Free Daughter of the Sword by Jeanne Williams

window.”
    Casting about for a weapon, he seized the poker and vanished through the bedroom. More shots came from outside, anguished groaning, before the staccato hoofbeats of a galloping horse echoed back, dimming as they reached open prairie.
    Lying on the rough planks, mother and daughter stared at each other, then sprang up as Josiah leaned in the door. “Bring the lamp! Young Mr. Hunter’s hurt. One of the ruffians got away, but Thos had his guns.”
    â€œThos?” asked Mother, running forward as Deborah brought the lamp.
    â€œHe’s fine. But I don’t think Jed and two of his friends will do any more night riding.”
    Deborah held the lamp while her parents and Dane examined Rolf, who was leaning against Thos. “Someone had a pistol tucked away and tried to get Rolf because of the Sharps,” decided Dane. “You’re in luck, my boy. The cartridge went through the fleshy part of your shoulder. I’ll plug you up and in a few days you’ll be as good as new.”
    Rolf touched one of the bodies with his foot as Dane and Thos got him to his feet, supporting him between them. “Dead? These three—all dead?”
    None of them had moved. Josiah knelt by them, touched and listened as Deborah, raising the lamp, saw one face blown away and gasped with nausea. Controlling herself with great effort, she heard Josiah say, “They’re all dead. Here’s Jed on the bottom. Got caught in the cross-fire.”
    Mother took the lamp from Deborah’s hand, leading the way to the house. “Come, dear, and get hot water. There’s an old sheet in the chest. Tear off some strips. Here, Thos, Mr. Hunter, just bring him along to the bed.”
    â€œWhat about them? ” Deborah whispered to Josiah, moving her head toward the tumbled heap of what had been living, breathing men.
    â€œWe can’t help them,” Father said. “They’ll be seen to later.”
    He helped ease Rolf’s coat off while Deborah hurried for water and washed her hands, then tore strips from the sheet as Mother washed the torn shoulder and stanched the blood with pads. Rolf’s face was clammy, but he endured it all stoically.
    â€œWould someone fetch the flask from my saddle bag?” he muttered. A contorted smile flickered at Dane. “For once you can’t blame me for wanting a drink!”
    â€œYou’ll have it.” Dane dropped his hand on his brother’s good shoulder. “And we’ll slosh some over that hole.”
    He went out and quickly returned with the same flask from which Rolf had drenched Deborah’s arms that very afternoon. It seemed an age ago. Mother took the soaked pad away. Dane poured the amber fluid on the wound, then lifted Rolf to reach the back. Rolf said something under his breath. His hand closed tightly on Deborah’s, gripping harder as Dane worked the whisky into the mangled flesh. Responding as she would have to anyone’s pain, Deborah put her other hand soothingly over Rolf’s taut fingers.
    Straightening from his task, Dane cast her a strange look before he offered the flash to Rolf. Reluctantly freeing Deborah’s hand, Rolf gave her a crooked grin. “Thanks, Miss Whitlaw. Much better than biting on a nail! I hope I didn’t crush you.”
    Green lights reflected from the darkness of his eyes as they rested on her, lingered on her mouth. Was he remembering that kiss, the kiss tasting of her blood? Deborah flushed, but she managed to keep her tone even as she handed strips of sheet to her mother, who had applied fresh pads and was now binding them tightly in place.
    â€œI’m sorry you’re hurt. We’re very much indebted to both of you.”
    â€œThat we are,” agreed Father. His face was drawn. He seemed to have aged years in the past hour. “Even after three and a half years in this ravaged territory, I have no real weapon but my press—which