aaron. With every step, Deborah held tightly to Aaron, whispering words of encouragement that were for her benefit as much as his. Amos rode alongside, scanning the horizon as if his gaze could hasten the doctor's arrival.
"Easy now," Tim soothed as they brought Aaron down and into the house. The coolness of the indoors was a stark contrast to the blazing heat outside.
In the kitchen, Deborah found a basin and filled it with water, her movements practiced and sure. She fetched a cloth and turned toward Aaron, who was propped up in a chair, his rugged face tightened in pain.
"Let me see that wound," she said gently, rolling up her sleeves.
"Deb, you don't have to—" Aaron began but cut off with a wince as Deborah cut away the arm of his shirt and carefully cleaned away the dirt and blood.
"Quiet now, Aaron. You've done enough talking," Deborah chided softly, her touch light as she worked.
"Looks like we owe you again, Deborah," Amos remarked, standing by the doorway, his eyes reflecting the gratitude they all felt.
"None of that, Amos," she replied without looking up. "We take care of our own here."
"Can't argue with that," Tim added, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes met Deborah's, and he offered her a small, reassuring smile. “I feel bad that we were fooled by the fires and gunshots. We rode toward them, leaving Aaron to stand against the outsiders on his own. And after he was injured, you had to stand alone. Men are supposed to be the ones defending their women.”
