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sorrow, they remained closed. Footsteps echoed in the back of the house, and a metal door squeaked. The man who followed him must be building a fire to heat the water.
    Trace marveled at the girl’s pluck to have made it this far. Reaching out, he trailed the back of his forefinger along her damp cheek and pulled a copper curl aside. “If only all women could be this uncomplicated,” he murmured.
    A second set of footsteps echoed in the house, and he heard a voice boom out, “What’s going on here, Clyde? Mack interrupted my dinner, and now my door’s been busted down.”
    “Miss Thornton’s been hurt. You need to talk to that feller in there.”
    “In here?” The older man questioned as he entered and gave Trace a hawkeyed look. He took a step, his eyes narrowed below his white bushy brows, unsure of what to expect. “I’m Doctor Martin.” Trace watched his gaze roll over him and pause at the star on his chest.
    Dressed in a dark suit, the portly gentleman ignored the questions that might be tumbling through his mind and instead stripped his jacket off. “You want ta tell me what happened?” he asked, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.
    “Found her shot,” Trace replied. It seemed prudent to use only the information needed until he spoke to Rand.
    Doctor Martin turned with a hard glare. Trace felt like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar as the doctor’s eyebrows arched toward what was left of his hairline.
    “I see,” he replied, and stepped to the bed to lift the edge of her torn sleeve. Grimacing, he shot Trace another glare. “Did the bullet go through?”
    “Cut a deep path along her shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood.”
    “Got your water,” Clyde called out, bringing in a pitcher.
    “Pour some in the bowl,” the doctor said as he moved to the cabinet. “Clyde, heat another pot and sterilize these instruments for me.”
    “Will do,” he replied. Taking the towel-wrapped bundle, he left the room.
    Trace’s feet seemed glued to the floorboards. He stared down at Mary Rose, a feeling of uselessness overtaking him. Behind him, he could hear the clink of bottles as the doctor rummaged around his cabinet. “Come here, young man.” Grunting from the effort, Doc Martin brought out a tall brown bottle and pulled the cork from the neck. “Son, I want you to pour this over my hands.”
    He stepped over and took the proffered bottle.
    “It’s my last bottle of good Kentucky bourbon.” He glanced back at the woman, and Trace followed his gaze. “But it will kill the germs.” Doc Martin placed his hands over the basin. “All right, pour,” he said.
    Trace tilted the bottle and poured the liquor across the man’s hands and wrists while the doctor rubbed them together.
    “I know, seems a shame.” He nodded to indicate he’d finished. “But, it’s the one thing we learned in that late great unpleasantness. Germs kill quicker than we do.” He jerked his head in the direction of the towels on the counter. “Hand me one.”
    As Doc Martin wiped away the liquor, Trace felt his intense gaze studying his face. “I can see you wear a star, but, for the record, who are you?”
    “You won’t remember him, Doc. That’s Trace Castillo,” Randall Weston said as he stepped into the room and leaned against the doorway. “From down near San Antonio.”
    “He’s the one that you tell followed you around?” Doc Martin acted surprised.
    “One and the same, only he’s a U.S. Marshal now.” Rand glanced over at the unconscious girl, and his expression grew grim. “Where’d this happen?”
    “Out at Cottonwood Springs,” Trace replied. “Found her hurt. Her brother and Moe Horne are both dead.”
    Rand’s face blanched. “Perhaps you and I need to find some place to split words as soon as the doctor’s finished.”
    Doc Martin looked at the sheriff. “Can you get Clyde to head over to Widow Hatfield’s? For the sake of common decency, I’ll need a woman to help