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“Their faces were covered,” Regan replied, “but I believe so. I hit one in the arm and another in the chest.”
“That’s him back there,” he said, indicating the lifeless body. He viewed her with the same wonderment Mr. Denby had earlier.
Denby came to her defense. “You aren’t going to charge her, are you? Had it not been for her, I’d probably be dead as Casey. The stage line will probably give her a reward for helping keep the gold I’m carrying safe.”
Regan knew stage lines sometimes did such things, but she didn’t need rewarding for protecting herself. She was a woman. Had the outlaws taken the coach, she might have been prey to an unspeakable assault and they may have discovered the large amount of gold coins sewn into the hems of her gowns. She took no joy in having caused the man’s death and if she was charged, she knew her Uncle Rhine would provide her the best lawyer his money could buy.
The doctor exited the coach. Ignoring her, he gave the sheriff a terse nod, as if verifying Mr. Casey’s demise, before haltingly climbing back into the saddle. His stilted movements made her believe his injury was more serious than the simple graze she’d assumed earlier. Again, she felt awful.
The sheriff said, “You won’t be charged, Miss Carmichael, but they will. They’ve been ambushing coaches up and down this trail for weeks. In fact, they took down a coach earlier today. The driver and guard were wounded and we were out looking for them when we came across them after you and Denby sent them skedaddling. Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” She was relieved, but so far, Colton Lee had yet to speak to her directly. And as the sheriff and his men escorted the coach the remaining few miles to town, that didn’t change.
“Stop laughing and take the damn bullet out,” Colt snarled, removing his shirt. The last thing he needed was more of Whit’s needling.
“Got yourself quite the delicate bride-to-be there, Dr. Lee. Hold still.” Whit used the tip of his big bladed knife to expertly dig into Colt’s shoulder, causing him to hiss out a curse in response to the sharp pain.
“Got it.” The bloody bullet went into a chipped porcelain basin on the desk. Whit sloshed whiskey over the oozing injury. Colton hissed again and immediately reached for the clean square of white cotton sheeting he’d taken from his medical bag and pressed it against the wound to ease the bleeding.
“Want me to ask her in to sew you up?”
Colton glared.
“Just asking. No need to get surly.”
Colt knew Whit was having a good time. Were the shoe on the other foot, he’d be the one poking fun, but it was on his foot and it pinched like hell. What kind of woman shot her intended? Yes, it was an accident but his pride was as wounded as his shoulder.
Whit added, “If you’re going to send her back let me know. The way she shoots, I might like to swear her in as a deputy.” The two surviving outlaws were locked up in the small jail behind his office.
Colton ignored him, or as much as one could a six-foot-five-inch former cavalry soldier who on better days was called friend. Instead, his thoughts were on Regan Carmichael. What kind of woman had he asked to take the place of his late wife, Adele? What other nonladylike skills did she possess? Had she lied to him about being educated and cultured? A part of him was half-ready to scrap the marriage agreement and send her packing. Colt’s grandfather Ben would undoubtedly agree. Whit’s humor notwithstanding, Colt found nothing funny about it, and neither did his gunshot shoulder.
Regan, who’d been told by the sheriff to wait outside while he patched up the doctor, paced the wooden walk in front of his office. How was she supposed to know the riders were a sheriff’s posse? She’d been too busy protecting herself and Mr. Denby to stop firing and politely ask their identities. Colton Lee seemed furious, and on the ride to town hadn’t once looked her way. She supposed he was allowed. After all, how many men met their prospective brides via a bullet from her Winchester? She couldn’t blame him if he decided to send her packing, thus preventing her from trying to make things right—not that she knew how that might be accomplished.
Word must have gotten around about the shooting because a small group of men were on the other side of the street watching her from in front of the general store. One, sporting whiskers, long white hair, and wearing trousers and a shirt made from deerskin called out, “Did you really shoot the doc?”
Her cheeks burned. “It was an accident.”
Another man shouted, “This called a shotgun wedding where you’re from?”
They all laughed. She didn’t respond.
The door opened and the sheriff stepped out.
“May I see him?” she asked anxiously.
“I think I should probably take you over to Minnie’s. She takes in boarders. You’ll stay there until the wedding. You can see him later.”
That wasn’t the answer Regan wanted, so she sailed past him and went inside. Her steps halted at the sight of Lee attempting to drag his union shirt up and over his bandaged left shoulder. Seeing her enter, he stopped and her first thought was that the tall slender Colton Lee was as handsome as an African god. The second thought: the riveting eyes were as foreboding as a gathering thunderstorm. All they lacked were lightning bolts. “I... want to apologize. I didn’t know you and the others were a posse.”
His gaze didn’t waver, and again she expected lightning. Instead, he resumed his one-handed attempt to cover his bared left shoulder. She took a step forward to assist him but his silent rebuke froze her in place. Regan swallowed in a dry throat. She noticed him wince again as he finally got the shirt positioned. He used his right hand to do up the buttons, then picked up a blue denim shirt and slowly worked it on.
“Where’d you learn to shoot?” he finally asked quietly.
“A neighbor.”
“What else he teach you?”
She took offense at both the question and his tone. Surely he wasn’t intimating that Old Man Blanchard had taught her anything unseemly. “To hunt, shoe a horse. Shingle a roof. Again, I’m sorry for wounding you.”
