drunken men and laughter, and the crack of rifle fire sparked a wave of anxiety. Were they waiting at Doc’s, hiding in the blackness and waiting for her to appear? She dismounted and cautiously led the horses in the hope that one of Jenkins’s men wouldn’t emerge from the faceless voices.
Only Morgan’s needs kept her planting one foot in front of the other. He was the driving force that pushed her on past the extreme exhaustion and hunger warring against her body. Each time she felt like giving in to fatigue, she recalled the deeds of the injured man tied to the travois. And her mind wrestled with the whole matter again.
She slipped within the shadows of the main street and pulled both mounts through a pathway wide enough for a wagon. It turned sharply to the left and down a dark, narrow street to Doc’s house. Rifle in hand, cocked and ready, she peered around for one of Jenkins’s gang, the men she knew by name and deed.
Standing motionless, Casey studied the small frame house belonging to Doc. When reasonably assured no one shared the surroundings, she mounted the steps to the porch, silently cursing their creaking. She rapped lightly, then harder when Doc didn’t answer. Only silence greeted her. She kicked the door, partly in anger and partly in frustration. A bellowing voice responded.
“I’ve got a badly injured man.” She stared into the darkness behind her and wondered if another pair of ears heard her plea. Her voice lowered. “He’s been shot in the chest and lost a lot of blood.”
Doc cleared his throat. “He’s most likely dead.”
“Doc, this is Casey O’Hare. Please, open up.” Not prone to emotion, she knew any more words were locked in her throat. She took a breath. “I don’t think this man is an outlaw. He got hurt trying to help me.”
“All right,” Doc said. “The whole town has heard how you left Jenkins.”
She swung around, expecting the click of a trigger and a bullet etched with her name on it. In the next instant, she fought the urge to blow a hole through the door. “Are you going to open up or not?”
“Oh, I guess I’ll see what I can do. Bring him in.”
Casey looked back at the sad remains of Morgan. “I need you to give me a hand. I’ve got him tied to a travois.”
She heard Doc utter a long string of complaints—“How is a man supposed to get any sleep,” and “I’m not about to get myself killed over any outlaw dispute.” The latch lifted. He towered in the doorway and lifted high a kerosene lantern.
Barefoot and bare chested with suspenders holding up loose-fitting trousers, Doc presented a less than welcoming figure. His shoulder span reminded her of a grizzly. For certain, his size alone caused most men to think twice about crossing him.
Doc cut Morgan from the wooden frame and lifted him into his arms. “Best hide those horses in the shed behind my stable,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s empty right now, but there’s extra feed and water. I wouldn’t want any of Jenkins’s men finding your horses.” He handed her the lantern. “Get on out of here. I’ve got plenty of work to do. This man is more dead than alive.” His voice thundered, but that was Doc’s way.
“One of Jenkins’s men may be here to fetch you.” She hoped the warning didn’t change his decision to treat Morgan. “Jenkins’s leg’s broke, and he’s been shot.”
Doc nodded and disappeared into the small house. She stared after him a good bit before turning her attention to the horses. The animals needed to be fed and rubbed down. Besides, what could she do for Morgan?
Her heart plummeted with the realization of just how quickly Jenkins could find them. In one fleeting breath, she considered running, but her commitment to the injured man robbed her normal way of thinking. She couldn’t leave him with Doc, not just yet. For now, she must stay in Vernal until Morgan took a turn for the best, or she learned he was one of them, or he died. The not knowing clawed at her heart.
Morgan had mentioned Vernal when talking about his family, said he had a few friends there but didn’t say what kind. The decent folk stayed off by themselves. They avoided the wanted men and didn’t deal with them unless forced to. Past emotions, past deeds, and a yearning for a clear conscience stopped her from contemplating that