Whether it was a bounty hunter who’d confused him with someone else, or one of the Blackwell gang seeking revenge for his testimony that had sent their leader to prison, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that he needed help before infection set in. By the time he reached the outskirts of Marfa, Texas, Zayn was barely conscious, slumped over Thunder’s neck, one hand clutching the res and the other pressed against his blood soaked shirt.
The horse seemed to sense his master’s dire condition, and picked his way carefully toward the faint lights of the small frontier town. Wo there,” Zayn mumbled, his vision blurring as thunder slowed near what appeared to be a small homestead just outside town proper. A modest cabin with a barn stood in the gathering dusk, lamplight glowing warmly from within.
It was his last hope. Using what remained of his strength, Zayn slid from the saddle, his boots hitting the ground with a thud that sent pain screaming through his wounded shoulder. He stumbled toward the porch, each step a battle against the darkness threatening to overcome him.
“Hello,” he called out weakly, his voice barely carrying over the evening breeze. “Need some help here.” He made it three more steps before his legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the hard, packed dirt of the yard. Laya Hammond had just finished washing the dinner dishes when she heard the commotion outside.
Living alone since her father’s passing six months ago, she’d grown cautious about unexpected visitors, especially after sunset. The nearest neighbor was 2 mi away, and the town of Marfa, while growing, was still small enough that strangers were noticed. She reached for the shotgun that hung above the door, a necessity for a woman alone on the frontier, and peered through the window.
In the fading light, she could make out a horse standing riderless in her yard and a dark form sprawled on the ground. “Lord above,” she whispered, setting the gun aside and hurrying outside. The man lay face down, his breathing shallow, a dark stain spreading across his shoulder and back.
Laya knelt beside him, gently rolling him over to see his face. He was handsome despite the pour of his skin and the sweat beading on his forehead strong jawline covered with several days worth of stubble. His features tanned from long days under the sun.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, touching his face lightly. His eyelids fluttered. “Shot,” he managed to say.
Ambushed three days back. Laya glanced toward town, knowing Dr. Abernathy would be her best option, but the physician had ridden out to a ranch 20 mi away that morning to attend a difficult birth.
He wouldn’t be back until tomorrow at earliest. “I’m going to help you inside,” she said firmly. “Can you stand if I support you?” With considerable effort, she helped the wounded cowboy to his feet.
He was tall and solid with muscle, making it difficult for her to bear his weight. But somehow they managed to stagger into the cabin. She guided him to her father’s bed, the only one in the house besides her own smaller one in the loft above.
“I need to look at that wound,” she said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “Madam,” he protested weakly. “That ain’t proper.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Laya found herself smiling.
Being proper won’t keep you alive, cowboy. I’ve helped the doctor with worse. As she peeled away the bloodied fabric, she could see where the bullet had entered just below his collarbone.
The wound was angry and hot to the touch, the beginning signs of infection already present. What concerned her most was the absence of an exit wound. The bullet’s still inside, she told him, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
It needs to come out. He gave a small, pained laugh. Seems I picked the wrong homestead.
You got a doctor hidden away somewhere. No doctor, she admitted. But my father taught me plenty about tending wounds.
I’ve assisted with bullet removals before. His eyes a startling shade of blue despite his palar locked onto hers. And if I say no thanks and ride on, you won’t make it 5 miles, she said bluntly.
You’ve lost too much blood and the infections already starting. He studied her for a long moment before asking, “What’s your name, Laya Hammond?” “Zayn Tucker,” he replied. “Pleased to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” “Likewise, Mr.
Tucker.” She stood up, gathering her resolve. Now I’m going to need hot water, my father’s surgical kit, and quite a bit of whiskey, some for the wound and some for you. And then what?
He asked. Then I’ll dig that bullet out and pray you’re strong enough to survive it. His laugh turned into a grimace.
Been through worse. I doubt that, she countered, lighting more lamps to illuminate the small bedroom. As she prepared what she needed, heating water on the stove and gathering clean linens, Zayn watched her through half-closed eyes.
She moved with purpose, her honey blonde hair pulled back in a practical braid, her sleeves rolled up, revealing slender but capable arms. There was a quiet confidence in her movements that belied her youth. She couldn’t be more than 25.
“You live here alone?” he asked when she returned with a basin of steaming water. Yes, my father passed on last winter. Pneumonia.
She set down her supplies on the bedside table. This is going to hurt, Mr. Tucker.
I won’t lie to you. Zane, he corrected. If you’re going to be digging around in my shoulder, you might as well use my first name.
Zane, she agreed, pouring a generous amount of whiskey onto a cloth. I need to clean the wound first. Try not to scream too loudly.
The nearest neighbors are the Williamsons and they’re 2 miles away, but still. He clenched his jaw as she pressed the alcohol soaked cloth against the wound. Don’t worry about me, he managed through gritted teeth.
I won’t wake your neighbors. She worked methodically cleaning away dried blood and dirt from around the entry wound. What brought you to Marfa?
she asked, trying to distract him from the pain. Just passing through, he said, his voice tight. Was headed to El Paso.
Long ride from San Antonio originally. Been working cattle drives up to Kansas mostly. Laya nodded, picking up a pair of long, thin forceps from the surgical kit.
I’m going to try to locate the bullet now. You might want to take a generous sip of this. She held the whiskey bottle to his lips.
Zayn drank deeply, the liquid burning a path down his throat. He’d never been much of a drinking man, but right now he welcomed the numbing effect. “How’d you learn to do this?” he asked as she prepared to probe the wound.
“My father was a surgeon in the war, the Confederate side,” she explained her focus on her task. After my mother died of chalera when I was 12, he taught me everything he knew about medicine. Said a woman should be able to fend for herself out here.
She paused, looking into his eyes. Are you ready? He nodded once, bracing himself.
The pain was unlike anything he’d experienced before. The forceps probed deep into his flesh, searching for the metal intruder that had made its home there. Sweat poured from his brow, and he bit down hard on a folded leather belt she’d placed between his teeth.
Just when he thought he couldn’t bear another second, Laya made a small sound of triumph. I think I found it, she murmured, her concentration absolute. Try to hold still.
Just a little more. The sensation of the bullet shifting within his wound nearly caused him to black out. He fought against the darkness, focusing on Llaya’s face as she worked.
Her brow was furrowed in concentration. A strand of hair had escaped her braid and clung to her damp cheek, but her hands remained steady. “Got it,” she finally said, extracting the misshapen piece of lead from his shoulder.
===== PART 2 =====
She dropped it into a small dish with a metallic clink. “Now to clean it thoroughly and stitch you up.” By the time she finished, Zayn was barely conscious, hovering somewhere between wakefulness and delirium. “Layla cleaned her hands in a fresh basin of water, then checked his temperature with the back of her hand against his forehead.
You’re burning up,” she said softly. “The infections taken hold. The next few days will tell whether you keep that arm or your life.” Through the haze of pain and whiskey, Zayn heard her words.
You saying I should be moving on, Miss Hammond? She looked at him with surprise. Moving on?
You can’t even stand, let alone ride. No, Mr. Tucker.
You’re not going anywhere for some time. I might bring trouble to your door, he warned, his words slightly slurred. The man who shot me might not be finished.
Then I’ll stay till it’s out, she said firmly, ringing out a cool cloth and placing it on his forehead. The trouble that is, we’ve already taken care of the bullet. As consciousness slipped away from him, Zayn thought he must have misheard her.
No woman in her right mind would invite a stranger’s troubles into her home. Yet there was something in her eyes determination perhaps, or simple human kindness that made him believe she meant exactly what she’d said. “Thank you,” he whispered before surrendering to the darkness.
Laya sat by his bedside long after he’d fallen into a fitful sleep, replacing the cool cloth on his forehead whenever it grew warm from his fever. She studied the bullet she’d removed, turning it over in her palm. It was from a rifle, not a pistol, a hunting bullet meant to bring down larger game.
Whoever had shot Zayn Tucker had intended to kill him, not just wound him. What kind of man had she invited into her home? A criminal, a man on the run, or perhaps someone caught in circumstances beyond his control?
His clothing, though trail worn, was of good quality. The saddle on his horse bore the mark of a respected San Antonio saddle maker, and there was something about his eyes, direct, clear, despite his pain that made her inclined to believe he was a man of character. Still, she wasn’t foolish.
Before turning in for what remained of the night, Laya made sure her father’s shotgun was loaded and within easy reach. Morning brought no improvement in Zayn’s condition. His fever had risen, and the wound looked angrier than before.
===== PART 3 =====
Laya bathed his face and chest with cool water, trying to bring down the temperature that threatened to cook his brain in his skull. She mixed a pus of herbs from her garden, etchinesia, yarrow, and other plants her father had taught her had drawing properties and applied it to the wound, covering it with clean bandages. She spooned broth between his lips whenever he was lucid enough to swallow and wiped away the sweat that continuously beated on his skin.
Between tending to her patient, she managed to care for his horse and complete her daily chores, though she kept the cabin door open so she could hear if he called out. On the second day, Dr. Abernathy finally returned to town.
Laya had sent word with young Tommy Wilson, who’d come by with eggs from his mother. The doctor arrived just as the sun was setting, his weathered face grave as he examined Zayn. You did well removing the bullet, he told Laya after a thorough examination.
Clean work. Your father would be proud. But the fever, she prompted.
The doctor sighed, washing his hands in the basin she provided. It’s a bad one, no doubt. The wound is infected, as you know.
I can leave you with more powerful medicine than your herbs, but ultimately it will be up to his constitution whether he pulls through. Will you tell Sheriff Davis about him? Laya asked hesitantly.
Dr. Abernathy raised an eyebrow. Should I?
Is there something about this young man I should know? He said he was ambushed 3 days before reaching here. Shot from hiding.
I just I don’t know if he’s running from the law or if someone’s hunting him unjustly. The doctor considered this, stroking his gray beard. Well, I’ve treated my share of both outlaws and lawmen in my time.
My duty is to the patient regardless. As for the sheriff, he paused, studying her. I’ll keep this between us for now, Laya.
But if you feel threatened at any point, you ride straight to town, you hear? Yes, sir. Thank you.
After the doctor left, Laya administered the medicine he had provided a powerful tincture that he promised would help fight the infection. She then settled into the chair beside the bed, a mending basket in her lap. As she darned a sock by lamplight, Zayn stirred, his eyes opening briefly.
“You’re still here,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I live here, remember,” she replied with a small smile. “No, I mean still taking care of a stranger.
You’re hardly a stranger now, Zayn Tucker. I’ve seen more of you than most women see of a man before marriage. The words slipped out before she could consider their impropriy, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.
A weak smile touched his cracked lips. “Didn’t mean to compromise your reputation.” “My reputation is just fine,” she assured him, setting aside her mending to help him take a sip of water. “How are you feeling?
Like I’ve been trampled by a herd of Longhorns.” He winced as he shifted slightly, but I’m still breathing thanks to you. The doctor was by earlier. He left medicine that should help with the infection.
Zayn’s eyes widened slightly. Doctor, does anyone else know I’m here? Just Tommy Wilson.
He’s 10. And his mother, who sent soup, and Dr. Abernathy, of course.
He’s agreed not to mention you to the sheriff for now. She studied his face carefully. Should I be concerned about that?
He held her gaze for a long moment before answering. I’m not a wanted man if that’s what you’re asking. At least not by any lawman with just cause.
Then who shot you? Zayn closed his eyes briefly, the effort of conversation clearly taxing his strength. Two years ago, I testified against Wade Blackwell in San Antonio.
He and his gang had robbed a bank, killed two men. I was a witness. My testimony helped send him to prison.
And now his gang is after you. Maybe. Or maybe it was just a random bushwhacker looking to rob an easy target.
He didn’t sound convinced of the latter possibility. Why were you heading to El Paso? Fresh start.
New job with the Baldwin cattle outfit. They’re driving herds up to Denver. He grimaced in pain.
supposed to meet them in 2 weeks. Well, Laya said practically, you won’t be meeting anyone in 2 weeks. Not in this condition.
The best you can hope for is to be sitting up by then. I can’t impose on you that long, he protested. Where else would you go?
The Marfa Hotel with a healing bullet wound and possibly men looking for you. She shook her head firmly. No, Mr.
Tucker. You’ll stay right here until you’re well enough to travel safely. And what about your safety if it is Blackwell’s men?
I’ve lived alone on this frontier for 6 months and with just my father for years before that. I know how to handle a shotgun, and I’m not afraid to use it. Her chin lifted slightly, a gesture of determination that struck him as both charming and formidable.
I believe you, he said softly, his eyes growing heavy again as the medicine took effect. Still not right, putting you in danger. Hush now, she soothed, placing a cool cloth on his forehead.
Rest. That’s an order, cowboy. As he drifted back to sleep, Zayn thought that Llaya Hammond might be the most remarkable woman he’d ever encountered.
And if he survived this fever, he intended to tell her so. The next few days passed in a blur for Zayn, consciousness coming and going like the tide. Sometimes he would wake to find Laya changing his bandages or spooning broth into his mouth.
Other times he would open his eyes to an empty room, hearing her moving about the cabin, singing softly to herself as she worked. Occasionally, he would surface from fever dreams to find her reading by his bedside, her voice gentle as she read aloud from one of her books. On the fifth day after his arrival, the fever finally broke.
Zayn woke to early morning light filtering through the curtains, his mind clear for the first time in days. He was alone in the room, but he could hear Laya in the kitchen, the soft clatter of cookwear and the scent of coffee reaching him where he lay. He took stock of his condition.
The searing pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull throb. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and his limbs were as weak as a newborn colts, but his head was clear. He was alive, something he hadn’t been entirely certain of during the worst of the fever.
Tentatively, he tried to sit up, using his good arm to push himself upright against the headboard. The movement sent a stab of pain through his wounded shoulder, but he managed it, breathing heavily from even that small exertion. You’re awake.
Laya stood in the doorway, a steaming mug in her hands. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, catching the morning light like spun gold. She wore a simple blue dress with an apron tied around her waist, and there were smudges of flower on her cheeks.
She looked, Zayn thought suddenly, like home personified. “Seems that way,” he replied, his voice rough from disuse. “How long was I out?
5 days on and off.” She approached the bed, setting the mug on the bedside table. Your fever broke last night. I thought you might want coffee when you woke.
You’re an angel, he said with genuine gratitude, accepting the mug with his good hand. The first sip was heaven strong, black, and exactly what he needed. Hardly, she said with a small laugh.
Just doing what anyone would. No, Zayn shook his head slowly. Not anyone would take in a half-dead stranger and nurse him through a raging fever.
Not anyone would risk their safety for a man who might bring trouble to their door. He looked at her directly. Thank you, Laya.
I owe you my life. A flush spread across her cheeks. Well, you’re not out of the woods yet, Mr.
Tucker. That shoulder needs time to heal properly. No riding or roping or whatever else cowboys do for at least 3 weeks.
3 weeks, he frowned. I can’t impose on you that long. We’ve already had this conversation, she reminded him.
Unless you’d prefer the hotel in town now that you’re no longer at death’s door. The thought of leaving her care made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with his wound. I should send word to the Baldwin outfit at least.
Let them know I’m delayed. already done,” she said, surprising him. “Dr.
Abernathy had a patient heading to El Paso. He carried a letter explaining your situation.” She hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind my presumption.” Zayn stared at her in wonder.
“You thought of everything.” “Not everything,” she admitted. “I still don’t know what we’ll do if Blackwell’s men come looking for you, but one problem at a time, I suppose. You keep saying we,” he noted.
Yes. Well, she busied herself straightening the already neat bed covers. You’re in no condition to face troubles alone, and as I said before, I’ll stay till it’s out all of it.
The bullet, the fever, and whatever else is chasing you. She looked up, meeting his eyes. Unless you’d prefer I didn’t.
No, he said quietly. I wouldn’t prefer that at all. Over the next few days, Zayn regained his strength gradually.
Laya helped him from the bed to a chair by the window, where he could look out at the rugged Texas landscape while she changed the linens. His appetite returned, and he found himself eagerly awaiting her cooking simple fair, but prepared with care. She was a constant surprise to him.
Educated far beyond what one might expect from a woman on the frontier, she could discuss literature and world events as easily as she could dress a wound or mend a fence. In the evenings, she read aloud from her small collection of books, Dickens, Hawthorne, and her favorite, Jane Austin. “My mother brought these books from Virginia,” she explained one evening as she turned a page of pride and prejudice.
She taught at a lady’s seminary before marrying my father and coming west. She made sure I had an education, even out here. She sounds like a remarkable woman, Zayn said.
Like her daughter. Laya looked up, a soft smile playing at her lips. “You’re getting better at flirting, Mr.
Tucker. Must be a sign you’re healing.” He laughed, then winced at the pull on his shoulder. Not flirting, just stating facts.
As his strength increased, Zayn insisted on helping with chores he could manage one-handed. He fed the chickens, helped shell peas on the porch, and even managed to fix a loose floorboard that had been bothering Laya for months. “You don’t need to earn your keep,” she told him as he worked on the floor, his movement still careful but increasingly confident.
“Maybe not,” he agreed. “But a man likes to be useful. Besides, I’ve been watching you work from sun up to sun down every day.
It’s not right. I’m used to it, she said simply. Been doing it since father got sick last year.
Doesn’t make it right, he insisted. A woman like you shouldn’t have to shoulder so much alone. She raised an eyebrow.
A woman like me, smart, capable, beautiful. The last word slipped out before he could stop it, and he busied himself with the floorboard, avoiding her gaze. But when he glanced up, she was smiling, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.
“Thank you, Zayn.” It was the first time she’d used his given name without the formality of Mr. Tucker following it. Something shifted between them in that moment.
A crossing of some invisible boundary from caretaker and patient to something else. Something neither was quite ready to name. 2 weeks after Zayn’s arrival, Dr.
Abernathy pronounced him well on the road to recovery. The wound was healing cleanly with no sign of the infection that had nearly claimed his life. You’ve got a good nurse, the doctor told Zayn with a knowing look toward Laya.
Best medicine a man can have. After the doctor left, Zayn found Laya in the garden harvesting vegetables for dinner. He moved more freely now, though his left arm remained in a sling most of the time.
“Doc says, I’m healing well,” he said, watching as she carefully selected ripe tomatoes from the vine. He did mention that,” she replied without looking up. Said, “You should be fit to travel in another week or so.” There was something in her voice, a carefully maintained neutrality that made Zayn’s heart constrict.
“Lila,” he said softly. She looked up then, shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun. “Yes, words failed him suddenly.
How could he express what had grown in his heart over these weeks? How could he tell her that the thought of riding away from her filled him with a dread more profound than any bullet wound? He, who had spent his adult life drifting from one cattle drive to the next, never putting down roots, now found himself wanting nothing more than to stay right here in this small homestead with this extraordinary woman.
I was thinking, he said finally, that maybe I should ride into town tomorrow. Send a telegram to the Baldwin outfit. See if they still need a hand.
Something flickered in her eyes. Disappointment. Relief.
He couldn’t tell. If you feel strong enough, she said, returning to her tomatoes. Though I’d be happy to go for you.
No, I need to start getting back in the saddle. Figuratively speaking, for now, he paused. Would you?
Would you come with me to town? She looked up again, surprise evident on her face. to town.
Yes, we could have dinner at the hotel. I hear they serve a decent meal on Sundays. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
As a thank you for saving my life and all. A slow smile spread across her face. Mr.
Tucker, are you asking me to dinner? I reckon I am Miss Hammond. He matched her formal tone, though a smile tugged at his lips.
Then I accept. The next day they rode into Marfa together. Zayn on thunder and Laya on her steady mayor Penny.
The town had grown since Zayn had passed through years earlier now, boasting a proper hotel. Several saloons, a bank, and various shops catering to the ranchers and travelers who passed through. Laya drew curious glances as they made their way down the main street.
A young woman living alone was unusual enough, but to be seen in the company of a handsome stranger raised eyebrows among the town’s residents. “People are staring,” Zayn murmured as they tied their horses outside the telegraph office. “Small town,” Lyla replied with a shrug.
“They’re always hungry for gossip. By surpime, half the town will be convinced we’re secretly married, and the other half will be scandalized that we’re not. Zayn laughed, surprised by her canandoandor.
“Does that bother you?” “Not particularly,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “I stopped worrying about Marfa’s opinion when they collectively decided a woman couldn’t run a homestead on her own. I’ve proved them wrong for 6 months now.” Inside the telegraph office, Zayn sent his message to the Baldwin cattle outfit, inquiring if the position was still available.
The operator, a thin man with spectacles perched on his nose, gave him an appraising look. “You, the fellow staying out at Hammond in place,” he asked bluntly. “I am,” Zayn replied evenly.
“Heard you was shot looking mighty fine for a man at death’s door.” His eyes shifted to Laya, who stood by the door. Miss Hammond taking good care of you, I see. The best, Zayn said, meeting the man’s gaze steadily.
I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know when a reply comes in. Of course, the telegrapher said, his tone softening slightly. Might take a day or two.
I’ll send word out to the homestead. As they stepped back onto the boardwalk, Laya took Zayn’s arm. Shall we walk a bit before dinner?
It’s still early. They strolled through town, Laya pointing out the changes that had come to Marfa in recent years. The railroad had brought prosperity and new settlers, changing the once tiny outpost into a growing community.
“My father brought me here when I was 8,” she told him as they paused outside the general store. “It was just after the war. He wanted a fresh start.
away from the memories of Virginia and all we’d lost. “Your mother?” Zayn asked gently. “She died during the war.
Typhoid swept through our county.” Laya’s voice held old sorrow, but no bitterness. Father was a doctor for the Confederate forces. “When he came home, everything was gone.
Our house burned, the town in ruins, so we came west.” “I’m sorry,” Zayn said, covering her hand on his arm with his own. That couldn’t have been easy for either of you. It wasn’t, she agreed.
But we managed. Father built our cabin with his own hands. Started treating the local ranchers and towns people.
Eventually earned their respect, even being from the losing side. And you? Did you ever think of going back east, finishing your education?
She shook her head. Father offered once I turned 18. said he’d scraped together enough to send me to a women’s college in the east, but I couldn’t leave him.
And in truth, I’d grown to love it here the open spaces, the freedom of it. She looked up at him. What about you?
Where’s home for you? Nowhere, really, Zayn admitted. My folks had a small ranch outside San Antonio.
Lost it after the war taxes, bad crops, the usual story. I started working cattle drives at 16. Been doing it ever since.
No sweetheart waiting somewhere? She asked, her tone deliberately casual. Zayn’s lips quirked in a half smile.
No. Never stayed in one place long enough for that kind of attachment. Until now, he added silently.
Their dinner at the Marfa Hotel was simple but satisfying beef steak, potatoes, and fresh bread with apple pie for dessert. Zayn insisted on paying, though it nearly emptied his pockets. The dining room was half full, mostly with traveling salesmen and a few local businessmen with their wives.
Their entrance had caused a brief lull in conversation, but soon the normal chatter resumed, punctuated by the clink of silverware against plates. “This is nice,” Laya said, taking a small bite of pie. I haven’t been to the hotel for dinner since father’s birthday last year.
I’m glad I could provide the occasion, Zayn replied, watching her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee in his cup. As they were finishing their meal, the door to the dining room opened, admitting a gust of evening air and a tall man in a dusty trail coat. He paused, scanning the room briefly before his gaze landed on their table.
Zayn felt a prickle of awareness down his spine, the same feeling he got when riding through unfamiliar territory at night. A sense that danger might be lurking unseen. The stranger approached their table, his spurs jingling softly with each step.
He was older than Zayn, perhaps 40, with a weathered face and cold eyes beneath the brim of his hat. “Tucker?” he asked without preamble. Zayn straightened, his hand instinctively moving toward his hip where his colt would normally rest.
But he was unarmed, having left his gun belt at Llaya’s cabin during his convolescence. Who’s asking? He replied cautiously.
The man’s mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. Name’s Harden. Marshall Harden out of San Antonio.
He flashed a tin star briefly. Mind if I join you? Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out the third chair at their table and sat down, nodding briefly to Laya.
“Madam, what can I do for you, Marshall?” Zayn asked, his voice leveled despite the tension that had settled in his gut. “Got word you might be in these parts,” Harden said, signaling to the waiter for coffee. “Been looking for you for Nigh on two weeks.” I wasn’t aware I was wanted for anything, Zayn said carefully.
Not wanted, needed. Harden accepted the coffee with a nod to the waiter. Wade Blackwell escaped 3 weeks ago, killed a guard doing it.
Laya’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound at their table for a long moment. Zayn felt ice settle in his veins. And you think he’s coming for me?
No, he is. Harden corrected. found one of his gang in a canyon about 60 mi east of here, shot dead.
Before he died, he told me Blackwell had sent him and another fella to find you. Said Blackwell’s got a particular interest in making an example of the man whose testimony put him away. I was ambushed in that canyon, Zayn said quietly.
Took a bullet in the shoulder, made it here before I passed out from blood loss. Harden’s eyes flicked to Laya. And the lady’s been nursing you back to health, I take it.
Miss Hammond saved my life, Zayn confirmed. I had no idea Blackwell had escaped or that the Bushwhacker was connected to him. Well, now you know.
Harden took a long sip of his coffee. Here’s what else you should know. The other man who was tracking you is still out there.
and Blackwell himself was spotted in Fort Stockton three days ago headed this way. The implications were clear. Blackwell was coming not just for Zayn, but potentially for anyone associated with him, including Laya.
I’ll leave at first light, Zayn said decisively. Draw them away from Marfa. No, Laya said, her voice firm despite the fear evident in her eyes.
You’re not fully healed. You can’t defend yourself properly with that shoulder. She’s right.
Harden agreed. Running now would just make you easy pickings. He studied Zayn for a moment.
I’ve got a better idea. Let’s use you as bait. Bait?
Laya echoed, her voice rising slightly. You want to use him to lure a killer? It’s the quickest way to end this, Harden explained.
Blackwell’s not going to stop hunting him. better to control when and where the confrontation happens. And what about Laya?
Zayn demanded. Her homestead is isolated. If Blackwell learns I’ve been staying there, she can stay in town, Harden suggested.
The hotel’s secure enough. No, Laya interrupted. I won’t be chased from my home.
Lla, Zayn [clears throat] began, but she cut him off with a look. It’s my home, Zayn. My decision.
She turned to Harden. What exactly did you have in mind, Marshall? The plan, as Harden outlined it, was simple in concept, if not in execution.
Word would be spread that Zayn was recovering from his wounds at the Hammond homestead. Harden and two deputies would conceal themselves on the property, waiting for Blackwell to make his move. When he did, they would be ready.
It’s risky, Zayn argued as they walked back to their horses after dinner. Too many things could go wrong. Everything in life is risky, Laya replied.
Especially out here, she stopped, turning to face him in the gathering dusk. Besides, you heard the marshall. Blackwell won’t stop hunting you.
At least this way we control some of the variables. We, Zayn, repeated softly. There you go with that word again.
Yes, we she said firmly. I told you I’d stay till it’s out all of it. I meant that.
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. I’ve brought nothing but trouble to your door, Laya Hammond. That’s not true, she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
You’ve brought quite a lot of things. They stood there on the dark street, the sounds of the saloon piano drifting through the night air, both aware that something profound was shifting between them. “I’m not letting you face this alone,” she said finally, breaking the spell.
“So stop trying to be noble about it.” Zayn laughed despite the gravity of their situation. “Yes, madam.” The ride back to the homestead was quiet, each lost in their own thoughts about what the coming days might bring. As they approached the cabin, Zayn noticed Laya scanning the surroundings with newfound weariness.
“We’re safe tonight,” he assured her. Harden sending his men out at first light. “Lwell won’t make a move before then.” “I know,” she said, though the tension in her shoulders remained.
It’s just different knowing someone might be watching. Inside, Laya lit the lamps while Zayn checked that all the windows were secure. The comfortable routine they’d established over the past weeks had been shattered by Harden’s news, replaced by a vigilance that set Zayn’s teeth on edge.
“I’ll take the first watch,” he said, checking the loading of his colt, which he’d retrieved from the dresser where Laya had stored it. You need rest to heal, she protested. I’ve slept more in the past 2 weeks than in the past 2 years, he countered.
I’ll be fine. You get some sleep. She hesitated, clearly wanting to argue, but finally nodded.
Wake me in 4 hours. I mean it, Zane. I will, he promised, though he had no intention of doing so.
After she had retired to the loft, Zayn positioned himself by the window that offered the best view of the approach to the cabin. The moon was nearly full, casting silver light across the yard and making the shadows seem deeper by contrast. His shoulder achd dully, a reminder of his still healing wound.
He shifted the colt to his right hand, testing his grip. If it came to a fight, he would be at a disadvantage with his left arm weakened, but he’d manage. The hours passed slowly.
Zayn found his thoughts drifting to the woman sleeping upstairs. In the short time he’d known her, Llaya Hammond had appended everything he thought he knew about his life. Before stumbling onto her porch, half dead from blood loss.
He’d been content with his wandering existence, taking jobs where he could find them, never staying in one place long enough to form attachments. Now the thought of leaving her made his chest ache worse than his bullet wound. But what did he have to offer a woman like her?
He had no home, no land, just the clothes on his back and a good horse. She deserved better than a saddle with a price on his head. A soft creek on the stairs pulled him from his thoughts.
Laya descended wrapped in a shawl over her night dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. “I told you to wake me,” she said softly, coming to stand beside him at the window. “Wasn’t time yet,” he replied, though they both knew it had been more than 4 hours.
Liar,” she said without heat, settling into the chair next to his. “See anything? Just shadows and moonlight.” He glanced at her, illuminated by the soft glow of the single lamp they’d left burning.
“You should be resting.” “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “Keep thinking about what Marshall Harden said about Blackwell.” Zayn’s jaw tightened. “I won’t let him hurt you, Laya.
I swear it. I know.” She laid her hand on his arm. the touch light but grounding.
I’m not afraid for myself, Zayn. I’m afraid for you. Blackwell sounds like a man with nothing to lose.
The most dangerous kind, Zayn agreed. They sat in silence for a time, watching the night together, the space between them charged with unspoken feelings. Laya,” Zayn said finally, his voice low.
“When this is over, if we both come through it,” she turned to look at him, her eyes reflecting the lamplight. “Yes,” he took a deep breath. “I’m not a man with much to offer, no land, no money to speak of, just my horse and my gun, but if you’d consider, that is, if you’d allow me to call on you properly.” A soft smile touched her lips.
Are you asking to court me, Zayn Tucker? I reckon I am, he said, feeling suddenly as awkward as a school boy. Though I understand if you’d prefer someone more settled.
A shopkeeper or a banker maybe, she laughed quietly. When have I ever given you the impression I’d want a shopkeeper or a banker? Never, he admitted with a small smile.
I don’t care that you don’t have land or money, she said softly. Those things can be acquired, but a good heart, a strong spirit, courage, those are rarer commodities out here.” She reached out, her fingers gently brushing his cheek. “And you have all three in abundance.” Before he could respond, a sound from outside caught his attention.
The faint knicker of a horse, quickly silenced. “Zayn tensed, his hand tightening on his colt.” “Someone’s out there,” he whispered, rising slowly. Go upstairs.
Lock the door. I’m not leaving you, she hissed. Lla, please.
The crack of a rifle shot interrupted him. The bullet splintering the window frame inches from his head. He reacted instinctively, pulling Laya down to the floor as more shots followed, punching through the walls of the cabin.
“Stay down,” he ordered, crawling toward the door. “How many rifles do you have?” too,” she replied, already moving toward the gun cabinet. “Father’s hunting rifle and my shotgun.” “Get the rifle,” Zayn said, peering carefully through a crack in the shutters.
He could make out shadowy figures moving among the trees at the edge of the property. “I count at least three of them.” Harden said his men wouldn’t be here until morning, Laya said, returning with the rifle and a box of cartridges. It’s not Harden’s men, Zayn said grimly.
It’s Blackwell. He must have ridden ahead of the main group. Another volley of shots peppered the cabin.
One bullet passing clean through the door. We need to get to a more defensible position, Zayn said, checking the loads in his colt. The barn.
Maybe more ways out. There’s a root cellar, Laya suggested. Behind the stove.
father built it when we first came. Has an exit that leads to the creek bed. Zayn nodded.
Get whatever supplies you can carry quickly. We’ll make for the cellar. As Laya gathered food and water, Zayn continued to monitor the movements outside.
The attackers appeared to be setting up for a siege, positioning themselves around the perimeter of the property. They’re trying to pin us down till daylight, he muttered. make it easier to pick us off.
Let’s not accommodate them,” Laya said, returning with a small sack of provisions and a medical kit. The seller entrance is through here. She moved the rug aside, revealing a trap door set into the floor.
Pulling it open, she indicated the narrow stairs leading down into darkness. “I’ll go first,” Zayn said, taking a lamp from the table. cover our retreat if they try to rush the cabin.
Descending into the cool earth of the cellar, Zayn quickly assessed their sanctuary. It was larger than he expected, with shelves of preserved food lining one wall and a narrow tunnel leading off to the side, presumably the exit Laya had mentioned. “Your father thought of everything,” he commented as she joined him, closing the trap door behind her.
He said a doctor should always have a way out, she replied, setting down her bundle. In case the wrong sort came calling during the night. The sound of the cabin door being kicked in echoed from above.
Heavy footsteps crossed the floor, accompanied by rough voices. Search the place. They got to be here somewhere.
Laya and Zayn froze, barely breathing as the men ransacked the cabin overhead. After what seemed an eternity, the footsteps receded. “They ain’t here, Wade,” one voice called.
“Must have slipped out when we were setting up.” “Nobody slips away from me,” came the response, cold and determined. “Spread out. Check the barn, the outuildings.
They can’t have gone far.” Zayn met Yla’s eyes in the lamplight. “That’s Blackwell,” he whispered. “We need to move.” They made their way through the narrow tunnel, Zayn leading with the rifle while Laya followed with the lamp held low to avoid its light being visible from outside.
The passage was tight, forcing them to crouch as they moved forward. After about 50 yards, they reached a wooden door set into the earth. “This leads out into the creek bed,” Lla explained in a whisper.
It’s dry most of the year, but there’s good cover from the brush. Zayn listened carefully before easing the door open. The creek bed lay in shadow, protected from the moonlight by overhanging trees.
He scanned the area, seeing no sign of Blackwell’s men. We’ll head west along the creek, he decided. Try to circle back toward town if we can reach Marshall Harden.
What about the horses? Laya asked. have to leave them,” Zayn said regretfully.
Trying to get to the barn would be too risky. They moved cautiously along the creek bed, using the brush and shadows for cover. The night was quiet, except for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush.
From time to time, they could hear distant shouts as Blackwell’s men continued their search of the property. They had covered perhaps a mile when the sound of a horse’s hooves on rocky ground brought them to a halt. Zayn pulled Laya into the deeper shadows beneath an overhanging bank, his arm around her protectively.
A rider appeared at the edge of the creek, silhouetted against the night sky. He paused, scanning the area, then urged his horse down into the dry waterway. Check the creek bed all the way to the river,” the rider called back to unseen companions.
“They might be trying to lose their trail in the water.” Zayn recognized the voice. It was the same one that had responded to Blackwell earlier. As the rider drew nearer, Zayn raised the rifle, sighting along the barrel.
“Wait,” Laya breathed against his ear. “If you shoot, you’ll give away our position to the others.” She was right. Of course, a gunshot would bring the rest of Blackwell’s gang down on them immediately.
When he passes, we’ll double back, Zayn whispered. Head east instead of west. They’ll be focused on the path to town.
The rider passed within 20 ft of their hiding place, his attention focused on the creek bed ahead. As soon as he was out of sight, Zayn and Laya emerged from their hiding place and began moving in the opposite direction, staying low and using every bit of cover available. The eastern route would take them away from Marfa, but Zayn knew there was a small ranching outpost about 5 mi in that direction.
If they could reach it, they might find help, or at least horses. They traveled in tense silence. Every sense alert for signs of pursuit, Laya kept pace with Zayn despite her skirts, moving with a quiet determination that only increased his admiration for her.
Most women, most men, for that matter, would have been overcome by fear in such circumstances. But Laya Hammond was made of sterner stuff. After two hours of cautious progress, they crested a small rise and saw lights in the distance the Coleman Ranch.
Zayn felt a surge of relief, quickly tempered by caution. We don’t know if Blackwell’s men have been here already, he warned as they paused to catch their breath. “The Coleman’s have five sons, all grown, Laya said.
If Blackwell tried anything there, he’d meet more resistance than he bargained for. They approached the ranch carefully, keeping to the shadows until they were certain no centuries had been posted. The main house was dark, but a lamp still burned in the bunk house and smoke curled from the chimney.
“Wait here,” Zayn told Laya, finding a sheltered spot behind a stand of mosquite. “I’ll check if it’s safe.” “Be careful,” she whispered, squeezing his hand briefly. Zayn moved silently toward the bunk house.
Years of tracking cattle through rough country serving him well as he avoided dry twigs and loose stones. At the window he peered carefully inside. Two men sat at a table playing cards, both wearing the distinctive bandanas of the Coleman Ranch hands.
There was no sign of tension or trouble. He approached the door and knocked softly. The voices inside immediately silenced and he heard the metallic click of a gun being cocked.
“Who’s there?” called a gruff voice. “Name’s Zayn Tucker,” he answered. “I’m a friend of Llaya Hammonds.” “We’re in trouble and need help.” The door opened a crack, revealing a weatherbeaten face beneath a shock of gray hair.
“Miss Hammond, the doctor’s daughter. Yes, sir. She’s with me.
We’re being pursued by Wade Blackwell and his gang. The man’s eyes widened. Blackwell, the bank robber.
He pulled the door open further. Get in here, son, and fetch the lady. Within minutes, Laya and Zayn were seated at the bunk house table, cups of strong coffee warming their hands.
The older man, who introduced himself as Cela’s Coleman, listened gravely as they explained their situation. “Blackwell’s a bad one,” he said when they finished. killed my sister’s husband during that bank robbery in San Antonio.
She’s been a widow these past two years because of him. He looked at Zayn with newfound respect. You’re the one who testified against him then.
Yes, sir. Zayn confirmed. I was there when it happened.
Saw him shoot down the bank guard in cold blood. Coleman nodded slowly. Well, you’ve come to the right place.
My boys and I will be happy to help put that dog down for good. He turned to the younger ranch hand. Billy, ride over to the east pasture.
Get Jeb and the others. Tell them to bring plenty of ammunition. As Billy hurried out, Coleman turned back to Zayn and Laya.
You two look dead on your feet. There’s an empty room in the main house where Miss Hammond can rest. And I reckon you can bunk down here, Tucker.
I’d rather stay together, Laya said firmly. If that’s all right with you, Mr. Coleman.
The rancher raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Suit yourself. The room’s big enough for two.
I’ll have my wife fix it up. As they followed Coleman to the main house, Zayn leaned close to Laya. “You sure about this?
Your reputation? My reputation is the least of my concerns right now?” she interrupted. Besides, I trust you, Zayn Tucker, more than I’ve trusted any man since my father.
The simple declaration warmed him more than the coffee had. I won’t let you down, he promised. The room Mrs.
Coleman prepared for them was small but comfortable, with a bed large enough for two, and a rocking chair near the window. She provided clean towels, a basin of water, and the offer of a hot bath if they wished. Thank you, but rest is what we need most,” Laya told her gratefully.
When they were finally alone, Zayn took the rocking chair, insisting Laya take the bed. “You need proper sleep,” he said when she protested. “I’ll keep watch.
You’re still healing,” she countered. “You need rest as much as I do. In the end, they compromised.” Laya took the bed while Zayn sat in the chair, his rifle across his lap.
But as the night deepened, Laya’s soft voice broke the silence. “Zain, will you come lie beside me just to rest?” she added quickly. “I I’d feel safer with you near.” He hesitated only briefly before setting the rifle within easy reach and stretching out on the bed beside her, careful to maintain a respectful distance despite the bed’s narrow width.
To his surprise, Laya moved closer, resting her head against his good shoulder. “Is this all right?” she asked softly. “More than all right,” he replied, his voice rougher than he intended.
They lay in comfortable silence, the events of the day catching up with them as exhaustion tugged at their consciousness. “Zain,” Laya murmured, her voice already heavy with approaching sleep. H.
When you asked about courting me, did you mean it? He smiled into the darkness with all my heart. Good, she said simply.
Because when this is over, I intend to accept. With that declaration hanging in the air between them, they drifted into sleep, finding a moment of peace in the midst of danger. Dawn brought the sounds of activity from the ranchyard.
Zayn woke first, carefully extricating himself from Laya’s embrace without waking her. She had curled against him in the night, her head on his chest, one arm draped across his middle, the intimacy of it, innocent, though it was filled him with a fierce protectiveness. Looking down at her sleeping face, peaceful despite all they’d been through, Zayn made a silent vow.
Whatever it took, he would see her safely through this ordeal. And afterward, if they both survived, he would spend the rest of his days making sure she never regretted choosing a saddle like him. He moved to the window, drawing the curtain back slightly to survey the ranch yard.
Coleman’s sons had arrived during the night. Five tall men with their father’s weathered features, all armed and moving with the alertness of men preparing for trouble. Several ranch hands were also visible, checking weapons and saddling horses.
Behind him, Laya stirred, sitting up with a slight disorientation that quickly cleared as she remembered where they were. “What’s happening?” she asked, coming to join him at the window. Coleman’s gathering his forces, Zayn replied.
Looks like they’re preparing to ride out. To face Blackwell, I expect so. He turned to her, taking in her rumpled appearance.
Hair tousled from sleep, dress wrinkled from their flight through the creek bed. Even so, she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Lla, I want you to stay here while I go with them.
Her expression hardened immediately. No, please,” he urged. “You’d be safer.
I didn’t leave you when you had a bullet in your shoulder, and I’m not leaving you now,” she said firmly. “We face this together, Zayn. All of it.” He recognized the determination in her eyes, the same look she’d given him when insisting on digging the bullet from his shoulder.
“Aguing would be pointless.” “All right,” he conceded. “But you stay close to me, and you do exactly what I say if trouble starts. Agreed,” she said, her expression softening.
She reached up, smoothing a lock of hair from his forehead. “You need a haircut.” The casual intimacy of the gesture made his heart stutter. “I’ll let you take care of that after.” After, she agreed, her eyes holding a promise that made his breath catch.
The moment was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mrs. Coleman had brought fresh clothes for both of them, a clean shirt and trousers for Zayn, borrowed from one of the sons, and a simple dress for Laya, slightly too large, but serviceable.
Breakfast’s ready when you are, the older woman said. Celas wants to head out within the hour. Over a hearty meal of eggs, bacon, and biscuits, Coleman outlined his plan.
His sons and ranch hands would spread out to search for Blackwell’s gang, while he, Zayn, and two of his most trusted men would ride to Marfa to find Marshall Harden. “And Miss Hammond?” Zayn asked, glancing at Laya, who sat beside him at the table. “She’ll stay here with my wife,” Coleman said firmly.
“No, she won’t,” Laya replied, her tone equally firm. “I’m coming with you.” Coleman looked to Zayn, clearly expecting him to back his position. When Zayn merely shrugged the rancher’s side, “It’s too dangerous, Miss Hammond.” “With respect, Mr.
Coleman, I’ve already faced that danger,” Laya said. “I won’t be left behind wondering if Zayn if any of you are dead or alive.” “She’s a fine shot,” Zayn added. “And steady under pressure.” Coleman studied them both for a long moment before nodding reluctantly.
“All right, but you stay in the middle of the group, Miss Hammond, and if shooting starts, you find cover and stay there.” “Yes, sir,” she agreed, a small smile of triumph playing at her lips. They rode out within the hour, Zayn on a borrowed geling and Laya on a steady mare from the Coleman Bermuda. The direct route to Marfa would take them dangerously close to Laya’s homestead, where Blackwell might still be searching.
So they circled wide to the south, adding time, but reducing the risk of an ambush. The morning was clear and cool, the sun not yet high enough to burn away the overnight chill. They rode at a steady pace with Coleman’s sons breaking off at various points to search the surrounding countryside for signs of Blackwell’s gang.
“Your wound holding up?” Laya asked quietly as they rode side by side. Zayn nodded, though in truth his shoulder was throbbing from the exertion of the night’s escape and the morning’s ride. “I’ve had worse days.” “Liar,” she said with a small smile.
I’ve seen the wound, remember? True enough, he conceded, but I’ve had worse days in other ways. They reached Marfa just before noon, riding directly to the sheriff’s office.
Marshall Harden was there along with Sheriff Davis, pouring over maps spread across a desk. Both men looked up sharply as the group entered. “Tucker,” Harden said, relief evident in his voice.
When we found your cabin empty and signs of a firefight, we feared the worst. Blackwell and his men came in the night, Zayn explained. We escaped through a hidden passage.
Smart thinking, Harden nodded. We’ve got men out searching, but so far no sign of Blackwell himself. He’ll be watching the town, Zayn said.
Waiting for us to show ourselves. Likely, Harden agreed. which is why you and Miss Hammond are going to stay right here under guard while we flush him out.
No, Zayn said firmly. I’m tired of running, Marshall. And I’m tired of putting Laya in danger.
Let’s end this now. How do you propose we do that? Sheriff Davis asked, speaking for the first time.
He was younger than Harden, with sharp eyes and a careful manner that suggested a methodical mind. Use me as bait like you suggested,” Zayn said. “But on our terms, not Blackwells.” Harden stroked his mustache thoughtfully.
“What did you have in mind?” The plan they devised was simple but effective. Word would be spread that Zayn had been wounded again during the night’s escape and was recuperating at the doctor’s office, a small building just off the main street that offered multiple avenues of approach. All of which could be observed and covered by law men positioned strategically around the town square.
Blackwell’s arrogant, Harden explained. He’ll want to finish you himself, make an example of you. If he believes you’re wounded and vulnerable, he’ll come for you personally.
And Laya, Zayn asked already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer. She stays here under guard, Harden said firmly. non-negotiable.
To his surprise, Laya didn’t immediately object. I’ll stay, she agreed on one condition. If Blackwell is captured or killed, I want immediate word.
Harden nodded. Fair enough. Davis will stay with you, and I’ll send word as soon as it’s over.
As the others left to put the plan in motion, Zayn lingered behind with Laya. “You’re agreeing awfully easily,” he said suspiciously. I know when to fight and when to yield,” she replied.
“Besides, I’d only be a distraction to you out there. You need to focus on Blackwell.” He studied her face, not entirely convinced, but unwilling to question her further. “I’ll be back for you,” he promised.
“When this is over, “I know you will.” She reached up, drawing his face down to hers for a brief, sweet kiss. “Be careful, cowboy.” The kiss lingered on his lips as he joined Harden and the others, a reminder of what he was fighting to protect. The trap was set.
Zayn lay on a cot in the doctor’s office, his left arm bandaged dramatically and positioned to suggest a more serious injury than he actually had. Doctor Abernathy, briefed on the plan, had agreed to participate, moving visibly between his office in the hotel where he was supposedly gathering medical supplies. Harden and his deputies along with Coleman and his men had positioned themselves throughout the town, some visible, others hidden, all ready to converge when Blackwell made his move.
As the afternoon wore on, Zayn found himself growing increasingly tense. What if Blackwell had anticipated their plan? What if he decided to target Laya instead of Zayn?
Despite Sheriff Davis’s presence, the jail was not impregnable. His fears were interrupted by a commotion in the street outside. raised voices, the sound of running feet, then the crash of the doctor’s office door being thrown open.
“Where is he?” demanded a harsh voice. “Where’s Tucker?” Dr. Abernathi’s reply was calm but strained.
“Sir, this is a place of healing.” “I must ask you two.” The sound of a blow cut off the doctor’s words, followed by a heavy thud as he fell to the floor. Footsteps approached the examination room where Zayn lay, his right hand hidden beneath the blanket, gripping his colt. The door burst open, revealing a man Zayn had hoped never to see again.
Wade Blackwell stood framed in the doorway, a revolver in his hand and murder in his eyes. He was thinner than when Zayn had last seen him in the San Antonio courtroom, his face more lined, but the cold calculation in his gaze was unchanged. “Well, well,” Blackwell drawled, stepping into the room.
“The righteous Mr. Tucker, not looking so high and mighty now, are you?” “Blackwell,” Zayn acknowledged, his voice steady. “You’re looking well for a man who should be behind bars.” Blackwell’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Prison has a way of clarifying a man’s priorities. “And my priority these past two years has been planning how to thank you properly for your testimony.” “So, you broke out just to kill me?” Zayn asked, playing for time. “I’m flattered.” “Oh, I’m not going to just kill you,” Tucker, Blackwell said, moving closer.
I’m going to make an example of you so the next time some upstanding citizen thinks about testifying against me, they’ll remember what happened to you. And what about the Hammond woman? Zayn asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
What were your plans for her? Blackwell’s eyebrows rose slightly. So, the rumors are true.
You’ve taken up with the doctor’s daughter. His smile widened, turning cruel. Don’t worry.
Once I’m done with you, I’ll pay her a visit. Make sure she’s comforted in her grief. Rage flared hot in Zayn’s chest.
You won’t touch her. No. Blackwell laughed.
Who’s going to stop me? You. He raised his revolver, aiming it at Zayn’s chest.
You’ll be dead. Maybe. Zayn agreed.
But so will you. In one fluid motion, he whipped the colt from beneath the blanket and fired. The bullet caught Blackwell high in the chest, staggering him backward, but the outlaw’s reflexes were quick.
His own gun discharged as he fell. The bullet tearing through the thin mattress inches from Zayn’s side. Blackwell hit the floor hard, blood spreading across his shirt.
He tried to raise his gun again, but Zayn was already on his feet, his colt aimed steadily at the fallen outlaw. It’s over, Blackwell, Zayn said. Drop it.
For a moment, hatred and defiance blazed in Blackwell’s eyes. Then, with a terrible clarity, Zayn saw the decision form in the outlaw’s mind to go out shooting, even if he had no chance of survival. As Blackwell’s finger tightened on the trigger, Zayn fired again.
This time, the bullet found Blackwell’s heart. The outlaw’s gun clattered to the floor, unfired, and his eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. The door burst open as Harden and his deputies rushed in, guns drawn.
They took in the scene at a glance. Blackwell dead on the floor, Zayn standing over him, his colt still raised. “He didn’t give me a choice,” Zayn said quietly, lowering his weapon.
Harden nodded, holstering his own gun. I believe you. We heard the whole exchange from outside.
He knelt beside Blackwell’s body, checking for any signs of life. It’s done, Tucker. He’s gone.
A weight Zayn hadn’t realized he was carrying seemed to lift from his shoulders. It was over. Blackwell would never threaten him or Laya again.
The doctor, he asked, remembering the sound of Abernathy falling. Knocked out, but he’ll be all right. One of the deputies reported from the outer room.
Already coming around and Blackwell’s men, Zayn asked. Two dead, three captured, Harden reported. Coleman’s boys caught them trying to circle around behind the town.
The rest scattered when they heard the shooting. Without Blackwell, they’ve got no reason to stick around. Relief washed over Zayn, followed immediately by an urgent need to see Laya to confirm with his own eyes that she was safe.
“I need to go to her,” he said simply. Harden nodded in understanding. “Go.
We’ll handle things here.” Zayn holstered his colt and stroed out of the doctor’s office, his long legs carrying him swiftly toward the jail. As he rounded the corner into the town square, he stopped short. Laya was there running toward him.
Sheriff Davis following behind with a resigned expression that suggested he tried and failed to keep her confined. Zayn, she called, her face al light with relief. He opened his arms and she flew into them, heededless of the curious stars from town’s people gathering to see what the commotion was about.
Zayn held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, reassuring himself that she was real and whole in here. “You’re all right,” she said against his chest, her voice muffled. “When I heard the shots, I’m fine,” he assured her, drawing back slightly to look into her face.
“It’s over, Laya. Blackwell’s dead. Thank God,” she breathed.
Then surprising him, she pulled his head down and kissed him soundly, right there in the middle of the town square. When they finally broke apart, breathless and aware of the many eyes upon them, Zayn couldn’t help but laugh. I think you’ve just scandalized half of Marfa, Miss Hammond.
Let them talk, she replied, her eyes dancing. I’ve never cared much for convention anyway. Three days later, they stood on the porch of Llaya’s cabin, surveying the damage from the night of Blackwell’s attack.
The walls were peppered with bullet holes, the windows shattered, and the door hung crookedly from its hinges. Inside wasn’t much better. Furniture overturned.
Laya’s few precious books scattered across the floor. Her mother’s china smashed. “It can be fixed,” Zayn said, his arm around her shoulders.
all of it. I know, she said, leaning into him. It’s just this was home.
It still is, he assured her. And it will be again. He turned to face her, taking both her hands in his.
Yla, there’s something I need to ask you. Her eyes widened slightly. Yes, I received a telegram yesterday from the Baldwin outfit.
The job in El Paso is still open if I want it. He took a deep breath, but I’ve been thinking about a different path. Oh, she prompted a small smile playing at her lips.
Coleman offered me a position as his foreman. His current man is retiring, moving back east to be with his daughter. Zayn squeezed her hands gently.
It’s good work, steady pay. I’d have a cabin on the property. Not much, but are you asking me to marry you, Zayn Tucker?
Laya interrupted, her direct gaze making his heart race. “I am,” he confirmed, his voice rough with emotion. “If you’ll have me, I know it’s sudden, and I’m not the most prosperous man, but I swear I’ll work every day to make you happy, to make a real home with you.” Her smile bloomed as bright and warm as the Texas sun.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Yes, I will marry you.” Joy surged through him, so powerful it almost took his breath away. He pulled her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around, making her laugh with delight.
When he asked as he set her down, “How soon can I call you, Mrs. Tucker?” “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “the cabin needs repairs, and there’s the matter of a proper courtship. People will talk if we rush things too much.
Let them talk, he said, echoing her words from the town square. She laughed again, the sound filling his heart. How about Christmas?
That gives us 3 months to court properly, repair the cabin, and plan a simple ceremony. Christmas it is, he agreed. Then, more solemnly, I love you, Laya Hammond.
I think I’ve loved you since you dug that bullet out of my shoulder and told me you’d stay till it was out. And I love you, Zayn Tucker, she replied, her eyes shining with unshed tears of happiness. Bullet, trouble and all.
He sealed the promise with a kiss. Both of them knowing that whatever the future held, they would face it together just as they had faced Blackwell and his gang, just as they had weathered the fever and uncertainty of those first days when Zayn lay wounded in her care. The bullet that had brought them together was long gone, but the bond it had forged between them would last a lifetime.
Christmas Day 1875, dawned clear and cold in Marfa, Texas. A light dusting of snow had fallen overnight, unusual for the region, covering the landscape in a pristine white blanket that sparkled in the morning sun. Town’s people called it a good omen for the wedding about to take place in the small white church on the edge of town.
Inside the Hammond cabin, fully restored now with Zayn’s labor and help from neighbors, Llaya stood before the mirror in her bedroom, hardly recognizing the woman who stared back at her. Her wedding dress, ordered from a catalog in San Antonio, was simple but elegant ivory satin with delicate lace at the collar and cuffs, the skirt falling in graceful folds to the floor. Her hair was pinned up in a cascade of curls, with sprigs of holly tucked among them, a festive touch for the Christmas wedding.
“You look beautiful, child,” said Mrs. Coleman from the doorway. The older woman had become something of a mother figure to Laya over the past months, offering advice and companionship as she prepared for her wedding day.
“Thank you,” Laya replied, smoothing her skirts nervously. “I just wish Father could be here to see this.” “He is seeing it, Mrs.” Coleman assured her, coming to adjust the holly in Laya’s hair, and I have no doubt he would approve of your choice. Zayn’s a good man.
Laya smiled, thinking of all that had happened since that July night when a wounded cowboy had collapsed on her doorstep. The best, she agreed. At the church, Zayn paced nervously, tugging at the collar of his new suit.
He’d spent nearly all his savings on it, wanting to look worthy of Laya on their wedding day. His shoulder had healed completely, though it still achd sometimes when the weather changed, a reminder of how close he’d come to losing everything before he’d even found it. “Settle down,” Marshall Harden advised with a chuckle.
The lawman had returned to Marfa for the wedding, having wrapped up all loose ends from the Blackwell case. “She’ll be here.” I know, Zayn said, running a hand through his freshly cut hair. It’s just hard to believe this is really happening.
A year ago, I was drifting from one job to the next. No home, no future to speak of now. Now you’re about to marry the finest woman in West Texas, hard and finished for him.
Life takes strange turns, Tucker. Just be grateful this one went your way. I am, Zayn assured him.
Every day the church filled quickly with well-wishers ranchers and towns people who had come to respect both Laya and Zayn in their own right. Dr. Abernathy was there fully recovered from his encounter with Blackwell.
The Coleman family occupied an entire pew, the five sons cleaned up and uncomfortable in their Sunday best. Even Sheriff Davis had abandoned his usual gruffness for the occasion, a rare smile visible beneath his mustache. When the doors opened and Laya appeared on the arm of Cela’s Coleman, who had offered to give her away in her father’s absence, a hush fell over the congregation.
Zayn felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of her, radiant in her wedding dress, her eyes finding his immediately across the crowded church. The ceremony itself passed in a blur for Zayn, though he would always remember the moment when Laya’s hand trembled slightly in his as they exchanged vows, and the softness of her lips when the minister finally pronounced them man and wife. I present to you Mr.
and Mrs. Zayn Tucker, the minister, announced to enthusiastic applause from the congregation. Outside the church, they were showered with rice and good wishes, laughter and music filling the air as they made their way to the hotel where their wedding breakfast would be served.
Laya’s hand rested securely in the crook of Zayn’s arm, her wedding ring, a simple gold band that had been his mother’s catching the winter sunlight. “Happy?” he asked softly as they walked. “Completely,” she assured him, her smile outshining even the Christmas snow.
“And you?” “More than I ever thought possible,” he replied honestly. The wedding breakfast was a festive affair with more food than the small community usually saw outside of harvest festivals. Mrs.
Coleman had overseen the preparations, ensuring everything was perfect for the young couple who had become so dear to her. Toasts were offered, stories were shared, some embarrassing, others heartfelt, and through it all. Zayn kept Laya close by his side, as if afraid she might somehow disappear if he let go.
“You know,” Marshall Harden said during a quiet moment. “I’ve been thinking about that day you rode into Marfa half dead from blood loss. If you’d gone another mile in either direction, you might have missed the Hammond place completely.” I know, Zayn agreed, his eyes finding Laya across the room where she was laughing with some of the town’s women.
Luckiest wrong turn I ever made. Some might call it fate, Harden suggested. Or divine intervention.
Could be, Zayn acknowledged. All I know is I’m grateful for it, whatever it was. As the celebration wound down, the newlyweds prepared to depart for their honeymoon a week in San Antonio, courtesy of the Coleman family.
Their bags were already loaded in the wagon that would take them to the train station in the neighboring town of Alpine. Amid calls for a speech before they left, Zayn reluctantly stood, pulling Laya up beside him. I’m not much for public speaking, he began, but I do want to thank you all for sharing this day with us, especially the Coleman’s who have become like family to both of us.
He paused, gathering his thoughts. When I rode into Marfa 5 months ago, I was a man without roots, without direction. I never expected to find a home here, much less the love of my life.
He turned to Laya, his eyes filled with emotion. You saved me in more ways than you know. Not just from the bullet, but from a life without purpose.
You said you’d stay till it was out the bullet, the trouble. Well, I’m making the same promise to you today. I’ll stay by your side through whatever life brings us, for as long as I live.
Laya’s eyes glistened with tears as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him, the assembled guests erupting in cheers and applause. Later, as their wagon pulled away from the hotel, Laya snuggled against Zayn’s side, a blanket wrapped around them both against the winter chill. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, her head resting on his shoulder, the one that had once held a bullet that had brought them together.
“About our home.” “What about it?” Zayn asked, guiding the horses carefully along the snow dusted road. “I think we should expand it,” she suggested. add another bedroom or two.
He glanced down at her, a slow smile spreading across his face as he caught her meaning. Planning ahead, Mrs. Tucker.
A doctor’s daughter is always prepared, she replied, her eyes twinkling. Besides, I’ve always wanted a large family, haven’t you? The truth was, Zayn had never allowed himself to think that far ahead.
The notion of children, a family of his own, had seemed as distant and unattainable as the stars. But now, with Laya by his side, it felt not only possible, but right. I’d like that very much, he said softly.
“How many do you have in mind?” “Oh, at least three,” she said decisively. “Maybe four.” He laughed, his heart full to bursting with love for this remarkable woman. Then we’d better get started on those extra bedrooms when we return.
As they crested the hill overlooking Marfa, Zayn pulled the wagon to a halt. Behind them lay the town and the life they were building together. Ahead stretched the open road, leading to their honeymoon and the beginning of their married life.
But for this moment, suspended between past and future, they simply held each other, watching as the setting sun painted the snowcovered landscape in shades of pink and gold. “I love you, Llaya Tucker,” Zayn whispered against her hair. “And I love you,” she replied, her arms tightening around him.
“Bullet and all.” He chuckled at their private joke, then clicked the reinss, urging the horses forward into the gathering dusk, heading toward a future brighter than either of them had dared to dream.