“I’m okay. But hurry. My arms are starting to get rubbery from pressing down so hard.”
“I’ll be quick.”
True to his word, he was back in less than a minute with more shirts. These were, thankfully, less bloody than the first one he’d brought. But it made her wonder where those men had been shot, if not in the chest. She didn’t look over to confirm her fears.
With both of them working together, they got the shirts knotted and held into place with a belt from one of the dead men.
“I think it’s working,” Sierra said. “There’s barely a trickle now.”
“Good. He can’t afford to lose much more blood. He’s white as a sheet.”
She looked at the man’s alarmingly pale face, her breath catching in her throat. “This is ridiculous. He was trying to kill us, and here we are trying to save him. I don’t know why we even care.” Even as she said it, she gently pressed her fingers against the side of his neck, feeling for his pulse.
“Because we’re not like him,” Beau said, his voice tight.
She glanced up, then looked back down. “His pulse is weak. His breathing is really shallow. He’s lost far too much blood. I don’t… I don’t think he’ll make it back to Mystic Lake or to Chattanooga. I don’t know what else we can do.”
Beau hesitated, then grabbed the first-aid kit and set it down beside him. He rummaged inside. “What about stitches? Do you think that would make a difference? I have needles and thread in the kit.”
She shook her head. “I think your makeshift tourniquet is working just as well or better than stitches. It’s blood that he needs.”
“How about mine?” a raspy voice called out.
Sierra jerked her head up.
Beau grabbed his pistol and swung it toward the man stepping out of the woods. He was nearly as tall as Beau and just as muscular, dressed all in black like the men from the SUV. But his facial features were concealed behind the tinted facial shield of his motorcycle helmet.
“Hands up,” Beau ordered.
The man slowly raised his hands. “I’m unarmed.”
“Dressed exactly like the men who attacked my home earlier. And like all of these men who tried to kill us,” Beau accused. “I’ll bet your gun isn’t far away.”
“His name is Randy,” the man said, notably not responding to Beau’s comments about his clothes or a gun. “He’s O positive. So am I. You can do a direct transfusion from me to him.”
“Or we can transport him to town instead,” Beau said.
“I heard you talking about his options, or lack of them. The woman said she doesn’t think he’d make it, not without blood.”
“Maybe the guy should have thought of that before he and his men opened fire on us.”
The man’s helmet cocked to the side, as if he was studying Beau. “If you were really that callous, you wouldn’t be out in the road with…with this woman, trying to save him. You’re obviously not the murderer type.”
Sierra stared at the motorcycle man. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.
A muscle flexed in Beau’s jaw, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t do a transfusion anyway. My first-aid kit doesn’t have those kinds of supplies.”
“Check the back of the SUV. Maybe there’s a more substantial medical kit in there.”
Beau narrowed his eyes. “Is that something you know firsthand?”
The man didn’t answer.
“Even if we have supplies at hand, I don’t have a clue how to do a transfusion.”
“I’ve done it before,” the man said. “I can talk you through it.”
“No need.” This time it was Sierra who spoke. “I’ve seen it done a couple of times.” Without waiting for Beau’s decision, she jumped up and jogged to the back of the SUV, ignoring his loud swearing behind her. Sure enough, when she opened the back there was a large black duffel bag. When she unzipped it, it was like looking at the inside of a hospital emergency room. “Good grief,” she whispered. “These guys are prepared for a siege.”
