Josiah and JD returned at sundown and reined in before the saloon. Sliding wearily from their horses, they stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed through the batwing doors, entering with relief the cool, dark interior. They looked around, saw that Ezra was already involved in a poker game, then noticed Buck sitting alone at a table nearby. Something in the big man’s posture triggered alarms in the two and they exchanged anxious glances, then went to join him.

“Hey, Buck,” JD greeted, dropping into a chair at Wilmington’s side and slumping back. He removed his bowler, tossed it onto the table, and ran his hands through his sweat-matted black hair.

Buck nodded to the preacher, who slid his big body into the chair across from him, then turned to study the kid. No bruises, no blood, no holes. One more returned safe to the fold.

But the scrutiny unnerved JD and he straightened in his chair, dark brows knitting over wary hazel eyes. “What?” he asked sharply.

Buck finally smiled. “Just makin’ sure you’re all right,” he said at last. “Figgered with Nathan down and you an’ Josiah out rilin’ the ranchers, this’d be a prime opportunity for you ta get hurt.” He winked. “But I reckon even I can be wrong ever’ once in a while.”

“Jeez, Buck!” JD groaned, settling back in his chair. “I ain’t a baby, y’know. I can look after myself.”

“Yeah, well, ya ain’t gotta, so just simmer down.” He suddenly noticed the reddened skin over the boy’s nose and across his cheekbones. “Aw, hell, ya took off yer damn hat again, didn’t ya?” he accused. “Son, what’ve I told ya? When it’s hot enough ta fry eggs in yer hand, ya don’t go gallavantin’ around the damn countryside without yer damn hat! Coulda got heatstroke or somethin’! And you!” He turned blazing blue eyes on Sanchez. “Just what the hell were you thinkin’, lettin’ him ride without his hat? Goddamn it, Josiah, ain’t his brains scrambled enough without the sun gettin’ to ’em?”

Josiah arched a heavy gray brow and stared at the big man. “Nice ta see you, too, Buck,” he said smoothly. “Yes, we had a lovely ride. The ranchers, you ask? Well, off-hand I’d say they’re none too pleased with us right now. A beer? Why, thank you, that’d be right nice. Appreciate you offerin’.” When JD snickered, Josiah winked. “Them’s what you call ‘the social niceties,’ Buck. You know, manners and all.”

“Hell,” Wilmington griped, casting a warning look at JD.

Josiah looked around the saloon and frowned. “Chris and Vin ain’t back yet? I thought surely they’d be here by now.”

Buck’s big frame sagged at that and his face twisted into a mask of worry. Immediately Josiah and JD straightened into alertness, their gazes snapping to Buck.

“They’re back,” he breathed, grimacing and dropping his gaze to the tabletop. “Got in this afternoon.” He shook his head, then lifted it and met his friends’ anxious gazes. “Morgan’s dead,” he explained in a low, troubled voice. “He tried to escape, Chris killed him. But…” He winced. “Not before the bastard put a bullet inta Vin.”

“Oh, Lord,” Josiah whispered, closing his eyes and bowing his head.

“How bad?” JD asked softly as fear gripped him. “I mean, if they rode back, it couldn’t be too bad, right? Maybe it just went through–”

“No, son, it didn’t just ‘go through,’” Buck answered gently. He exhaled deeply and sat back, tired to his very bones. “It happened yesterday afternoon, Chris said. Bullet caught Vin in the right shoulder, right about here.” He indicated the spot on his own body. “It lodged here, just under the bone.” He swept pained blue eyes over his two friends. “Rode back ta town with it in there. Hell, by the time they got here, he was havin’ ta ride with Chris.” He sighed again and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Worst of it is, Chris had ta take the bullet out. Vin couldn’t wait for a doctor, couldn’t wait for anybody. Nathan talked him through it, but still…” He grimaced deeply, his whole face drawing into a mask of pain. “You know Chris. If Vin dies, or somethin’ happens and he loses the use of that arm, Larabee’ll take ever’ ounce of guilt into himself.”

“They’re up in the clinic?” Josiah asked softly, easily able to imagine the blond gunfighter’s anguish.

“Yeah,” Buck sighed. “Chris is tendin’ Vin. Nathan tried, but his arm started hurtin’ so bad… Chris finally threw him out, gave him the key ta his room and told him ta stay there, said he’d stay at the clinic. Nathan’s takin’ this hard, too. Feels useless, feels like he’s let us all down. Won’t let any of us talk to him… Shit,” he growled, “that sonuvabitch Morgan did a helluva lotta damage with just one damn bullet!”

“How’s Vin?” JD asked quietly, not certain he wanted to know. There was still so much about the quiet tracker that mystified him, some that flat-out awed him, and some that even frightened him. But, though he doubted he’d ever really understand Tanner, he liked him immensely, liked his wry wit, his easy-going nature, his steady friendship. He didn’t want to lose any of that.

Again, Buck stared down at the table. “He’s in a bad way. Lost more blood than you’d think a fella his size would have in him. And he’s got a ragin’ fever. I hate ta say it,” he murmured, “but it just ain’t lookin’ real good.”

Josiah pursed his lips and thought. He was worn out from riding in the heat and jawing with three angry, arrogant ranchers, wanted a bath, wanted a meal, wanted his bed. But he thought again of the man keeping lonely vigil in the clinic and knew none of his own wants mattered.

“Think maybe I should go talk ta Chris,” he said quietly as he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Let him know this ain’t a burden he’s got ta carry himself.”

“Good luck,” Buck sighed. “I sure ain’t been able ta convince him of that so far.”

“Uh, I hate ta ask this now,” JD put in quietly, looking uncertainly at Buck and seeing plainly his exhaustion, “but has anybody told Miz Shelby that Morgan’s dead? I figure she’s got a right ta know.”

“Aw, hell,” Buck groaned, his head dropping forward. “I didn’t even think of that. I been so busy with things here–”

The boy smiled and reached out, patting his friend’s broad shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll ride out first thing tomorrow and tell her. I know she was countin’ on seein’ him hang, but,” he shrugged, “I figure dead is dead. Might help her some to know he won’t be hurtin’ anybody else.”

Buck raised his head and smiled at JD. “It might at that,” he agreed. “Morgan’s stuff is over at the jail. We’ll go through it tonight and see if anything he took from them is in there. Be nice if we can give ’em back somethin’.” He nodded at the boy, his blue eyes warm. “Thanks fer remindin’ me about her, son.”

JD beamed at the man’s approval, a broad smile spreading across his face, his hazel eyes shining. He might be past his wide-eyed hero-worship of these men, might see them more as mere mortals than he did before, but he still was not beyond puffing up with pride when an idea or action of his won their approval.

“Just,” Buck felt compelled to add at the kid’s cocky grin, “try not ta fall off yer horse or get shot or run afoul of a bear or a cougar on the way out and back. And wear yer hat, fer God’s sake. Goddamn stupid-lookin’ thing might not be worth much, but I reckon even it’ll keep yer brain from fryin’.”

Josiah knocked quietly and waited. When there was no answer, he opened the door and stepped into the clinic, his heart clenching with fear. As many times as he’d seen one of his friends laid out in that bed, the sight never failed to turn his soul cold.

And this time it was Vin, pale as death, his right shoulder and upper chest swathed in bandages, his slight body unmoving. The sharpshooter was a man of deep silences and long stillnesses, but even for him this was unnatural, and Josiah felt a chill ripple down his spine.

From the man on the bed, the preacher’s gaze went to the man by the bed, and his heart sank further in his chest. Chris Larabee sat hunched over in his chair, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, fingers thrust deeply into his dark blond hair. The lean, proud body was bent, the strong shoulders bowed; the heavy weight that bore down upon him was a palpable presence in that small room.

“You doin’ all right?” Josiah asked softly, closing the door behind him and stepping forward.

“I’m not the one you should be worried about,” Chris answered in a low, hoarse voice, never looking up.

Josiah’s gaze took in both men and an expression of deepest sorrow settled over his blunt features. “Seems ta me,” he said quietly, “that where two men are sufferin’, they’re both deservin’ of worry.” He suddenly noticed the long shadows dusk was casting about the room and realized Chris had not lit a single lamp. “Why don’t we try throwin’ a little light on the situation.”

He moved about the room with a quiet ease unusual in a man of his heft and lit the various oil lamps Nathan kept to illuminate the many late-night vigils he sat. As he turned back toward the bed, he could not help noting that both Vin and Chris looked even worse in the light than they had in the dark.

“How’s he doin’?” he asked gently, stopping just beside the bed and gazing down at the wounded man.

Chris lifted his head with an effort. He knew he should probably look at Josiah, but his eyes would not move any further than Vin. “Fever’s still burnin’, but he ain’t thrashin’ about or mutterin’ no more. It’s like he’s stopped fightin’.”

Josiah pulled up another chair and sat down, then leaned forward to lay a big hand against Tanner’s head, as if in benediction. “Brother Vin’s a quiet man,” he said, his deep voice pitched low. “Finds his solace in silence. Maybe, knowin’ what kind of fight he faces, he’s just restin’ a while, gone back to the quiet to renew his strength for the battle.”

Chris retrieved the wet cloth from the bowl and resumed bathing Vin’s hot skin. “You here ta tell me it’s not my fault?”

Josiah sat back in his chair and crossed his arms against his broad chest, lifting two graying brows and resting an appraising gaze on Larabee. “That somethin’ you need ta hear?”

He exhaled heavily and bowed his head, shaking it slowly. He stopped bathing Vin, but left his hand on the tracker’s chest, just over his heart, needing to feel the throb of life there and the reassurance it offered, however weak it was.

A wave of sorrow swept through the preacher as he watched the two men before him. They were linked in so many ways, ways he couldn’t even begin to understand, and a part of him had always envied that. Had always wondered what it must be like to know and be known by another so completely. Now, though, he knew such a bond had its price, too. One man was gravely wounded, but two men were in torment. Buck had once joked that if Chris caught cold, Vin sneezed, and they’d all laughed. Now, though, Vin had been shot and Chris was bleeding. And no one was laughing any more.

Chris immersed the cloth in the water again, then wrung it out and went back to trying to cool Vin’s fever. “Believe me, I know whose fault this is,” he said at last, his voice strained, his face haggard in the lamplight. “And I wish ta hell the bastard was still alive right now so I could make him pay. But I’ll settle for Vin stayin’ alive and count that as payment enough.”

Josiah nodded slowly. “Sounds fair.” He studied Larabee’s appearance. “So how’re you doin’?”

Chris looked up sharply and frowned, confused by the question. “I told ya, I’m not the one you should be worried about–”

“Didn’t believe it then,” Josiah said evenly, “don’t believe it now.” He nodded down at Vin. “You had to dig a bullet out of the man who’s closer to you than your own brother would be. Had to take his life into your hands, as it were. That’s a powerful responsibility, Chris, and you’re not a man who takes such things lightly. It’s gotta hurt, doin’ what you did and seein’ him like this. So I’ll ask again. How are you doin’?”

Chris stared at the older man for long, long moments, wanting desperately to say that he was fine, that he had no regrets, that he’d only done what he had to do and was comfortable with that. In all truth, though, he was as far from comfortable as a man could be, was the farthest thing from “fine” he could imagine and was near eaten up with regret. With fear. The hands that had been so damn steady when he’d cut into Vin hadn’t stopped shaking since.

“I don’t know how Nathan does this,” he breathed at last, his voice heavy with emotion. “How he holds so many lives in his hands, how he can bear up under the weight. What if Vin dies?” he rasped, tortured by that thought. “How will I know whether it was because it was just too late for anyone to help him or because I did somethin’ wrong? Or what if he lives but loses the use of his arm? How am I supposed to live with myself then?”

Josiah regarded him steadily for long moments, then asked quietly, “Would you do it all again?”

Chris frowned, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

Josiah arched a brow. “You heard me. Would you do it all again? Even knowin’ what you know now, knowin’ how you feel now, if you had to, if it was a choice between just lettin’ Vin die or takin’ his life into your own hands, would you do it all again?”

Chris stared at Josiah, then looked down at his hands, and, from there, let his gaze travel to Vin. He tried to imagine himself not taking the bullet out, tried to imagine doing nothing except waiting for someone else to shoulder the responsibility. And possibly losing his friend because he’d done nothing, because he’d been too frightened, too worried about himself, to act.

He tried to imagine that, but couldn’t.

“Yeah,” he said at last, quiet conviction in his tired voice. “If he needed me ta do it, then, yeah, I’d do it all again.”

Josiah smiled slightly and nodded. “And that, brother, is how you live with yourself.”

Ezra hesitated just outside the door, one hand poised for knocking, a laden tray balanced carefully on the other, his face an unusual mask of indecision. He had no idea why he was here, why he’d volunteered to do this, couldn’t imagine what on earth he’d been thinking. He, surely, was the absolute last of their strange little band suited to this task! Josiah would have been the far more natural choice, with his wisdom and empathy. For that matter, Buck, with his infinite capacity for compassion, would have been the perfect candidate.

But Josiah was busy tending Chris’s ravaged soul, and Buck was at the jail, watching the prisoners and helping JD go through Morgan’s belongings. Which left only him.

And a man any less suited to soothe Nathan Jackson’s mind he’d be hard-pressed to name.

Nonetheless, it had to be done. Nathan was suffering, of that Ezra had no doubt, and he felt strangely compelled at least to attempt to help the man. A compulsion that confused him to no end. Where once he might have taken note of another’s misery but shrugged it off as being of no concern to himself, he seemed to have lost that rather comfortable remoteness over the past few months. Somewhere in his association with his disreputable comrades, he had developed the most unnerving sense of concern for their well-being.

Oh, he had tried manfully to deny it, and then simply to ignore it, but had failed utterly at both. To his everlasting horror, he found himself worrying over their trials, commiserating with their sorrows, suffering through their agonies. He, Ezra P. Standish, had somehow been maneuvered against his most stubborn will into caring – caring! – about six men from whom he had absolutely nothing to gain.

Except that same caring in return.

Good Lord, Maude would be appalled!

But there was nothing to be done for it. He’d given himself any number of reasons, very good reasons, why he shouldn’t be here now, why this wouldn’t work, why he should just turn around and walk away as quickly as he could. Yet here he stood, mired in the concern he could not ignore. These men really were a deplorable influence on him, and he intended to have some very strong words with them about that!

Just as soon as this current crisis had passed and he was certain that they were all well again…

It truly was sad to know just how far he’d fallen. Loosing a mournful sigh, he shook his head at his own shameful sentimentality and tapped his free hand to his chest. “Courage, Ezra,” he exhorted softly, then lifted his hand again and rapped his knuckles sharply against the door.

These men would be the ruin of him…

He heard the sound of slow footsteps, then a rattling of the knob before the door opened to reveal Nathan’s dark, unhappy face. “Ezra?” the healer asked in surprise, startled to see the Southerner. Then seizing upon the most likely reason for the man’s presence, he asked worriedly, “Somethin’ wrong with Vin?”

Standish smiled gently and shook his head, relieved he could offer this consolation at least. “We’ve heard of no change in his condition,” he assured the healer quietly. “He may not be any better, but there’s no cause to believe that he’s any worse, either.”

“Thank God!” Nathan breathed fervently. Then his confusion at the gambler’s presence returned and he frowned at the man. “So what’re you doin’ here?”

Ezra lifted the tray. “I come bearing sustenance.” Seeing the argument forming, he arched a chestnut brow and added firmly, “And don’t bother to refuse. No one has seen you eat since Chris returned with Vin, and no one has delivered any meals to this room.” He gave a small, smug smile. “I took the liberty of inquirin’.”

“Ain’t hungry–”

“Yes, well,” Ezra interrupted smoothly, “as you have so often answered that very declaration from one of us, I don’t care. Hungry or not, you’ll eat.”

Nathan scowled deeply at the Southerner’s air of arrogant presumption. “You gon’ make me?”

Ezra stared blandly up at the man who stood at least half a foot taller than he and outweighed him considerably. “If it comes to that,” he said evenly, “then, yes, I will.” He studied Nathan a moment more, took in the weariness and worry etched into the man’s face, the deep sorrow in his dark eyes, and sighed, allowing his own concern to show through. “What good will neglecting yourself accomplish?” he asked softly. “How will it help Vin?”

Nathan exhaled audibly and bowed his head, his whole body slumping. “Ain’t no help to him as it is,” he muttered dejectedly.

“Nonsense,” Ezra answered coolly, lifting his chin. “Now, please, invite me in and step aside. This tray is growing rather cumbersome.”

Nathan thought of arguing, but couldn’t summon the will to battle the gambler’s notorious stubbornness. “All right,” he finally granted, opening the door wider and moving aside. “It’s yo’ time t’ waste.”

Recognizing and steeling himself for the struggle that lay ahead, Ezra stepped smoothly into the room, moving to the small table before the window and setting down the tray. With a dramatic flair, he lifted the checkered napkin that covered the plate and draped it over his left forearm, then stepped behind the single chair, pulled it out, and gestured to it with an airy wave, bowing from the waist. “Your repast awaits, my good sir,” he announced in his deep, honeyed drawl.

Nathan couldn’t help but recognize the irony of a Southern “gentleman” waiting on him. “You gon’ black my boots while I eat?”

Ezra straightened immediately and shot a horrified look at the man. “Mr. Jackson, I do not even polish my own boots!”

Nathan snorted and shook his head. “Why didn’t I know that?” he grumbled. He shifted his gaze to the plate and grimaced. “I really ain’t hungry–”

“And I really don’t care,” Ezra said firmly. “You are injured. You are exhausted. Your body requires nourishment in order to heal properly–”

“Cain’t see as that matters now,” Nathan put in softly, sadly. “I could eat enough fo’ both of us an’ still not be of any use right now–”

“Really, Mr. Jackson,” Ezra interrupted with a hint of impatience, “this maudlin display of self-pity does not become you at all. Yes, you have lost the use of your hands for a while. And, as one whose livelihood rather heavily depends on manual dexterity, I believe I can well imagine just how difficult that must be. But I also know that your capabilities as a healer are not entirely limited to nor wholly defined by your ability to wield a knife.” He arched a brow and stared coolly at Jackson. “Chris cut the bullet out of Vin, yet I dare say that does not qualify him to practice medicine.”

Nathan returned that stare, half-angered by it and half-shamed, then turned away with a sharp gust of breath and began pacing slowly about the small room. “I wouldn’t expect you t’ understand,” he muttered sourly.

“No?” Ezra dropped the napkin back to the table and sank gracefully into the chair he’d pulled out for Nathan. “Then, pray, enlighten me,” he invited.

Nathan continued pacing, awash in a jumble of feelings and thoughts yet not at all certain he could put them into words. How could he, when he wasn’t entirely sure he understood them himself?

Ezra watched him for long moments in a compassionate silence, easily able to see, even to feel, his torment. Finally, taking pity on him, he said softly, “You don’t like feelin’ useless any more than the rest of us do.”

Nathan ceased pacing and groaned, letting his head fall forward. He would have clenched his hands but his injuries forbade it, only adding to his frustration. “I keep thinkin’ back t’ the day I met Vin an’ Chris,” he said at last, his low voice roughened by emotion. “The day they saved me.” He lifted his head and shook it slowly, narrowing his eyes as he stared back into the past. “Hell, they didn’t know the first thing about me! Didn’t know who I was or what I done… Fo’ all they knew, I might really have killed that man! They didn’t know nothin’, but it was like they didn’t care. Like it didn’t matter. Like didn’t nothin’ matter ’cept savin’ me from a lynchin’!”

Ezra gave a slight, wry smile. “Yes, well, you know how they are. Once they’ve decided upon a course of action, any practical matters of consideration are generally rendered unimportant. And if they get to shoot someone while making a point,” he shrugged lazily, “so much the better.”

“But that’s jest it,” Nathan said softly, turning slowly to face Ezra. “I do know ’em now, know how they think, know how they act. What they did fo’ me that day, they’ve done a hundred times since fo’ other people. Indians, white folks, Chinese – it don’t matter to ’em. Like it didn’t matter to ’em that day that I’s a black man. An’ it’d been a long damn time befo’ that day that the color of my skin didn’t matter. I ain’t even sho’ I got the words t’ say how much that means!”

Ezra took in the wonder written on Nathan’s expressive face, the tears glistening in his eyes, and smiled slightly. “Oh,” he breathed, “I believe you are doing a more than adequate job.”

“Vin called me ‘Doc,’” Nathan went on, “like it was the mos’ natural thing in th’ world t’ call a colored man. Jes’ rolled right off his tongue. Him an’ Chris drank with me, talked to me…” He gave a sudden chuff of laughter. “Well, as much as them two ever talks t’ anybody.”

“They are not exactly known for their conversational skills,” Ezra agreed with a chuckle. “Still, they have a remarkable way of getting their point across with a minimum of words.”

“Yeah,” Nathan breathed, “an’ they sho’ as hell got their point across that day. Been gettin’ it across ever’ day since. Don’t matter to ’em what color I am. Don’ make me no mo’ or no less in their eyes. I’m jes’ me, Nathan Jackson, an’ that suits ’em jes’ fine.” He fixed his gaze on Ezra. “Rest ’a y’all been gettin’ that same point across. Even you.”

Ezra looked away and cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Yes, well, I was perhaps a bit slower than the others–”

“But ya got there,” Nathan said quietly. “An’ I thank ya fo’ it.”

Ezra felt the unfamiliar heat of a blush rising in his cheeks and bowed his head to hide his weakness. “You are… most welcome,” he murmured, still not meeting Jackson’s eyes.

The healer smiled slightly, recognizing the man’s discomfort, then turned away to resume his pacing. “Reckon that’s why I take carin’ fo’ y’all so seriously,” he sighed. “Jes’ don’ wanta let y’all down. Fail ya. Seems like y’all got so much faith in me–”

“We do,” Ezra said simply, firmly. “And you have proven time and again that our faith is entirely justified. But,” he frowned and leaned forward, suddenly understanding the fear underlying Nathan’s words, “our regard for you does not depend upon your skill at removing bullets from our bodies.”

Nathan heaved a sigh and turned to face the gambler again. “That’s what I do, Ezra!” he insisted. “I’m a healer–”

“Yes, yes, bones set, wounds healed. I’ve read the sign,” Standish interrupted with a wave of his hand. “That’s what you do, but it’s not who you are. At least, not to us.” At Nathan’s confused look, he exhaled sharply and stood up, walking to the man and stopping only inches from him. “Vin is a sharpshooter, yes? And a tracker? Those are the functions he performs for us. Now,” he felt a twinge of dread but forced himself to continue, “I understand there is some… danger… that the placement of Morgan’s bullet might effect some… permanent incapacitation… upon his arm–”

“Lord, I hope not!” Nathan breathed, that same dread rippling through him. If Vin lost the use of his arm because he hadn’t been able to help him…

“As do we all,” Ezra agreed fervently. “Still, if by some dire chance it does happen, should he no longer be able to perform his function as sharpshooter,” he stared up at Jackson and snared the man’s gaze with his own, “will that in any way lessen our regard for him? Will he lose his place in our midst simply because his shooting skills have been diminished?”

“Of course not!” Nathan answered sharply, infuriated by the very notion. “Hell, Ezra, what kinda friends would we be–”

“If we based our respect or even affection for a man solely upon his ability to wield a rifle… or a scalpel?”

Nathan’s mouth hung open but no words came from it. He could only stare at Ezra in confused accusation, suddenly realizing how neatly he’d been trapped.

But Ezra wasn’t finished. “We are, individually and as a group, guilty of a great many sins,” he went on, anger simmering in his eyes as he held the healer’s startled gaze. “But we are not in the habit of bartering friendship for services rendered, and you, sir, do us a grave disservice by insinuatin’ otherwise. Perhaps you truly cannot see yourself as more than the sum of your skills. Fortunately,” he arched an elegant brow, “the rest of us are not quite so blind.”

Nathan was deeply stung by the Southerner’s cutting words and drew a sharp breath to dispute them, then immediately released it as he recognized the painful truth in them. Lord, he’d been doing exactly that, however unwitting it had been! And surely, surely these men above all others deserved so much more, so much better, from him!

Shame and remorse flooded him and he bowed his head, unable to meet Ezra’s gaze. “You do know how t’ stack a deck, don’tcha?” he asked softly.

Ezra shrugged, relieved to see that his point had carried. “It is one of my skills, yes.”

Nathan groaned and lifted his head. “I’m sorry!” he breathed. “I know that ain’t how y’all are. Hell, I should know it better’n anybody! I ain’t ever had t’ prove my worth t’ y’all befo’, don’ know why I’d think I had t’ do it now.”

“Because the practices and experiences of a lifetime can be difficult to overcome,” Ezra suggested gently, all too familiar with that painful truth. “We see in people what we have been conditioned or have conditioned ourselves to see.”

Nathan smiled faintly at him. “Like a Southern boy who’s too slick fo’ his own or anybody else’s good,” he said wryly. “Git so caught up in seein’ that that mebbe I don’ always look fo’ what’s really there.”

Ezra gave a soft, short laugh. “Assumin’ there is anything else there.”

“Oh, there is. There’s a whole lot else.” His smile grew stronger and his eyes warmed. “An’ I’m mighty grateful fo’ it.” He reached out and set his bandaged left hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Thanks fo’ comin’ up. I appreciate it.”

Ezra swallowed hard, his glib manner suddenly deserting him. “I had no choice.” He winced and dropped his gaze. “I have quite had my fill of seeing friends bleed today.”

“Yeah,” Nathan sighed, dropping his hand from Ezra’s shoulder as his own smile faded. “I reckon we both have.” He turned away and moved slowly to the window, staring out into the night. “’Least now I got a better idea of how y’all feel when somebody’s hurt an’ ya cain’t do nothin’ but fret.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Ain’t sho’ I like it.”

“Yes, well,” Ezra breathed, “I assure you, it does not become any easier with practice. I keep thinkin’ that it will, that it should–”

“Ain’t ever nothin’ easy ’bout worryin’ over a friend,” Nathan said softly. He lifted his head and turned back to Ezra, fixing a warm dark gaze upon him. “But you know that already, else ya wouldn’ta come up here.”

Ezra snorted and tossed his head, arranging his features into a cool mask of disdain. “Believe me, Mr. Jackson, the only reason I am here is to make certain that you are taking proper care of yourself. We simply cannot afford for you to fall ill. Our ranks are stretched thin as it is, and we cannot spare any further strain upon our numbers–”

“Ezra,” Nathan said softly, smiling fondly, “shut up.” The gambler gasped and shot him an affronted glare, and Nathan grinned broadly and winked. “Looks like an awful lotta food fo’ one man,” he said, inclining his head toward the tray on the table. “Reckon mebbe I could find somebody around t’ help me eat it? Shame t’ let it go t’ waste.”

“I am certain a dining partner could be found–”

“Was thinkin’ mo’ along the lines of a friend,” Nathan clarified quietly.

Standish’s façade crumbled at that and he gave a small but sincere smile, jade eyes alight. “I would be honored,” he accepted. But, as they went to the small table and began dividing up the large meal, he shot a side glance at Nathan, grinned wickedly and suggested, “Perhaps a game of chance afterward? Given your present disability, I would be more than glad to hold your cards for you…”

Hurt.

Hot.

His whole existence had shrunk down to those two sensations. Hurt that wouldn’t end, that seared through him every time he moved, that was like a heated knife stabbing into him with even his smallest breath. Hurt that radiated from his shoulder and through his back, that burned down his arm and threatened to shoot out the ends of his fingers.

And he was so hot! Felt like he was burnin’ alive from the inside, like his skin was bein’ charred right off his bones. Was so hot he hurt from it, hurt on top of hurt on top of heat.

Lord God, why couldn’t they leave him be? Through the heat and the hurt he also felt the hands, hands that gripped him, held him, turned him, tortured him. He tried to fight them, but their strength was much greater than his, and that sent the fear exploding through him. Hard hands on him had never meant anything but more pain, had been the first warning of terrible things to come, and he fought them now as he always had before, though with no success. Again and again the hard hands overcame him, easily subduing his weak struggles, and he had no choice but to steel himself for whatever would come next, too weak and too sick, too hot and too hurt, to stop the fearful whimpers that escaped him or to hold back the tears that seeped from his eyes.

Then there were other hands, neither hard nor hurtful, that calmed his fears and wiped away his tears, that made his pain bearable and sought to cool the heat consuming him. Those hands cradled him, calmed him, stroked and soothed him, held him with a tenderness far too often lacking in his life. They gathered him into strong arms that sheltered him, and, even in the depths of his misery, when he knew nothing else, he knew without a doubt that he was safe.

So he ceased fighting against them, stopped trying to push them away, and instead clung to them with what strength he could muster, letting those hands anchor him here and hold him to this life when it would have been so easy just to let go and slip away. And when he knew there was no need to huddle or hide in the darkness any longer, he let those hands guide him home.

Through the fog of sleep, Chris felt the slightest pressure of weak fingers against his arm, and lifted his head from the bed to meet the exhausted gaze of two heavy-lidded blue eyes. Out of habit, he laid a hand against one pale, whiskered cheek and was swept by a wrenching surge of relief when he realized that, though still warm, Tanner was nowhere near as hot as he’d been.

The fever was breaking at last.

“Hey… cowboy,” Vin breathed faintly.

“Hey, yourself,” Chris rasped past the hard knot in his throat. “Welcome back.”

Vin blinked slowly and frowned, brown brows drawing down over confused blue eyes. “I b… I been… gone?”

At the hoarse, dry whisper, Chris reached for the cup of water on the bedside table. He slipped his other hand beneath the tracker’s head, lifting gently and placing the cup to the wounded man’s lips. “Drink.”

Vin did, though it required all his concentration, and near wept from pleasure at the miraculous feel of the cool water sliding wetly down the parched, aching hollow of his throat. He drank all the water Chris would allow him, groaning as it seeped into every part of burnt-out husk that was his body.

“Not too fast,” Chris cautioned, pulling the cup away and forcing himself to ignore Vin’s whimper of abandonment. “Let’s see how that settles, then you can have more. Don’t want ya throwin’ it back up.” He set the cup aside, then lowered Tanner back against his pillow and smiled tiredly into the blue eyes that were fixed so steadily upon him. “How ya doin’?”

“Tired,” Vin murmured. “Hurt. Feel like… Peso… done stomped me… good.”

Chris chuckled at that and shook his head. “Hell, pard, you know as well as I do that if it’d been Peso who got ya, you’d be dead now. He’s nothin’ if not thorough.”

Vin frowned, not quite remembering just why he hurt so badly, and tried to move his right arm. But it refused to respond. Panic flared within him and he redoubled his efforts, but could manage nothing.

“Ssh, easy,” Chris soothed, setting a hand to Tanner’s good shoulder and holding him still. “It’s all right, Vin. Your arm’s strapped to your chest to hold it still, keep you from hurtin’ your shoulder.”

“Sh… shoulder?” he whispered. He tried to think, tried to remember, but his head was too thick, his mind too sluggish.

Chris nodded. “You got shot,” he said slowly. “We were bringin’ in Jonas Morgan, remember? He got loose, shot you.” A hard edge crept into his quiet voice. “It was the last mistake he ever made.”

Vin stared up at Chris, his fear eased by the man’s low, warm tone. Gradually, images rose from the fog in his mind, filling in some of the gaps in his memory. “He k… killed… Harlan Shelby,” he rasped, his voice thick with illness and disuse. “An’ you killed him.”

“He had it comin’,” Chris said coldly.

Vin gave a soft breath of laughter, his eyes starting to close. “Told ya so… all along… cowboy.”

“Yeah, well, I guess even you’re bound to be right once in a while,” Chris retorted, gently stroking Tanner’s good shoulder in an effort to soothe him back to sleep. “Just, next time, try to find another way ta prove your point, deal?”

Vin nodded faintly, already slipping away. “Deal,” he breathed, drifting once more into darkness.

“That’s it, partner,” Chris urged as he felt the exhausted, pain-racked body relaxing. “You just sleep.” He laid a hand against Vin’s forehead, his own face more peaceful than it had been in days. “You put up a helluva fight. Now it’s time for you ta rest.”

EPILOGUE:

Nathan Jackson swept a surreptitious glance around the saloon, saw none of his fellow peacekeepers, then dropped his gaze to the plate Inez had set before him and licked his lips. With a small smile of satisfaction, he slid his right arm from its sling, positioned a fork between his fingers, and dug clumsily, but happily, into his breakfast.

“And just what, pray, are you doin’?” demanded a heavy drawl from the direction of the stairs.

Nathan froze with his fork in mid-air, his dark eyes wide, his expression a mixture of guilt and panic. “Ezra?” he called, never turning around. “Ain’t it early fo’ you ta be up?”

“I have not yet been to bed, if you must know,” the gambler answered. “I engaged several visitors to our fair community in a game of chance that proved both far more challengin’ and far more lucrative than I anticipated.” Stalking to the table, he fixed an accusing glare on the big healer’s bandaged arm and asked, “Why is that not in a sling? How many times have we told you that it will never heal if you insist upon putting undue strain upon it? Don’t you ever listen? Have you no regard for the advice of those who are only tryin’ to safeguard your health?”

Nathan stared up at Standish in open-mouthed disbelief, stunned to hear such words from him. The Southerner – along with five other mule-headed fools – ignored his advice on an almost daily basis, and now had the nerve…

“What the hell are you doin’ usin’ that arm?” Buck Wilmington asked sharply as he and JD entered the saloon. “Where’s yer sling? Did you cut that steak yerself? Good Lord have mercy, Nathan,” he bellowed, stopping at the table and staring at the healer through outraged blue eyes, big hands on lean hips, “don’t you want that arm ta get better? And you been over-usin’ that hand again, ain’tcha? Yeah, I can tell. Thought we talked about this last week.”

“Speakin’ of that hand,” JD put in, sidling up to Nathan’s side and reaching for his left hand, “lemme see those stitches.” He cocked a black eyebrow and stared disapprovingly at the healer’s palm. “Tried ta cut ’em out again, didn’t ya?” He exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Two more days for you, then. I told ya. You don’t leave ’em alone, you’re just gonna irritate ’em.”

“Ain’t my stitches that’s irritated!” Nathan finally snapped, throwing down his fork and raking a furious gaze over his three friends. “Since when do y’all know anything ’bout doctorin’? Cain’t’ve learnt anything from me; y’ain’t never paid enough mind ta what I tell ya!”

“Now, Nathan,” Buck sighed, “you know we’ve been doin’ what we can ta shoulder the burden since you been down. Hell, didn’t I take care of Miss Eileen when she got hurt–”

“Removin’ a splinter from a forefinger and then kissin’ the wound hardly qualifies as practicin’ medicine,” Ezra said, rolling his eyes at the memory. “I, on the other hand–”

“Ain’t done any more’n mix up some God-awful concoction and sell it ta ol’ man Whitaker as ‘a miraculous healing elixir from the mystical Orient,’” Buck scoffed. “Told him it’d cure whatever ailed him–”

“He did appear in far better spirits, did he not?”

“Hell, Ezra, he was roostered!” Buck shouted. “Thought he never would stop singin’ all them songs! Chris damn near had ta shoot him ta shut him up. And poor Miz Potter still ain’t got over the scandal of bein’ serenaded in public with some’a the filthiest songs anybody’s ever heard. Includin’ me!”

“I did refuse to sell him another batch, didn’t I?” Standish asked grudgingly. “I could have made a fortune from that man alone.”

“Coulda kilt ’im,” Nathan grumbled.

“Oh, heavens, there was nothin’ dangerous in there!” Ezra protested, waving a hand dismissively. “Some whiskey, a bit of brandy, a trace of mescal, some molasses, a hint of licorice and water. Perfectly harmless, I assure you.”

“Good Lord, it’s a wonder he ever sobered up!” Buck breathed in wonder. “Uh, say, Ezra, you, uh,” he cleared his throat, “you wouldn’t happen ta have any of that ‘elixir’ left, now, would ya, pard?”

“Ya havin’ ta git the gals drunk now, Bucklin?” asked a soft, gravelly drawl at the big man’s back.

Wilmington yelped and jumped then spun about, clapping a hand to his chest and scowling at the smirking tracker. “Goddamn it, Vin, how many times do I have ta tell ya not ta do that?” he spat, his heart hammering furiously against his ribs. “Like ta scared me ta death! Jesus, Chris, why the hell don’t you put a bell on him or somethin’?”

Larabee grinned broadly at his old friend. “And miss the fun of seein’ you jump?”

Buck’s scowl only deepened. “Still don’t see how a man can wear spurs an’ not make a damn sound when he walks.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at Vin and saw the familiar crooked smile teasing the younger man’s lips. “You’re lookin’ almighty smug, son. Whatcha got up yer sleeve?”

Blue eyes gleamed with laughter. “Hell, Bucklin, I ain’t Ezra. I don’t keep nothin’ in m’ sleeves ’cept m’ arms.”

“And that right arm damn well better be in a sling,” Nathan ordered. “Buck, stand aside so’s I c’n make sho’ the damn fool ain’t lost his sling. Again.”

Vin peered around Buck and arched a brow at the healer. “Yer one ta be talkin’, Doc. Say, did you get them stitches cut out yet?” he asked with a wide-eyed innocence. “Saw you sawin’ at ’em earlier–”

“Shut up, Vin,” Nathan growled, glaring at the tracker as JD and Ezra shook their heads at him.

“I’m takin’ the prisoner here out for a ride,” Chris broke in before Tanner managed to start yet another brawl. “Caught him tryin’ ta saddle Peso one-handed this mornin’, so I figured I’d better take him for a supervised furlough before he makes a break for it on his own and undoes all that hard work I put inta savin’ his worthless hide.”

“Never told ya ta stick a damn knife in me, Larabee,” Vin growled.

“Yeah, ya did,” Chris answered evenly. “I asked, and you said it was all right.”

“I’s outta my head.”

“Shit, Tanner, you’ve been outta your damn head since I’ve known ya!”

“Fine,” Vin huffed. “Next time, I’ll jist let the bad guy shoot ya.” He glared at the gunman and shook his head slowly. “Take a bullet fer a man, an’ this is how he repays ya. Sticks a knife into ya when yer fevered an’ then insults ya b’fore all yer friends. ’At’s gratitude fer ya.”

“You keep whinin’, Tanner,” Chris warned quietly, “and I won’t take ya out.”

Vin shot a scathing look at the gunman. “Who the hell needs ya? I’ll jist saddle Peso myself–”

“One-armed?” Larabee interrupted sharply, raising two blond brows. “Hell, I’d like ta see that! That damn horse’d have you stomped to a greasy spot in the hay in two minutes. Now, c’mon if ya wanta. I ain’t gonna stand here all day arguin’ with ya.”

“Hell, that’d be a first,” Vin retorted, cocking his hip and shoving the thumb of his good hand into his gunbelt as he stared insolently at the scowling gunfighter. “You’d stand all day an’ argue with a wall if ya couldn’t find nobody else t’ do it with.”

“Goddamn aggravatin’ sonuvabitch,” Chris muttered, turning on his heel and stalking toward the saloon doors. “Hell, I shoulda let ya die. Woulda been a helluva lot more quiet around here!”

“’At’s ’cause you’d have ever’body else too scared t’ talk to ya,” Vin answered, falling into step beside him. “Hell, y’ got ’em that way now, always growlin’ an’ glarin’ at ’em like ya do. Yer a walkin’ goddamn thundercloud…”

“I swear ta God, Tanner, I’m gonna find that bullet I took out and put it right back in…”

“Charmin’ pair, aren’t they?” Ezra drawled dryly as the two departed, arguing every step of the way. “As congenial as two wild dogs fightin’ over a bone.”

“Think maybe one of us should go along with ’em?” JD asked worriedly. “I mean, Vin still ain’t up to full strength, but he’s been real restless lately. Kinda bad-tempered, too. If he gets Chris riled–”

“Sit down an’ order breakfast, kid,” Buck instructed, pulling out a chair and folding his long body into it. “You know as well as I do that them two won’t do no real harm t’ each other.” He settled comfortably back in his chair, then shot a warning stare at the healer, whose hands had disappeared under the table. “Nathan, tell me you ain’t sawin’ at them stitches again…”

They rode at an easy, unhurried pace out to JD and Casey’s fishing hole, a spot chosen because it was far enough from town to satisfy Vin’s need to escape the press of civilization, yet still close enough that they could be back by dark. Despite all that had happened since their last ride out together, neither man felt compelled to talk; words had never been a necessity between them. It was enough that both had survived the events of that ride and its aftermath, and were once again able to sink into the rhythm and flow of the friendship that was as natural and life-giving as the air around them.

At the spring, Vin dismounted from Peso and started to help Chris with the horses, only to be stopped by a raised blond brow and a tight-lipped frown. Scowling deeply but knowing better than to argue, he unfastened his bedroll from the saddle, took the canteen Larabee held out to him and stalked away, muttering under his breath all the while about damn mother-henning gunfighters. Choosing a likely patch of grass, he dropped to his knees and spread out his blankets, then stretched out grudgingly upon them. And only when he lay back and let himself relax did he realize just how much the ride had taken from him.

Not that he’d ever admit as much to Larabee…

Chris stripped the horses with easy, practiced skill, rubbing each down carefully and even offering a small bit of apple to Peso. The cantankerous gelding had been on his best behavior again today, and, though Larabee knew it wouldn’t last, he was grateful for it while it did.

When the horses were untacked and grazing happily, Chris gathered their gear and carried it to a spot near Vin, grinning and shaking his head when he saw that the Texan was already asleep. He took his time setting up a small camp, determined to make sure that Tanner rested. The younger man would likely never admit how easily he tired, how quickly his still-returning strength deserted him, but he had no need to. Chris had figured it out just from watching him, had committed to memory every subtle sign that warned he’d reached the end of his endurance.

Damn mule-headed Texan…

At last, when he’d done everything he could think to do and given the tracker a good hour of sleep, he knelt by the small fire he’d made and poured himself a cup of coffee, finally allowing himself to relax. He knew he should wake Vin soon, knew the man needed to eat, but was loath to disrupt his friend’s rest.

That decision, however, was taken out of his hands when a low, raspy drawl asked, “Ya gonna share any ’a that coffee or jist hog it all yerself?”

Chris sighed and shook his head, but reached for the cup he’d set out for the tracker. “Guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t sleep through this.”

Vin sat up slowly and folded his long legs Indian-style, then leaned forward to take the cup Larabee held out to him. “An’ miss out on yer burned water? Hell, I’d be a fool t’ deprive myself of that!”

Chris ignored the slight to his coffee-making skills and instead studied the tracker. The long nap seemed to have refreshed him, smoothing the lines of weariness from his face and chasing the dullness from his eyes. “How ya feel?”

Vin bobbed his head in a short nod, accepting Larabee’s scrutiny without fuss, understanding, and gratified by, the concern that lay behind it. “Better. Ain’t near as tired.” His lips twitched in a wry smile. “Don’t feel near as ready t’ shoot nobody.”

“Yeah, you haven’t exactly been your usual charming self lately,” Chris chuckled.

Vin winced and ducked his head. “I know. An’ I’m sorry. Reckon I don’t take bein’ hemmed in real good.”

“Really?” Larabee arched two brows in mock surprise. “I never woulda guessed.”

“And ya call me an aggravatin’ sonuvabitch!” Vin groused.

“You are. And it’s one of your better qualities.”

“Hell, y’ need aggravatin’, cowboy,” he drawled, a wicked grin teasing his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Somebody’s gotta whittle ya down a size or two when ya start gettin’ too big fer yer britches.” He winked. “I reckon that’s my job as yer friend.”

Chris snorted sharply and shook his head. “The things we do for friends,” he retorted.

Vin’s teasing manner faded at that. “Yeah,” he breathed, recalling exactly what this friend had done for him. “Ain’t thanked ya yet,” he said softly, seriously.

Chris frowned, caught off-guard by the change in the tracker’s mood. “For what?”

“Fer savin’ my life.” He studied Larabee for long moments, trying to imagine what such a decision had cost him, had caused him, and finally shaking his head. “Couldn’ta been easy fer ya.”

Chris exhaled slowly and set down his coffee cup, his wide mouth twisting into a deep, pained frown as he, too, remembered. “No, it wasn’t,” he breathed. “It was probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But,” he lifted his head and fixed a steady gaze on Vin, “it was still a helluva lot easier than doin’ nothin’ and just lettin’ you die would’ve been. And I’d do it again, though I hope ta God I never have to.”

Vin swallowed hard and nodded faintly, wondering if he’d have that same courage, then knowing instinctively that he would. He’d long ago learned that courage was usually born from need, and he knew there was nothing he needed more than the friendship of this man and that of the five others they’d left back in town.

“Like you said,” he finally breathed, blue eyes gleaming warmly, “the things we do fer friends.”

THE END