“Look who’s talking,” Fiss replied.
Morgan took his arm. “Hold out your arm, Mr. Fiss.”
“Sure. Sure.” He shook his head, but complied.
Checker handed him a fresh cup of coffee.
She began to cut away the bloody sleeve, pulling slowly on the garment where it had embedded itself in the wound.
“I’ll get some hot water going.” Rule headed for the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he yelled, “Where’s a big pot, Morgan?”
After the wound was treated and wrapped with a white bandage, Fiss finished a second cup of coffee. Morgan returned with a new shirt.
“It was my husband’s. I think it’ll fit, Mr. Fiss.”
In spite of his suggestion that she call him “London,” she always insisted on the more formal designation.
“I can’t wear that, Mrs. Peale.”
“Put it on. Now, how would you like some stew?” Morgan asked.
“Thanks, Mrs. Peale. I’m hungry as can be.” He looked at his left arm; it was stiff and hurting badly. John Checker wouldn’t stay in bed with a wound much worse than this; he couldn’t show any sign of weakness. He removed the old shirt with Rule’s help and put on the fresh one. It was a dull brown. It fit.
“And you, John, are you ready…for some stew?” Morgan smiled.
“Yes, ma’am. I am.” Checker sat down next to Fiss.
Quickly, she brought iron utensils and cloth napkins that had once been bright blue. Rule moved close to the table and touched the silver cross and medicine pouch around his neck.
“How do you want to play this, John?” he asked.
Checker watched Morgan set the white ironstone bowls in front of both men and asked if they wanted more coffee. They did and she left to get the pot.
“Not sure, Rule. Except they’ll come,” the tall Ranger said. “Most likely tonight. I think they’ll head here first, move on to the Carlson Ranch, then to Emmett’s. Their objective will be to destroy us. All of us. Time isn’t on their side. The state of Texas isn’t going to let Jaudon stay a Ranger captain.”
After watching Morgan in the kitchen, Checker looked at Rule. “There are some big ranchers who’ll scream about no Ranger help along the Rio Grande. That’ll end Jaudon’s time as a Ranger captain.” He licked his lower lip. “It’ll come too late to help us, though.”
“I don’t like waiting for trouble,” Rule said.
Checker put a spoonful into his mouth, savored it and swallowed. “Me, neither. What say you and I ride to town.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I like that idea.” Rule put both hands on the back of the end chair.
Returning with the coffeepot, Morgan raised her free hand to signal a halt. “Wait just a minute. This is my fight. Mine and Emmett’s. Not yours.” She poured fresh coffee, took the pot back to the stove and returned, standing in the kitchen doorway. Her arms were at her sides, her legs spread in defiance.
Checker thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and wanted to tell her so. Her earlier kiss lay on his lips—and mind—like a butterfly on a flower.
“I ride with Mrs. Peale,” Fiss said, not daring to bend his wounded arm. He shoved another spoonful of stew into his mouth to emphasize his commitment.
Checker reminded them Jaudon would be bringing a force of nearly forty men, all experienced fighters. Among them would be Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry—and maybe Eleven Meade. Tapan, in particular, would be hard to handle. The tall Ranger shook his head, pushing away the weakness in his body that wanted control. Not now. There was no time for giving in to the ache from the wound.
Only Rule and Morgan noticed. She wanted to hug him; Rule wanted to tell him it was all right to feel the bullets that had tried to kill him.
“I don’t like the idea of taking on forty,” Checker said, “when we’re really just after three.” He stared at the stew, then took another spoonful.
Rule rubbed his chin. “Holt. Jaudon. Citale.”
“Right.” Checker washed a third spoonful down with coffee. The movement brought a pain to his wounded side that he tried to ignore. He added Jaudon would likely lead the Holt gang if they attacked, then asked Fiss what Lady Holt was doing in town. Fiss responded that she was in the newspaper office when he left; Jaudon had been there, too, firing at him from the doorway.
“Hard to miss that big boy, but I did.” He forced a grin and continued eating.
“That means Henry Seitmeyer is in trouble. Or worse,” Checker said. “He was going to bring out an edition telling about the hearings.”
“Didn’t see him. But I heard a couple of businessmen talking about the story.” He turned his head to the side. “Probably should have gotten a copy.”
“Mrs. Loren was all right when you left?” Morgan asked, leaning forward in her chair.
All of them complimented Margaret Loren for her courage. He retold what had happened, expanding it to include the resignation of the blacksmith as temporary sheriff.
Checker thought he had shown both courage and judgment. “Not much wisdom in going up against forty guns—by yourself.”
Hoofbeats signaled Rikor’s return. The young man entered the house with a question. “What’s goin’ on?”
Checker summarized the situation while Morgan rose and went to the kitchen again, returning with a filled coffee cup, tableware and a napkin.
“Sure did like those donuts, ma’am,” Rikor exclaimed.
“You have some stew and I’ll see if we have any left.” Morgan set a bowl filled with stew in front of him.
“Oh my, that looks mighty good. You sure can cook, ma’am. Bet your husband liked coming home.” He stopped, realizing the insensitivity of his statement, and apologized.
She smiled and told him an apology wasn’t necessary and quickly asked if the others wanted more coffee. None did.
Checker stared at his empty cup for a moment before looking up. “Let’s go to town—and arrest her. Citizens’ arrest.”
Rule’s face brightened. “Well, we can’t protect the ranches. Trying to do that puts all the advantage on their side. And puts us…dead.” He turned to Morgan. “Are you ready for this? They’re going to burn this fine home. Run off your cattle.”
“I can rebuild a house. I can round up cattle.” Her response matched the fierceness in her eyes.
“All right, let’s do it,” Rule said. “Got a thought, John.”
“Of course.”
“We need to ride like the guerrilla fighters did. During the war. Carry lots of weapons. Bullets. Food. Water. With us. Stay on the move. Until this thing’s over.”
“You’re right. What ever happened to that packhorse with food and bullets I brought to your place, Rikor?” Checker asked.
The young man grinned and looked more like a wolf than a man for a moment. “Ah, sir, we brought it along. What we ain’t done et anyway. Packhoss is in the corral. With our other hosses.”
Smiling, Morgan set out a plate of donuts.
“Oh, ma’am, are those fer me?”
“Enjoy. There’s more stew in the kitchen. That’s all of the donuts, though. Would you like some more coffee?”
“Yes’m.” He grabbed a donut.
“Got another suggestion,” Rule said, looking at Checker. “Let’s hide out up the trail a mile or so—some place where we can sting them when they come. Tonight. Then leave for town.” The gunfighter ran his forefinger along the table. “Might make them think twice about coming for the ranches. Especially if we make them think there are more of us.”
Checker looked at him. “I can’t shoot men who can’t defend themselves. Even Jaudon’s bunch.”
The return gaze from Rule was an understanding one. “I can’t, either. But maybe we could scare the hell out of them. Make them think other Rangers had joined us. Might make them make a mistake. Give us time anyway.”