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At Love's Command

By Karen Witemeyer

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Chapter One
May 1893 - Purgatory Springs, TX

"They've got us pinned down, Captain."

Matt Hanger braced his back against the wall of the line shack he and Wallace had taken shelter behind and reloaded his Remington. Gunfire peppered the air as the gang of rustlers they'd been hired to eradicate closed in on their position. Matt's former trumpeter returned fire from the opposite side of the ramshackle building while Matt dumped his spent casings and plucked fresh cartridges from his belt.

"Hold the line a little longer, Wallace," Matt ordered, his voice firm. Mark was a good soldier. A might reckless from time-to-time, but a man who could be counted on when a situation deteriorated. Like this one had.

Preach and the ranchers who'd hired them needed more time if they were going to drive the stolen cattle back to the Circle D before the rustlers discovered they'd been hornswoggled. It fell to Matt and Wallace to keep the gang distracted.

Sliding the sixth bullet into the cylinder, Matt turned back to the fight, aimed, and shot the hat from a rustler who'd taken advantage of the reloading lull to dash through the trees on Matt's side of the shed in an effort to gain a tactical advantage.

The man yelped and scurried back to the oak guarding his compatriot.

After mustering out of the army following the disaster at Wounded Knee, Matt and the others had made a pact against the use of deadly force. They might be mercenaries after a fashion, but they made it clear to the people who hired them, that killing was off the table.

Using hats for target practice, however . . . well, that kept a man's skill honed.

"Jonah will be in position soon," Matt said as Wallace retreated behind the shed to reload. "We just gotta hold them off for a few more minutes."

Easier said than done when the enemy outnumbered them six to two.

A shot splintered the wood inches from Matt's face. He jerked back to a covered position and cast a quick glance at Wallace to ensure the kid was all right. His head was down, eyes locked on fingers busy shoving bullets into chambers. A good way to ensure speed, yet he sacrificed awareness of his surroundings.

That fact immediately put Matt on edge. He scanned the trees on his partner's side of the shed. Caught a movement. Fired.

A howl echoed as the man fell. Wallace's head came up, as did his weapon. He glanced at the fallen man then turned to Matt, a smile of thanks on his face. That smile immediately hardened, and he lunged forward, gun drawn.

"Get down!" he yelled as he shoved Matt out of the way and fired.

A second shot echoed nearly simultaneously. Mark grunted and fell backward.

"Wallace!" Matt scrambled to get a better position. He had to protect his man.

Rustlers encroached from both sides. Matt dragged Wallace against the shed wall and crouched down in front of him. He fired at movement on his right. Then swiveled and fired to his left.

Only two shots left.

God, I could use some help, here.

Like a trumpet blast from heaven, a rifle reported from behind the shed. Two shots. One echoed from the left. The other, from the right.

"Throw down your weapons," a deep voice boomed. "We've got you surrounded."

Jonah. Thank God. The man had been an answer to Matt's prayers more than once during their time together, but never had there been more on the line than today. They had a man down. The youngest of the crew.

"How bad, Wallace?" Matt didn't take his eyes off the trees. He'd put one rustler down with a shot to the leg, but the man could still pose a threat. He was fairly sure Wallace had at least winged his man, but there was too much cover for him to know for sure.

"Shoulder shot, Captain. My gun arm's useless, but I don't think I'm headed to the pearly gates just yet."

The strain in the kid's voice belied the lightness of his words.

Another shot rang out, this time from the opposite direction. A cry echoed in the trees followed by a soft thud as something heavy hit the dirt. Hopefully a gun. "The man told ya to drop yer weapons." Preach's voice. He must have circled back after the ranchers got the cattle clear of the box canyon where the rustlers had stashed the pilfered livestock. "Better do as he says and come out with yer hands in the air. I ain't exactly the patient sort."

One by one, the rustlers emerged, hands raised. One fellow only lifted a single arm, seeing as how the other was pressed against his left side where a bullet had creased him. Another two came out as a pair. The one carrying Matt's bullet in his leg limped and leaned heavily on his partner for support.

Keeping his gaze and his gun trained on the rustlers, Matt stood, shifted left, and backed up until his spine hit the shed wall. Then he slid down the wall into a crouch that brought him even with his former trumpeter. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. The wound was bad. Wallace had propped himself up into a sitting position and shoved a field dressing against his shoulder, but blood had already soaked it through. The kid's face had lost all color, and the mouth famous for charming ladies with a roguish smile and flattering tongue was pulled down into an agonized grimace that boded ill.

Wallace needed a doctor. Fast. But they were in the middle of nowhere with nothing around but ranches and a ragged handful of buildings pretending to be a town. The closest city of consequence was San Marcos, ten miles away. Chances were good Mark wouldn't survive the trip there, and waiting for someone to fetch the doc would take at least two hours, if not more.

As soon as Jonah and Preach came into view from opposite ends, herding the rustlers between them, Matt holstered his weapon and focused all his attention on Wallace.

"The kid hit, Boss?" Jonah asked as he took charge of the man who seemed to be the gang's leader, tying his hands behind his back with a strip of rawhide.

"Yep. Right shoulder," Matt answered as he changed the field dressing with one of his own and wrapped a bandage as tight as he could manage around underarm and torso. "I'll patch him up best I can, but he's gonna need a doctor. Sooner rather than later."

"I need the doc, too," one of the rustlers whined. Probably the one with the bullet in his leg, not that Matt made the effort to look up and check.

"Dalton," Preach called out. "Where's the closest doc?"

Matt did look up then. Terrance Dalton, owner of the Circle D stepped into the small clearing behind the line shack. Apparently Preach hadn't been the only man to circle back. The local ranchers had pooled their funds to hire Matt's crew, but Dalton owned the largest herd, and therefore had the most at stake. Spoke well of the man that he cared enough for the lives of the men he'd hired that he'd leave his stock in the care of others to lend his gun to the fight.

"Dr. Joe can tend 'em," Dalton said. "Got an office in Purgatory Springs. Across from the post office."

Best news Matt had heard all day.

"Great. I'll get Wallace to Purgatory. Preach, you and Jonah take that bunch to the sheriff in San Marcos."

"What about me?" the whiney rustler complained. "I'm bleedin' all over the place."

"Preach?" Matt looked to his second-in-command.

Dalton moved in closer, gun at the ready while Luke bent to examine the criminal's leg.

"Looks like a through-and-through, Cap. I'll give him a few quick stiches and bind it up. He should make it to San Marcos."

"I don't want you stitchin' me!"

Luke straightened and shrugged. "All right. Cauterizin' easier anyhow." He unsheathed his overlarge hunting knife and held it up between them. "Just need to light a fire and get this blade red-hot. Shouldn't take too long."

"N-n-never mind. Stitchin's fine."

Matt hid a grin and turned back to Wallace. The pain etched on the kid's face killed his amusement in a blink.

"Can you stand, soldier?" Matt hunkered down and lifted Wallace's left arm over his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist.

Mark nodded, grimacing as he strained with the effort.

The kid might be a mere twenty-seven, ten years Matt's junior, but he was no reedy youth. He had the lean, muscular build of a cavalryman, and it took all of Matt's grit to get them both upright.

Matt whistled, and half a minute later Phineas trotted out of the trees. Wallace's gray trailed behind.

"Come on," Matt ground out as he moved them both toward the horses. "Let's get you to Purgatory."

"If it's all the same to you . . . Captain," Wallace groaned as Matt jostled him, "I'd prefer . . . Paradise . . .for my . . . final rest. Better company . . . you know? Gets a little . . . hot . . . in Purgatory."

Matt scowled at the poor jest and took on more of Wallace's weight, practically dragging the young man now. "There'll be no final resting today, soldier." He lifted Wallace higher, as if making him look like he was strong enough to walk would actually cause it to be true. "That's an order."

"Do my best . . . sir."

"That's all I ask, son." Matt clenched his jaw and powered forward as Preach stepped up to hold the kid while Matt mounted.

Matt glanced heavenward as he swung into the saddle, knowing God would read the plea on his heart to spare Wallace's life. All I ask.

***

Matt rode the few miles to town as fast as he dared with Wallace fading in his arms. By the time he got to town, the kid slumped against him, unconscious.

"Hang on, son," he murmured, shoving the panic away and focusing on what he could control—getting his man to the doctor.

Purgatory Springs consisted of nothing more than a half-dozen non-descript buildings along a single main road. Matt scanned for the post office sign, spotted it, and immediately steered Phineas to the white clapboard building across the street.

"Dr. Joe!" he yelled as he halted Phineas. "Get out here! Got a man down."

He pulled his right foot from the stirrup, braced his left leg, and shifted Wallace's weight against his shoulder. Slowly, he swung his right leg over the back of the horse, concentrating on keeping Mark steady.

"Here. Let me help." A woman reached up to support Wallace and take a goodly portion of his weight.

Where was the doc? Didn't seem right for a woman to be doing the heavy lifting. Though, Matt had to admit, the female seemed capable. Strong, too. She propped Wallace's back up as Matt eased to the ground. As soon as he got his foot free of the stirrup, he relieved her of her portion of the burden and caught Wallace beneath the knees.

The sensible woman didn't stand around gaping but immediately pivoted and scurried back to the office door, pushed it in, and held it open. "Bring him this way."

Matt had already followed on her heels and angled Wallace to get through the door. The nurse—for that was what she must be, with her bibbed white apron and dark blue dress—seemed to catalog Wallace's condition with her gaze as Matt eased him past her.

"Gunshot?" she asked as she scooted around him in the hall and led the way to an oak-paneled room filled with glass cabinets and a wooden examination cabinet.

"Yep." That was about all the answer Matt could manage while lugging around 175 pounds of dead weight.

Seemed to suit the nurse, though, for she asked nothing more. Just skittered around the cabinet and stomped on a pedal of some sort. The inclined table lowered into a horizontal position.

"Lay him here."

Matt did so. The woman immediately pressed two fingers to Wallace's neck.

"Weak, but regular. That's a good sign."

Matt nodded, the words easing his apprehension enough to allow him to take a full breath. But then the woman started unwrapping the bandages.

Matt slapped his hand over her wrist. Her head jerked up. Shocked eyes flew wide. Shocked, remarkably green eyes. The kind of eyes that would make a man forget what he was about. Or would have, if he wasn't in charge of fetching competent medical attention for a man he loved like family.

"The kid's lost enough blood already. I just as soon wait for the doctor to get here before you go unraveling things."

Those wide eyes narrowed as she tugged her hand free of his grasp. She straightened to her full height, which placed the top of her head even with his chin. "The doctor is here," she said, enunciating each unbelievable word with metronomic precision. "Dr. Josephine Burkett at your service."

Dr. Joe was a woman?

"Now, if you and your antiquated assumptions will get out of my way," she said as she pushed past him and reached for the bandages once again, "I have a patient to tend."

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