Free The Dublin Detective by J. R. Roberts Page B

their bounds. At best they were only supposed to slow me down.”
    â€œWell, I guess they did that. You still got that bullet in you?”
    â€œI’m afraid so,” a woman’s voice said.
    Clint turned and looked at the lady who had just entered the room. She was obviously Mexican, with dark skin and wild black hair. She had a wrap-around peasant blouse and was wearing a long skirt that covered her knees.
    â€œAnd how would you know?” Clint asked.
    â€œBecause I left it in there,” she said, approaching the bed.
    â€œYou’re the doctor?”
    â€œI am not a doctor,” she said, “which is why I left the bullet in there. But I am the closest thing to a doctor this town has, which is why your friend is still alive.”
    She looked down at McBeth.
    â€œHow are you feeling today, Mr. McBeth?”
    â€œAll my parts are moving, Miss Hernandez.”
    â€œI told you to call me Jacinta,” she said.
    â€œJacinta, this is Clint Adams.”
    â€œMr. Adams,” she said, looking at Clint. “Am I right that you are a friend? Or are you seeking to put another bullet into Mr. McBeth?”
    â€œGiven those two choices,” Clint said, “let’s say I’m his friend.”
    â€œWell, I am going to take a look at your wound, Mr. McBeth. Do you object to your friend staying?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    She went around to the other side of the bed, removed the sheet from a mostly naked McBeth, and examined his wound.
    â€œIt is not infected,” she said after taking off the bandage. “Let me put a clean dressing on.”
    â€œMa’am, is he going to be all right with that bullet in there?”
    â€œHe will have to have it removed as soon as he can,” she said.
    â€œBut will he be able to ride?”
    â€œI would advise he not ride,” she said, “but he has already told me he will not take my advice.”
    â€œHow else will I get around?” McBeth asked. “I can’t find Dolan on foot.”
    â€œAnd he insists he is still going to hunt for this man Dolan.”
    â€œI guess what we got here, ma’am, is a stubborn Irishman.”
    She finished with the dressing and stood up straight.
    â€œHe is lucky he is not a dead Irishman.”
    â€œThat’s not down to luck,” McBeth said. “It’s down to you, Jacinta.”
    â€œDo you want to try sitting up today?” she asked.
    â€œI would love to sit up.”
    â€œWould you help me, Mr. Adams?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œLet’s just bring him up slowly. James, you tell me when it hurts too much.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” McBeth said. “You will be the first to know.”

TWENTY-SIX
    Surprisingly, James McBeth felt better once he was sitting up. Well enough to eat and share a meal with Clint, who told Ben Weaver to go ahead and eat in the cantina.
    They both asked McBeth’s “doctor” to join them, but she said she had a baby to deliver.
    â€œSeveral, in fact,” she added. “I’ll check in on you later. If you start to feel worse—” She stopped, then looked at Clint. “If he starts to feel bad again, help him to lie back down.”
    â€œI’ll do that.”
    She nodded, turned to leave.
    â€œJacinta,” Clint said.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou speak English very well.”
    She smiled.
    â€œI was educated in your country,” she said and left.
    â€œShe would be even more attractive,” McBeth said, “if she had an Irish accent,”
    â€œTo you, maybe.”
    A middle-aged waitress—the owner and bartender’s wife—came in with a tray of food and set it down for them. Enchiladas, beans, and rice. The smell set Clint’s mouth to watering. When he tasted it, his mouth watered even more.
    â€œThis is the best meal I’ve had since gettin’ off the boat,” McBeth said.
    â€œMight be because you’re