Page 1

Prologue

Nate Pickett

October 1880—Flat River, Nebraska

“Hold his shoulders!”

Nate Pickett shoved the basin aside with his elbow as Jesse bucked against the narrow clinic bed.

Bass lunged from the footboard and caught Jesse’s legs before he kicked himself clear off the mattress. Beau grabbed Jesse’s right shoulder. Simon came in from the other side, spectacles sliding low on his nose as he reached for Jesse’s left arm.

Jesse’s eyes were open. Not focused or clear; but open.

“Nate!” Carolina called from the doorway.

“I see it.” Nate leaned over his brother. “Jess, listen to me. You’re at the clinic. You were hurt. Stop fighting us.”

Jesse’s head snapped toward the sound of Nate’s voice—a sudden, violent motion that choked off his own breath. A wet, grating noise escaped his throat. His hand shot up, fingers hooking into the wool of Simon’s sleeve, and he wrenched hard enough to tear the fabric. Simon stumbled forward, his hip striking the bed frame.

“Easy,” Simon said, voice tight. “Jesse, it’s me.”

Jesse’s arm jerked up, wild and unseeing. His fist connected with a crack of bone on bone. Simon’s head snapped back. He staggered into the small table, rattling the bottles. One tipped, rolled off the edge, and exploded against the floorboards. The sharp smell of alcohol filled the close air.

Bass’s knuckles went white where he gripped Jesse’s legs. He hauled himself higher against the footboard, boots scraping for purchase. “He ain’t in his right mind.”

“I know that,” Simon snapped, his fingers pressing hard against the line of his jaw as he pushed himself up from the floor. His sleeve hung torn where Jesse’s grip had been.

“Both of you hush.” Nate drove one knee into the mattress and framed Jesse’s face with his hands, thumbs along the bristled line of his jaw. “Jesse. Look at me.”

Jesse’s gaze slid past him, unmoored. The left eye was swollen to a bruised slit. The right rolled white before fixing, for one fractured second, on Bass—then Beau—then Simon, wide and panicked as a spooked horse. He strained again to rise, a raw sound catching in his throat, but Nate held firm.

“Carolina, I need the laudanum.”

“No.”

The word scraped out of him, rough and thin, but it was Jesse.

Bass went still. The footboard groaned beneath his grip. Beau’s mouth flattened. Simon let his hand fall from his face and stepped nearer, forgetting himself.

Nate bent until his breath stirred the hair at Jesse’s temple. “Say that again.”

Jesse’s lips parted, cracked and dry. A muscle jumped in his throat. Only a raw, airless rasp escaped.

Carolina crossed the room, the brown bottle clutched in one hand, a tin spoon in the other. “The pain in his head will be sharper now he’s awake.”

“Everything hurts,” Nate said, his voice low.

“I ain’t scared,” Jesse whispered.

Bass’s eyes squeezed shut. Beau’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, his lips shaping a silent thanks.

Simon let out a sharp, breathy sound that was more wince than laugh. “Stubborn to the grave.”

Jesse tried to twist toward the voice, but the movement drained the color from his face. His body went slack under Beau and Bass’s grip. For one awful second, Nate felt him slipping away again.

Nate’s palm came up, cupping Jesse’s cheek lightly. “Don’t you leave.”

Jesse’s eyelid trembled.