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the
backyard.”
    Taking a deep breath, she began to probe the wound,
surprised and grateful when the tip of the blade hit the slug on the first try.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t hurt all that bad. The bullet hadn’t
penetrated very far or hit anything vital. Bright red blood oozed from the
wound. She wiped it away with a dry cloth, wiped the perspiration from her brow
and probed a little deeper into the wound until she got the tip of the knife
under the slug. When she thought she had it just right, she gave a little flick
of her wrist and the slug popped out, an ugly misshapen lump of lead covered
with blood.
    Dropping it on the tray, she quickly washed the wound and
the area around it and drenched it with disinfectant. After patting his skin
dry with a clean cloth, she covered the wound with a pad made of gauze, and
taped it in place.
    She’d done it! She stared at the bloody knife on the tray,
felt her knees go weak. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, she closed her
eyes, unable to believe she had actually dug a bullet out of a man’s back.
    Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes, and stared at
him. Who was he? Rising, she took the bowl into the bathroom. After washing her
hands, she dumped the bloody water into the sink, rinsed the bowl, and refilled
it with hot water from the tap. Grabbing a bar of soap and a bath towel, she
went back into the bedroom and washed the man’s face, neck, arms, chest, and
feet. The more private parts of him would just have to wait until he could do
it himself.
    When she was finished, she pulled the covers over him,
gathered up his clothing, and went into the laundry room. She filled the washer
with cold water and tossed his bloody clothes in to soak. Removing her apron,
she tossed it inside, too, along with some color-fast bleach, and then she went
outside.
    The stallion stood near the foot of the stairs where she had
left it. The horse whinnied softly as she approached, rubbed his cheek against
her shoulder.
    She scratched the stallion between the ears. “So, I guess he
belongs to you?”
    The stallion tossed its head.
    “Well, come on.” Taking up the reins, she led the horse
across the yard and into the barn.
    After loosening the cinch, she lifted the heavy saddle from
the stallion’s back; her muscles were really getting a workout today, she
mused, and then spread the damp saddle blanket over a bale of hay to dry.
Leading the horse into the stall, she slipped the bridle off its head, and then
dropped a flake of hay into the feeder.
    She ran her hand along the stallion’s neck, then shook her
head. “Doesn’t that man ever brush you?”
    The stallion made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a
horse laugh.
    Grinning, Amanda patted the stud’s shoulder. “I’ll be back
later to clean you up. Enjoy your lunch.”
    Back at the house, she picked up her handbag and keys from
the porch and tossed them on a chair in the living room, and, then went to look
in on her patient. He was still unconscious. What would she do if he didn’t
wake up? Oh, Lord, what would she do if he died?
    She laid her hand across his brow. His skin felt as if it
were on fire. Picking up the bowl she had left on the table, she went into the
bathroom. She filled the bowl with cool water, took a washcloth from the
drawer, and went back into the bedroom.
    Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she pulled the covers
down, then dipped the washcloth in the bowl. Wringing it out, she ran it over
his broad back and shoulders.
    “You’re a lot of trouble, you know that?” she muttered as
she gently wiped his face and neck, his arms, and then his back again. “Kind of
handsome, though, in a rugged sort of way.”
    She sat there for close to an hour, dragging the cool cloth
over his face and neck and body, admiring the deep bronze of his skin, the feel
of his hair against her hand. Once, yielding to some urge she couldn’t refuse,
she ran her fingertips over his lower lip.
    “Who are you?” she