As the low hills turned gold with late afternoon, Pine Hollow Ranch appeared ahead, modest but stubbornly alive: a two-story house, a barn, a corral, and a few outbuildings that spoke of hard work and a man who didn’t waste what the land refused to give. Wade dismounted carefully, still holding the woman upright as if she might shatter if he set her down wrong.
“Mrs. Pruitt!” he called, voice carrying into the house. “Mrs. Pruitt, come quick!”
The door swung open and his housekeeper stepped out like a storm cloud with an apron. Mabel Pruitt was in her fifties, broad-shouldered, gray hair yanked into a bun so tight it looked like it was holding her thoughts in place. Her eyes widened when she saw the limp figure in Wade’s arms, and she didn’t waste time on questions that could wait.
“Merciful heavens,” she breathed, then snapped into motion. “Inside. Spare room. Now.”
“Found her on the trail,” Wade said as he carried the woman through the doorway. “Beaten bad.”
“I can see that,” Mrs. Pruitt replied, already rolling up her sleeves. “Set her down gentle. Then get out of the way, Wade Calder. This is women’s work, and your face doesn’t need to be in it.”
Wade laid the woman down like he was placing something precious on an altar. Her breathing had a wet catch to it that worried him, and he hovered too long, unsure what to do with hands that could rope cattle and mend fences but couldn’t stitch a person back together.
Mrs. Pruitt returned with hot water, bandages, and the kind of no-nonsense competence that made prayer feel optional. She examined the woman’s ribs, clicked her tongue, and began cleaning wounds with brisk care.
“Out,” she ordered Wade again, pointing toward the door with a bandage like it was a weapon. “If she wakes scared, she doesn’t need to see a strange man looming.”
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