Buck was sitting outside the jail, drinking coffee and reading about yesterday’s brawl in the Clarion, when he glanced down the street and saw the familiar black horse entering town by the church, leading a string of horses. He frowned and set down the paper, leaning forward. Somethin’ just didn’t look right…

“Aw, hell, he’s got Vin in the saddle with him!” he breathed sharply, rising at once to his feet and hurrying down the boardwalk. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good if Vin couldn’t ride on his own.

Chris saw Buck coming and felt an immediate surge of relief. He reined to a stop in front of the gunsmith’s and waited for the big man. After all these years, after all the trouble they’d been through, after all the trouble Buck had caused, he still got a feeling of safety, of security, whenever the big man was around. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why, had stopped trying years ago, but things just never felt quite as bleak as they should when Buck Wilmington was around.

“Jesus, what happened?” Buck asked sharply, stopping at Pony’s side and staring up at Vin. “He looks like ten miles of bad road!”

“Morgan,” Chris rasped, suddenly realizing how tired, how thirsty and how worried he was. “Bastard tried ta get away, shot Vin.”

Buck switched his attention from the unconscious tracker to the dusty, sweaty gunman and saw the tightness of his jaw, the brittle calm in the diamond-bright eyes. “Reckon we ain’t gotta trouble with a hangin’ then,” he said quietly, noticing the outlaw’s absence.

Chris’s expression turned savage. “Could go back, dig up his body and hang it,” he snarled.

Buck swallowed hard at that tone, knowing Larabee wasn’t above such right now. “I’ll tell ya what, pard,” he said gently, his voice low and soft and soothing, “why don’t we get Vin here settled, see what’s what. We’ll take care of him, then, if you’re still of a mind to, we’ll decide what games ta play with that bastard’s corpse. That sound all right?”

Chris bowed his head and closed his eyes tightly, absently clutching Vin to him as all his worry, all his fear, washed through him again in a wrenching wave. “Bullet’s still in his shoulder, Buck,” he said hoarsely. “Been in there since yesterday afternoon. He needs Nate. Needs him now.”

“Well, sure… Oh, shit,” Buck breathed, his eyes widening and his big body stiffening as realization hit. The color drained from his face as his stomach turned over. “Chris,” he said softly, slowly, “we got a problem.”

Larabee’s head snapped up at that and he glared at Buck. He didn’t have time for problems! Vin didn’t have time! “What?” he growled.

Buck felt cold fear pool in his belly. He could see that Vin was in a bad way, could almost feel the tracker’s fever from where he was standing. And that dark patch staining his shirt sure as hell wasn’t sweat. “There was a fight in the saloon yesterday,” he began in a low, even voice, his gaze never leaving Vin, “three ranches got into it – Crown, James, Royal. It was a mess. Some of the stupid sonsabitches broke out guns and knives…” He swallowed and licked his lips. “Nathan got hurt. Somebody slashed his left hand. And… broke his right arm.”

Chris listened in mounting horror and rage to Buck’s story. Nathan… hurt? His arm broken? But… “Vin needs him,” he protested, as if that overrode everything. “Got a bullet in him. Nathan’s gotta take it out!”

“Nathan can’t, Chris,” Buck insisted gently, as if talking to a child. “His arm’s broke. His fingers are so swelled up right now he can’t move ’em. He can’t do it.”

Chris stared at him for long moments, refusing – unable – to believe him. “He has to,” he said at last, and with the finality that usually saw his point carried. “Help me get him to Nathan’s, then get JD to look after the horses–”

“JD’s gone,” Buck sighed, wondering why in hell things were never bad enough, but always had to slide right into worse. “Him and Josiah left about half an hour ago ta let the ranchers know we’ll be holdin’ their men ’til the damages are paid. Prob’ly won’t be back ’til this evenin’.”

Chris continued to stare at Buck, wondering why the man was trying to drive him crazy. Just what in hell had happened while he was gone?

“Come on, pard,” Buck sighed, stepping closer to Pony, “Vin ain’t gettin’ any better while we’re standin’ here jawin’. Let’s get him up ta the clinic, see what we need ta do.” Chris seemed not to hear him, seemed unable to rouse himself from whatever shock he’d fallen into, so Buck said the only thing he knew would get the gunman’s attention. “Y’ain’t got time fer this, Chris. Vin needs ya.”

And it worked, as Buck had known it would. The green eyes cleared, the proud head lifted, and a look of fierce clarity settled on the strong features. “Send somebody for Yosemite, tell him ta collect the horses,” he ordered. “You help me get Vin up to Nathan’s.” He narrowed his eyes and stared at Buck. “There anybody in town besides you?”

Wilmington grinned, grateful he could finally answer a question the way Larabee wanted. “Ezra. He’s prob’ly still sleepin’. Didn’t go ta bed ’til after–”

“Get him,” Chris rapped out, in no mood for lengthy explanations. “I want him in the clinic in ten minutes. If he’s not there, I’m comin’ ta get him myself. Tell Inez t’ tell him that. Ten minutes, or he’ll answer ta me.”

Buck nodded silently, trying to figure out how he was supposed to relay all the messages and help Chris get Vin upstairs. Well, hell, he’d just have to find a way. Larabee clearly was in no mood to listen to reason right now.

“Okay, pard, I’ll get it done.” And he would.

Chris saw that determination and felt something in him soften. “Thanks, Buck,” he said quietly, gratitude beyond his words showing in his eyes. “Always said I could count on you.”

Buck smiled broadly at that. “Well, hell, pard, dependability’s my middle name!”

Chris forced a thin, strained smile as his world tipped a notch back toward normal. “Thought ‘show of force’ was.”

Buck winked. “I’m a man of many talents,” he joked. “Might’s well be a man of many middle names, too.”

“JD’s right, you know,” Chris said in a warm voice. “You are full of crap.”

“Yep,” Buck agreed, still grinning. “But it does come in one attractive package, don’t you think?”

Chris almost laughed, then shook his head and started toward the clinic.

God have mercy, what was it about Buck Wilmington, anyway?

Nathan all but leapt off the bed as the clinic door crashed open, and uttered a harsh cry as the abrupt movement jarred his throbbing arm. But all thoughts of his own pain immediately vanished when he saw Buck carrying in Vin’s limp, bedraggled body, followed closely by a dirty, tense and fretting Chris Larabee.

“Good Lord,” he breathed as Buck hurried past him and aid Vin on the bed, “what happened?”

“Been shot,” Chris rasped in a low, tight voice. “Morgan. Bullet’s in his shoulder. Needs ta come out.”

“Jesus,” Nathan groaned, his gut clenching hard as he took in Vin’s appearance. Forgetting for the moment his own disability, he gathered his thoughts and turned them all to the wounded man. “Y’all git him stripped down. Lemme see what we got.”

“Bullet’s in his shoulder,” Chris said again. “Needs ta come out.”

Nathan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, marshaling all the patience required to work with these men when one of their number was hurt. “I heard. But I’d like ta see fo’ m’self. Now, do what I said.”

As the two gunmen went to work, Ezra hurried into the clinic, his appearance rather less than its usual immaculate state. He’d gotten Chris’s message and, upon hearing the words “Vin’s hurt,” had known at once that Larabee would be in no mood to tolerate tardiness. Given ten minutes, he’d made it in seven.

“Good Lord,” he breathed, his green eyes widening at the sight of the bloody bandages swathing Vin’s body. “What on earth–”

“Morgan,” Chris snarled, sitting on the bed at Vin’s side and working to unfasten the bandages, his hands as gentle as his voice was harsh.

“I see,” Ezra said, though he didn’t. But this was no time to ask for an explanation. “What can I do?”

Nathan glanced at the gambler and nodded gratefully. “Gon’ need warm water, clean cloths, my carbolic an’ laudanum, fresh bandages. There’s water in that kettle, jes’ put it on the stove. You know where I keep my supplies.”

Without a word, Ezra went to work. Buck set Vin’s boots and gunbelt aside, then looked up at Nathan. “What about me?”

The healer sighed and ran his bandaged left hand over his face. “Get my tools, boil ’em. Pan’s there, by the stove,” he said, waving. “Then… I’ll letcha know.”

Within moments, the small clinic was a virtual whirlwind of activity, all directed with a deep, unfailing calm by Nathan. Refusing to let anyone else do it, Chris bathed Vin’s face, throat, shoulders and chest, and carefully cleaned the ugly wound with strong, sure fingers that were amazingly steady despite the fear churning in his gut. Ezra’s deft hands were put to use measuring and mixing medicinal compounds, while Buck’s strength and gentleness were used to hold Vin when he tried to fight against the hands that, despite their care, only caused him more pain.

At last, Nathan motioned Buck away and sat in the chair the big man vacated, leaning over Vin and doing his best to examine the wound. Chris sat immovably at Tanner’s left side, one hand holding the tracker’s tightly, the other still sweeping a wet cloth in slow, soothing motions over the man’s ashen face. All the while, hard green eyes bored fiercely into the healer, willing him to do something now.

Nathan tried – Lord, how he tried! – but his own injuries defeated him. With his right hand completely useless, he took the probe clumsily in his bandaged left hand and maneuvered it as best he could to search for the bullet. He was more than competent with his left hand, had used it quite capably in the past, yet now he was hindered by the gash and the bandages covering it, and simply could not make it function as he needed. He exhaled sharply in defeat, gave a wholly uncharacteristic curse, and all but threw the probe aside in frustration.

“Nathan?” Chris asked tightly, staring at the healer in a mixture of expectation and dread.

Jackson bowed his head and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the injured man he could not help. “Ain’t no use,” he rasped, helplessness sending a spear of pain through him. “I cain’t do it. Not with these.” He opened his eyes and stared down at his useless hands.

“You have to!” Chris insisted in a low, hard voice, his eyes brimming with an anger born of his fear. “Vin needs–”

“Vin don’ need me pokin’ around in that wound an’ doin’ mo’ damage than that bullet’s already done!” Nathan snapped, raising his head and meeting Larabee’s angry gaze with his own. “I cain’t do it. I won’t do it. You gon’ hafta wire Eagle Bend, git their doctor over here–”

“And he won’t be here until tomorrow, if he comes at all!” Chris snapped. “Vin can’t wait that long, Nathan! That bullet’s been in since yesterday afternoon, he’s burnin’ up with fever, lost more blood than I care ta think about… How much longer d’you think it’ll be before that wound starts ta turn? Hell, in this heat and with all the ridin’ we done, I’m surprised it hasn’t already! He’ll lose his arm, or die–”

“I cain’t do it, Chris!” Nathan spat through clenched teeth, infuriated by his own helplessness and Larabee’s stubbornness. “Look at my hands! How the hell am I s’posed ta go pokin’ into him and pullin’ out a bullet when I cain’t even move my damn fingers? You got any idea what could happen to ’im if I even try?”

Chris impaled the healer with a flaming gaze. “I got a pretty good idea of what’ll happen if ya don’t,” he seethed. “He’ll die.”

“He’s strong–”

“He’s bled out and fevered!” Chris shouted. “He’s not strong! Goddamn it, Nathan, look at him!”

Nathan did look, and nearly choked upon his frustration, his anger, his fear. Vin was hideously pale, his fine-boned face deeply lined with pain, his body radiating an intense fever. Nathan could see that just breathing hurt the tracker, that even the subtle rise and fall of his chest jarred the wound in his shoulder unmercifully. Now and again, the lean frame tensed as yet another wave of pain seared through it, but, for the most part, even unconscious, Vin tried to keep himself as still as he could just to hold the hurt at bay.

“I cain’t,” he whispered at last, his voice breaking. He lifted his head and stared pleadingly at Chris, needing the man to understand. “If I thought fo’ one minute I could, you know I’d try. If I had even one good hand, I’d do it. But, Chris, look at me!” he begged, holding up his injured hand and arm. “How’m I s’posed ta go cuttin’ inta Vin when I cain’t even hold a knife? You tell me how, an’ I swear ta ya, I’ll do it!”

Chris stared long and hard at Nathan’s hands, frantically searching his mind for some answer, for any answer. But the evidence before him spoke for itself. And when he looked into Nathan’s eyes, saw the anguish mirrored there, he knew the truth hurt the healer every bit as much as that bullet was hurting Vin.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed in a hoarse, hollow voice. “I know… you’d do it if ya could… But he can’t wait another day.” He bowed his head and ran a shaking hand over his face. “Jesus, what’re we gonna do?”

“I got a suggestion,” Buck said softly. He stood just inside the doorway, having come in with a bucket of cold water while Chris and Nathan were arguing. He set the bucket down and straightened, and his dark blue eyes, unusually serious, caught and held Larabee’s tortured green ones. “You could do it.”

Chris came off the bed as if he’d been scalded, his face losing what little color it still had, his green eyes widening in shock. “What?” he spat. “Goddamn it, Buck, this is no time for jokes–”

“Easy, pard,” Buck soothed, holding up his big hands placatingly and moving slowly toward the bed. “I’m serious as I can be here. Think about it, Chris,” he urged, determined to make the man see reason. “You got the steadiest hands of anybody I’ve ever known, and I know you can handle a knife. Seen the way you carve–”

“Vin ain’t a goddamn chunk of wood–”

“No, he’s not,” Buck answered in that same soft, gentle voice. “He’s yer friend, and he’s hurt, and he can’t stand much more hurtin’. He needs help and he needs it soon. I’d do it, but I ain’t ever fished a bullet out of a man, and I ain’t about ta learn on that boy. Ezra could probably do it, but I’ll bet he ain’t had more’n three, four hours of sleep since that brawl. And Josiah ain’t here. That leaves only you.”

Chris backed away, his eyes wide and filled with horror, until he was standing with his back to the wall. “You don’t know what you’re askin’–”

Buck sighed sadly. “Yeah, I do,” he said gently. “Believe me, Chris, I know exactly what I’m askin’. But I know you can do this. Hell,” he gave a slight, reassuring smile, “how many times’ve you doctored me up in the past after some bit of foolishness we got into? Even seem ta recall you cuttin’ some buckshot outta my ass once, after Flora Mae Weaver’s pa caught me comin’ outta her window. Ya done a real good job of it, too, ol’ pard.” He winked. “Or so the ladies tell me.”

Chris stared at Buck and shook his head slowly, his mind reeling. “That was years ago–”

“Yeah, and you were half-drunk on some blackberry wine we’d got hold of, too,” Buck reminded him. “But I trusted ya then, pard, and I’d be willin’ ta bet Vin’ll trust ya now.”

You trust me, don’tcha?

He heard again his own question to Vin out on the trail, heard again the answer that had come without hesitation.

Yeah.

He shuddered hard and exhaled unsteadily, his gaze sliding to the unconscious tracker, his friend, the implications of what Buck was suggesting sending a chill through him. He swallowed against threatening nausea and lifted his gaze to the three men facing him, searching their eyes intently and seeing only confidence in them. “That’s his shootin’ arm,” he said weakly.

“And I would wager,” Ezra said gently, his face absolutely devoid of any pretense, “that Vin would trust that arm, and his very life, to your hands without hesitation. He trusts you completely, Chris, and he’s not a man who trusts anyone completely. He’d give his life for you. And,” he added softly, calm jade eyes meeting haunted emerald ones, “I have no doubt that he would give his life to you.”

“I’d be right here, Chris,” Nathan assured him quietly. “Right with ya ever’ minute, tellin’ ya what ta do, helpin’ ever’ way I can. Wouldn’t be like you’s completely on ya’ own.”

Chris stared at his friends, then stared down at Vin and again felt the hard wall at his back. In more ways than one.

“I n… I need… ta think about it,” he murmured unsteadily, exhaustion and worry quickly catching up with him. “I need…” His words trailed off, his mind simply too stunned to function.

“Buck,” Ezra said quietly, “take him to get something to eat. Then perhaps a hot bath might be in order. Nathan and I will see to Vin.”

Wilmington nodded, grateful for Standish’s perception. He doubted Chris had eaten all day, and knew the man needed some time to get his thoughts in order, to regain his composure. Needed to be away from Vin so he could think with his head and not with his heart.

“C’mon, stud,” he called softly. “Let’s go get you taken care of. Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now that Ezra and Nathan can’t. They’ll take good care of Vin, don’t worry.”

Chris nodded absently, knowing that. Somewhere along the way, he’d come to trust these men – all of them – as he trusted himself. And sometimes even more.

He took one last look at Vin, felt the tracker’s pain as if it were his own, and only barely resisted the urge to run from the room and take refuge in the first bottle he could find. But resist it he did, though it required almost strength than he possessed.

“I’ll be back,” he said softly, his gaze tracing his friend’s pale, pain-lined face. “And you’d best be here waitin’ on me, if ya know what’s good for your scrawny Texas ass.”

Buck watched as Chris stabbed absently at the ham steak on his plate or pushed dabs of mashed potatoes through rivulets of gravy with his fork. “Y’know,” he said at last, “it ain’t considered eatin’ unless ya actually put the food in yer mouth an’ chew it.” Chris stabbed the ham steak again, and Buck winced. “B’lieve it’s already dead, pard.”

Chris sighed heavily and let his fork fall from his hand. “What am I gonna do, Buck?” he asked softly, his tone as haunted as his eyes.

“What ya always do. What needs ta be done. It’s always been yer way.”

“But this?” He suddenly held up his hands and stared over them at Wilmington. “These aren’t a healer’s hands, Buck,” he said in a low, harsh voice, his eyes burning. “They put bullets in people, they don’t take ’em out!”

“Yeah, I reckon they do that, all right,” Buck agreed easily. “But,” he frowned thoughtfully, “I seen ’em do a lot more, too. I seen ’em take wild stallions with fire in their veins and turn ’em inta prime breedin’ stock. I seen ’em take a ‘chunk of wood,’ as you call it, an’ turn it inta the goddamnedest things I ever seen.” His eyes and voice grew soft. “I seen ’em holdin’ a pretty little gal’s hands like they was the most precious treasure on earth, an’ I seen ’em hold a little boy the same way. I seen ’em bandage that boy’s hurts an’ wipe away his tears, an’ I seen ’em throw that boy up into the air and catch him ever’ time. Hell, Chris,” he said, raising his eyes to Larabee’s, “I seen them hands ’a yers do ever’thing but one. I ain’t ever seen ’em fail.”

“Then you’ve missed seein’ a thing or two,” Chris breathed, dropping his hands into his lap and out of his sight. “And I don’t want Vin ta be one of those things.”

“He needs ya, Chris–”

“He needs a doctor–”

“Yeah, but we ain’t got one handy, now do we?” Buck shot back. “And I reckon ol’ Vin’s about the best man I know at takin’ what he can get. He needs ya, Chris,” he said firmly, staring at his friend. “You gonna be there for him, or are you gonna be just one more in a long line of folks who’ve let that boy down when he needed ’em?”

Chris shot to his feet at that, his hand streaking to his gun. “I oughtta kill you for that!” he snarled, sending other diners in the restaurant skittering away in expectation of bloodshed.

“Yeah, but you won’t,” Buck said evenly, remaining relaxed in his own chair and easily meeting that murderous glare. “’Cause you know I’m right. Vin needs ya. More’n he’s ever needed anybody in his life, he needs you, and he’d rather die than know you weren’t there when he needed ya most.” He eyed Chris shrewdly. “He can take disappointment and betrayal from a lotta folks. Hell, prob’ly has taken it from a lot. But he could never take it from you, Chris. That’d kill him surer’n any bullet ever could.”

Chris dropped back into his chair, his anger gone. In its wake was only fear. “I just don’t know that I can take havin’ his life in my hands,” he whispered.

“Too late,” Buck said tersely. “It’s already there. It’s been there since the day you two hooked up. He put it there when the two of ya went marchin’ off ta save Nathan, and he surely put it there when he told you about the bounty on his head. And he did it because he trusted you ta keep it safe. Well now, pard,” he said firmly, “now it’s time for you ta do just that.”

“By stickin’ a knife into him,” Chris sneered.

“No, by takin’ a bullet out of him. Or,” he added, reaching for his coffee, “are you just gonna sit by and let him die because yer too scared ta do anything else?”

Chris’s gaze shot to Buck again and a tight scowl twisted at his mouth. “You’re treadin’ on mighty dangerous ground–”

“The truth can be that way,” Buck said coolly, eyeing his friend with a flinty resolve. He’d known Chris Larabee longer than any man alive, knew he took prodding and poking about as well as a pissed-off rattler. But he also knew the man could be blinded by his own stubbornness and sometimes had to be prodded past that.

And Buck figured Vin Tanner’s life was worth the threat of snakebite.

But the rattler pulled in his fangs. Chris exhaled slowly, deeply, and bowed his head, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he whispered.

“Not when it’s Vin’s life we’re talkin’ about,” Buck said softly. “He needs ya, Chris. And you need him. Maybe more’n you’ve needed anybody in a long damn time.” Larabee’s head came up at that, and the green eyes were instantly guarded. But Buck smiled slightly and shook his head. “Don’t look at me that way, Chris, you know as well as I do it’s the truth. Somethin’ happened inside ya the day you two hooked up, some part of ya came back t’ life. Vin ain’t the only one who’s finally decided it’s time he stopped runnin’. Somewhere along the way the two of ya decided t’ make yer stand here, and y’all decided t’ make it together.”

“And look where it’s gotten me,” Chris muttered. “What am I gonna do if he dies?”

Buck shrugged. “I reckon that depends on whether you do anything t’ try an’ keep him alive.”

“Buck–”

“Don’t,” he interrupted sternly, blue eyes hardening. “Vin ain’t got time fer it. You’re all he’s got, Chris. You’re all that’s standin’ between that boy an’ the grave. And, like I said before, Vin’s a man who knows how ta take what he can get. All he’s ever asked for is a chance. And if yer gonna call yerself his friend, then I reckon y’ owe him that much at least.”

Chris knew he had no choice; hell, he’d known it all along. “I wanta ask him, though.”

Buck nodded. “Sounds fair. But what if he says no?” Not that he believed for a moment Vin would.

Chris gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Then I’ll just have Nathan knock him out with laudanum and do it anyway. And hope like hell he survives ta beat the shit outta me.”

Buck smiled broadly as relief swept through him. “Well, eat up and then we’ll get you a bath. Hate ta tell ya, ol’ son,” he winked, “but you’re startin’ ta put folks off their feed.”

They returned to the clinic a little more than an hour later, and Chris stepped in with a feeling of deep foreboding. He knew Nathan would have sent for him had Vin taken a turn for the worse, but he couldn’t help the fear that gnawed at his belly.

And knew that fear wasn’t going anywhere for a good while yet.

Buck stayed close at Chris’s back and kept a big, comforting hand on one tight shoulder. For all his seeming ease, though, he was as worried as Chris, knowing as he did that two lives hung in the balance here.

Nathan stood up and Chris’s gaze went immediately to Vin. He had been bathed, his hair washed, and a clean pad lay over the hole in his shoulder. He was naked to the waist, with only a sheet covering him from there down, and Larabee noted yet again his friend’s remarkably slight build. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on the man, not a bit of fat, the hard ridge and knob of bone just beneath the long, sinewy sweep of muscle and a thin covering of skin. His strength seemed to disappear in repose, giving the rawhide-tough tracker an unnervingly vulnerable and fragile appearance.

“Chris?” Nathan called softly, easily able to see the fear shadowing the gunfighter’s eyes.

Larabee swallowed hard and clenched his hands into fists at his sides, fighting to get his churning emotions under control. “I gotta ask him first,” he said harshly, his gaze never leaving Vin. “He needs ta know what’s goin’ on.”

Nathan sighed. “’Tween his fever an’ the laudanum, I don’ know jes’ how aware he’s gon’ be. Don’ know how much he’ll understand–”

“He’ll understand,” Chris said. “I’ll make sure.”

“Why don’t we adjourn outside,” Ezra suggested quietly. “I believe this is something best discussed between them in private.” Chris shot him a grateful glance, and he smiled and tipped an imaginary hat.

When they had gone, Chris made his way to the bed and eased himself carefully onto its edge, not wanting to jar Vin too violently. Jar him. Shit, he was about to stick a goddamn knife into him!

He took Vin’s good hand in his and held tightly to it, wincing at the heat in it. “Hey, partner,” he called softly, leaning close. “C’mon, Vin,” he summoned, squeezing the tracker’s hot fingers. “Wake up for me. I got somethin’ we gotta talk about.”

Vin’s eyelids flickered and his head moved against the pillow, his face drawing into a mask of pain. A low moan escaped him.

“C’mon, Tanner,” Chris cajoled, gently tapping Vin’s cheek, “wake up. Lemme see them blue eyes.”

“No,” Vin groaned faintly, trying to move away from that hand. “Don’t. Hurts.”

“Yeah, I know,” Chris sighed, hating this with everything that was in him. “But I’m hopin’ we can make it better. Come on, Vin, wake up.”

He wanted to remain in the dark shadows, dreaded returning to the pain that he knew awaited him, but simply couldn’t resist the pull Larabee had on him. So he allowed that pull to drag him to the surface, immediately tensing and uttering a thick, wordless cry as wakefulness brought the full weight of the pain crashing through him. “Oh!”

“Ssh, easy, pard,” Chris soothed, pressing a hand to the tracker’s good shoulder and holding him still. “Take it easy. You don’t need t’ be movin’ around.”

“Chr…ris?” he whispered weakly. Another wave of pain seared through him and he stiffened, drawing a sharp, hissing breath and clutching frantically at the hand that held his. “Shit!”

“Yeah, I know.” He continued to hold Vin’s hand and began gently stroking his shoulder, willing the tight, pain-racked body to relax. “Can ya hear me, pard? I need ta talk to ya.”

“Hurts,” Vin groaned, trying to fix his swimming gaze on Larabee and failing. “Chris?”

“Yeah, I’m right here. And I know it hurts like hell.” He swallowed hard and gazed into the cloudy, unfocused eyes. “That’s what I need ta talk to ya about.”

“Talk?” Vin croaked, trying to make sense of words that slid in and out of the fog shrouding his mind. “What?”

Chris steeled himself and plunged in. “You got a bullet in your shoulder, you remember that?”

Vin blinked, frowned in thought, then flinched at the memory of the bullet slamming into him. “Morgan,” he rasped. “Shot me.”

“Yeah,” Chris sighed. “That bullet’s gotta come out, but we got a little problem.” He licked his lips and forced himself to continue. “Nathan’s hurt, Vin,” he said slowly, clearly, needing to make certain Tanner understood. “And he can’t do it. But the closest doctor is in Eagle Bend, and I’m not sure you can wait that long. It’s gotta come out now. You understand?”

Vin stared up at Chris and clung to his hand, trying to concentrate on his words. “Nathan’s… hurt,” he breathed. “Ain’t… ain’t nobody else… ta take it out.”

Chris drew a long, slow breath and released it carefully, then said, “There’s me.”

Vin went absolutely still at that, his eyes widening. “You?”

Chris grimaced and bowed his head, gazing at hand clutching so tightly, so trustingly, at his. “Got no choice,” he said, “unless you wanta spend another night with that bullet inside ya. But it’s already been in since yesterday. You’ve got a bad fever and you’ve lost a lotta blood. I don’t know that you got it in ya ta wait any longer, partner. I don’t wanta do this, but we’re runnin’ outta choices.”

Vin closed his eyes and swallowed weakly. He hurt – God, he hurt! – felt almost like he could die from the hurt alone. It went down his arm, up his neck, through his back and into his chest, like fire eating away at him from the inside. He wrenched his hand from Chris’s and clutched at the man’s chest, digging his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and holding on for dear life as the pain cut ever more deeply into him. “Do it!” he gasped at last.

Chris wanted to tear that hand away, wanted to run from this room and the responsibility it imposed upon him. But no matter how far or how fast he ran, Vin would still be here, would still need help, would die if he didn’t get it.

And Chris knew he’d never be able to run far enough or fast enough from that.

“You sure?” he whispered tightly. “I ain’t Nathan–”

“Cain’t take… no more,” Vin groaned, the pain already almost more than he could bear. “Need… need ya… t’ help me.”

He tightened his hand about Vin’s and gazed down into his ashen face. “That’s your shootin’ arm, pard.”

Vin managed a pained smile. “Then best ya… be careful… cowboy.”

Chris frowned at the trust in the weak voice. “You’re puttin’ your life in my hands, Vin.”

The smile widened even as the blue eyes closed. “Ain’t puttin’ it… nowhere… it ain’t already been,” he breathed. “’N I reckon… yer hands… is about… safest place fer it.”

“You sure?”

“’S I ever been ’bout anything,” he whispered, his words slurring together.

Chris nodded, his throat aching fiercely from the knot forming in it. “You rest now, pard,” he whispered hoarsely, brushing the wet hair back from the too-pale face. “Just rest, and leave the rest t’ me.” He watched Vin a moment longer, then rose to his feet and crossed the clinic to the door.

Three men rose to their feet as the door opened and all looked expectantly at Larabee. The gunman looked tired, pale, grim. And determined. Buck exhaled in relief and Ezra visibly relaxed.

“All right,” Chris said quietly, his gaze finding and snaring Nathan’s. “Let’s do this.”

It was as hellish a time as Chris could remember enduring, his every nerve on raw, painful edge, his stomach churning viciously, his jaws clenched so tightly his whole head and neck ached from it. Somehow, though, his hands remained miraculously steady as he worked to remove the bullet from his friend’s body.

Nathan talked him through every step, the healer’s rich, warm voice a soothing presence in that small room and a balm upon Larabee’s jagged nerves. Ezra talked, too, though his smooth, honeyed drawl was pitched more for Vin’s comfort than Chris’s as his quick, nimble fingers wiped away the blood that seeped from the wound.

Buck was, unusually for him, the quietest man in that room, his whole concentration fixed on holding Vin still when he struggled. Even dosed with laudanum, fevered and near bled out, the tracker still fought against the hands holding him, instinctively resisting any sort of restraint. And, when Chris’s probe made contact with the bullet, he loosed a wrenching cry and damn near came off the bed.

“Hold ’im, Buck!” Nathan warned sharply. “Man c’n fight like a demon when he shouldn’t have no strength at all, an’ he don’ need ta be flailin’ about jes’ now. You got it, Chris?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, gone nearly white as Vin at the tracker’s agonized reaction. Jesus, how did Nathan do this?

“All right,” Jackson coached, keeping his voice as calm as he could. “You gon’ hafta switch hands. Keep that there so you don’ lose the bullet, an’ take these,” he held out a pair of forceps, “ta pull it out.”

Chris switched the probe to his left hand, touched the bullet again, and felt his stomach lurch when Vin arched beneath him and gave an anguished groan. He licked his dry lips and swallowed hard, then forced himself to take the forceps.

“Slow an’ easy,” Nathan directed. “Got ta be careful, jes’ kinda feel ya’ way. An’ don’ rush. That bullet ain’t goin’ nowhere, an’ Vin ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Easy fer you ta say,” Buck growled, renewing his hold on the writhing tracker. “This boy don’t know when ta quit.”

“I dare say that tenacious tendency is a necessity for a man of his rather precarious existence,” Ezra put in quietly, wiping still more blood from the wound. “One never knows when one will be forced to fight, so one must be prepared to do so at all times. Even,” he grimaced and joined his efforts to Buck’s in restraining Tanner, “when fighting is not entirely in one’s own best interests.”

“Got it!” Chris said sharply, latching onto the bullet with the forceps. “Nathan?”

“Take it out,” the healer instructed. “Not too fast, not too slow, an’ be as steady as ya can. Ezra, be ready ta put pressure on it when he’s done. Vin cain’t afford ta lose much mo’ blood.”

Chris drew a deep breath and steeled himself. Then, with a silent apology to his friend, he drew out the bullet, feeling it scrape against bone as it came free. Vin gave another anguished cry and arched off the bed, then shuddered violently and fell back.

“Yeah, now he passes out,” Buck sighed, tenderly patting the still tracker’s shoulder.

Chris dropped the bullet into a small bowl and tossed the forceps in after it, desperate to be rid of them. A shuddering gasp escaped him and he nearly bowed his head into his hands, until he saw the blood covering them. Vin’s blood. He pulled his hands away and balled them into fists, his breath coming hard and fast, his body going into violent tremors as reaction set in.

God, God, what had he done?

“That’s good, Ezra, that’s real good,” Nathan breathed as the gambler hurriedly moved to stop the fresh bleeding. “Buck, why’n’t you take Chris over there,” he nodded toward the wash basin, “help him git cleaned up? Me an’ Ezra can finish up here.”

Buck rose to his feet, walked around the bed to Chris and reached down, clamping a big hand around the gunman’s arm. “C’mon, buddy,” he said gently, pulling the dazed, slumped man to his feet, “let’s get that blood off yer hands. Nathan, you got any whiskey?”

The healer looked up, took in Chris’s waxy complexion and nodded. “In the cupboard there. Reckon a shot might do ’im good, at that.”

Chris let Buck lead him to the basin and let the big man clean him up, too numb to do it himself. Vin’s cries still echoed in his mind, Vin’s blood stained his hands and clothes, and his every nerve remembered the feel of that bullet scraping against Vin’s bone and sliding through his flesh.

Jesus, he was gonna be sick!

“Sit,” Buck ordered softly, pushing Larabee into a chair once he’d gotten him clean. He walked away, then returned a few moments later and held out a small glass filled with amber liquid. “Drink.”

Chris stared at the glass for long moments, as if trying to figure out what he was supposed to do with it, then reached out and took it in a shaky hand. He stared at it a moment more, then raised it quickly to his lips and drained it in one long, desperate swallow. The whiskey burned a path down his throat to his stomach and he exhaled unsteadily, then held out the glass to Buck.

“More,” he grunted hoarsely.

Buck nodded and refilled the glass, watching approvingly as Chris drank more slowly this time. A trace of color was returning to the wan features and the green eyes were slowly clearing. He knelt before Chris and looked up at him, worried to see him so deeply shaken.

“You all right, pard?” he asked softly.

“Ain’t me I’m worried about,” Chris rasped, slumping in his chair as the weight of his exhaustion settled upon him and feeling every knot that had taken up residence in his muscles. “I ain’t the one just had a bullet cut outta me.”

“No, but you’re the one did the cuttin’, and I’m bettin’ it felt a helluva lot like you were cuttin’ into yerself,” Buck said shrewdly. “But it’s done now. You did what ya had ta do, and it’s over.”

“Is it?” Chris whispered, turning his head to watch Ezra packing Vin’s wound under Nathan’s direction. Beneath the gambler’s hands, Vin lay frightfully silent and unmoving. His bloodless flesh held little more color than the sheet covering him, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest showed that he was alive.

Buck followed the direction of Chris’s gaze with his own and winced at the sight. He didn’t like seeing Tanner so vulnerable, looking so frail and young. He much preferred Vin as he usually presented himself – tough as rawhide, enduring as stone and as old as the hills. He’d realized long ago that much of Vin’s appearance was an illusion – wide-brimmed slouch hat hiding expressive eyes, whiskers kept long to make him look older, oversized hide coat and layers of clothing adding bulk to his frame – but had gotten comfortable with the illusion. He didn’t like thinking of one of the deadliest and most capable men he’d ever known as little more than a slender kid.

“He’ll get through it,” he said, hoping he sounded more convinced than he felt. “Hell, he’s survived worse. It’ll take more’n a bullet in his shoulder ta bring him down.” He forced a grin. “You saw him fightin’ us. Long after any of the rest of us woulda been down an’ out, he was still buckin’ like a bronc. Maybe he ain’t but gristle an’ bone, but he knows how ta use what he’s got.”

Chris managed a weak smile at that and a faint light kindled in his eyes. “He is an ornery cuss, ain’t he? Hell, sometimes I wonder if he’s worth the trouble.”

“Heard that once or twice about you,” Buck teased. “Hell, I’ve said that once or twice about you.” He watched Chris watching Vin, saw the fear written so plainly in those green eyes, and his teasing manner faded. “Reckon it’s a good thing you two hooked up, then,” he said quietly. “Y’all can just bedevil each other, let the rest of us have some peace.”

Chris jerked his gaze back to his old friend at that, but saw no resentment in the deep blue eyes, only understanding with a hint of sorrow. “Buck–”

“Don’t, Chris,” the big man said softly, earnestly. “Hell, I know he ain’t replacin’ me. First time y’all met, that boy carved a place all his own. But it don’t take a genius ta see just how big or deep a place it is.”

Even through the weariness and worry weighing him down, Chris forced himself to reach out and take the big man’s shoulder in a hard grip. He stared into Buck’s eyes, seeing there the friend who’d shared so much of his life, the good and the unspeakably bad, and knew Vin wasn’t the only one who occupied so important a place in him.

“Thanks, Buck,” he said quietly, his voice conveying more than his words ever could.

“Aw, hell, pard, what’re friends for?” He drew the warmth in Chris’s eyes into himself, let it ease the doubts and shadows from his mind and heart, then rose to his feet. “What’s say we go check yer handiwork, ‘Doc’ Larabee, then I guess one of us better make an appearance on the streets before some other trouble busts loose.” Larabee scowled at the nickname, but Buck only laughed. “Hell, Chris, y’ gotta admit it’s damn convenient. Now, not only can ya put bullets in, but you can take ’em out, too. Hell, stud, you can double yer goin’ rate!”

Chris stood at the window, one arm pressed against the frame, his forehead resting on his forearm, his whole body sagging with exhaustion. But far worse than his weariness was his worry. Vin was no better; in fact, he was worse. His fever still raged and the wound in his shoulder looked angrier than ever. Nathan had assured him it was to expected, given the circumstances, but Chris couldn’t help the terrible fear that gnawed at him.

What if it was because of something he had done?

Jesus, what had he been thinking? He was no damn doctor! What business did he have sticking a knife into anybody, much less Vin, and trying to fish out a goddamn bullet? And into his shoulder, no less! Hell, he’d been shot in the shoulder before, he knew how tricky it could be. There was so much in there that could be hurt, and that, if hurt, could cripple a man…

Jesus, what had he been thinkin’?

“’risss?”

The faint, slurred summons from behind him scattered his thoughts and pulled him sharply around, his gaze going at once to the bed. Vin was writhing weakly, his head thrashing from side to side, his good arm raised as if he were seeking something. Instantly Chris went to his side, taking the hot hand in his and holding tightly to it as he sank into the chair beside the bed.

“Vin?” he called quietly. “I’m here, pard. I’m right here.” He laid his other hand against Vin’s cheek, winced at the terrible heat there, and reached for the cloth in the bowl of water on the bedside table. With slow, gentle motions, he tenderly bathed the tracker’s face and throat. “C’mon, Vin,” he urged, “I need ya ta come back. You’re startin’ ta scare me here.”

But Tanner remained in whatever shadowed place the fever had locked him, his body racked by pain, his mind plagued by ghosts. He moaned and murmured brokenly, incoherently, his fractured words heartbreaking in their helplessness.

“No… don’t… no more,” he pleaded softly, twisting weakly as if trying to break free of whatever – whoever – held him. “Hurts… don’t… please!”

Ignoring his own anguish, Chris held more tightly still to Vin’s hand and continued to bathe his fevered flesh, speaking softly, soothingly to him all the while, seeking to ease the younger man’s suffering. Gradually Vin’s thrashing stilled and his ravings quieted, his body simply too weak to maintain such a struggle for long.

“That’s it,” Chris soothed, wetting the cloth again and pressing it to Tanner’s forehead. “You gotta rest. Save your strength. Don’t need ta waste it fightin’ me.”

Somehow that voice, that touch, that presence, penetrated even through his pain and fever, and Vin relaxed further as he recognized the man tending him. “Chris,” he breathed.

“Yeah, pard, it’s me,” Chris said roughly, resting the back of his hand against Tanner’s burning cheek. “You’re safe now, Vin. You rest, let us take care of ya.”

“Hurts. Make… make it… stop.”

Chris closed his eyes tightly at that plea, his own helplessness like a knife in his gut. “Wish I could, pard. But there’s just not a whole lot I can do.” He reached again for the wet cloth, and resumed bathing Tanner’s chest, carefully avoiding his injured shoulder.

Gradually that coolness penetrated the hellish heat consuming him and he gave a soft sigh. “Feels good,” he slurred. “So h… hot!” He licked dry lips, then groaned as the blessed coolness caressed him. “Y’ ain’t… a half bad nurse… cowboy,” he sighed.

Chris gave a choked chuckle, torn between relief that he was able to offer Vin some comfort and frustration that there was nothing more he could do. He saw Vin lick his lips again and swallow with some difficulty, and frowned. “You thirsty?” When Tanner gave a faint nod, Chris dropped the cloth back into the bowl and picked up the cup next to it. “Here,” he said, releasing Vin’s hand and slipping his own beneath the tracker’s head, lifting slightly. “Small sips,” he instructed, placing the cup to Vin’s mouth, “and slow. Don’t want you gettin’ sick.”

Vin took two small sips, then closed his lips and turned his head, finished. Chris, however, was not. The tracker was much too hot and hadn’t had nearly enough water. He’d be damned if the man would burn alive from the inside on his watch.

“C’mon, partner, drink for me,” he urged, holding the cup steady at Tanner’s mouth. “You ain’t had nearly enough yet.”

“Don’t want… no more,” Vin protested weakly. “Tired.”

“I know ya are. But you got a ragin’ fever and you need water. Now, c’mon. I ain’t lettin’ ya rest ’til ya drink.”

“Hurts!” he groaned. “Please…”

Chris had to clamp down hard on his urge to give in, to let Vin seek refuge from the pain in sleep. But he knew he couldn’t. “Sorry, pard,” he rasped, “but I can’t letcha sleep ’til ya drink some more. Now, c’mon.” He pressed the cup closer.

But Vin only closed his lips more tightly. Chris sighed at the man’s stubbornness, even while lost in fever, and knew it was time to fight dirty. “Nathan’s over in my room,” he said firmly. “He’s in a lotta pain himself, needs his rest, but I’ll send for him if I have to. And between us we’ll get this down ya.”

Vin forced open his eyes to glare up at Larabee and saw the resolve in the man’s face. Saw also the weariness and worry there, and knew he was the cause of both. And the longer he fought, the longer they’d both go without the rest they needed.

“Bastard,” he whispered.

Chris arched a brow and shrugged. “I believe in goin’ with what works. More?”

Vin wanted to refuse, was so tired and in so much pain he just wanted to drift away. Truth was, though, the water had felt so good against his parched throat that he couldn’t deny his need for more of it.

Chris saw his small nod of surrender and heaved a sigh of relief. Slowly and with infinite patience, he got all the water down Vin a few sips at a time, joking with him between swallows to encourage him to continue and wiping away the tears that seeped from his eyes near the end as the hideous pain simply became too much. Reaching for the laudanum Nathan had left on the table, he drizzled a few drops into the last of the water and slowly coaxed the mixture down the exhausted, hurting man.

When the cup was empty, he set it aside and positioned Vin more comfortably against his pillows, then pulled the covers up securely around him. He again retrieved the cool, wet cloth from the bowl and resumed his gentle bathing of the tracker’s face, murmuring softly to him all the while.

And, soothed by the low, warm voice washing over him and the gentle hand moving against him, Vin gave in to the pain, surrendered to the heavy pull of the laudanum and slipped into the deep, dark waters of sleep.