“I’ll ride for Doc Harlan,” Wade offered, already backing into the hall, because he respected Mrs. Pruitt the way some men respected law.
“Not yet. Let me see what I’m dealing with first,” she said, and shut the door with finality. Wade paced the hallway for a minute, then planted himself in the chair near the spare room like a guard dog. Night settled over the ranch, crickets ticking away the hours, and still he stayed, dozing in short bursts and waking at every sound.
When Mrs. Pruitt finally emerged, her hands smelled of soap and blood, and there was a new tightness around her mouth. “She’s had a terrible beating,” Mrs. Pruitt reported quietly. “Two, maybe three cracked ribs. Eye swelled near shut. Bruises everywhere. Defensive cuts on her hands, too. She fought whoever did it.”
Wade’s fists clenched against his thighs. He pictured a man’s boot connecting with a woman’s ribs and tasted metal in his own mouth.
“Is she…?” He couldn’t finish the question, because there were violations worse than broken bones, and he didn’t want to plant them in the air. Mrs. Pruitt understood anyway and shook her head, thank God.
“No signs of that, not that I saw. But she’s feverish. If it doesn’t break by morning, we fetch the doctor.”
“Did she say her name?”
“Only pieces. Something about a man named Silas, and a lockbox.” Mrs. Pruitt narrowed her eyes at Wade. “You planning to sit up all night like a fool?”
“I’ll sit by the door,” Wade said. “If she wakes frightened, I’ll be here to call you.”
“That’s not proper.”
“Neither is leaving a woman in the dirt,” he replied, and Mrs. Pruitt huffed like she wanted to argue but couldn’t find a moral foothold.
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