She lurched forward at the sound of a rifle shot. Chatca!
“No,” she moaned softly. She tried to dig her heels into Dolores’ sides, but didn’t have the strength. Any moment, Chatca would burst through the trees. He would take her back. She would die.
She sobbed softly against her mare’s thick mane. Slowly she slid from her mare’s back onto the mossy earth. She lay on her back, staring up at the tall trees. Her mare whinnied. Chauncey heard boots crashing through the forest. She tried to rise. She wouldn’t let Chatca take her, she wouldn’t! But she couldn’t move. The pain in her shoulder was growing stronger, the fangs of some wild beast digging into her flesh.
She moaned softly.
“Chauncey! Oh my God!”
She imagined his voice. She began to tremble. I’m dying, she thought.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. She saw the shadow of a man bending over her, heard his agonized voice.
“Oh God, love.”
She blinked, trying desperately to focus on his face. “Del?”
“Yes, Chauncey. You’re safe now, love. I’m here.”
“How can you be here?” she asked, puzzled that the apparition was answering her. “I’m dying. I want you to be here, but you can’t be.”
“I am, sweetheart. Hang on.”
Delaney felt as though his guts had been ripped out. He swallowed convulsively as he stared down at her blood-soaked shirt. Carefully he pulled the string loose and eased the material from her shoulder. She’d been shot. He lifted her slightly and breathed a sigh of relief. The bullet had torn its way through her shoulder and out her back. High on her shoulder, through the fleshy part.
“Sweetheart,” he said firmly, drawing her dazed eyes to his face, “there’s an abandoned miner’s shack just a few minutes away. I’m going to lift you now.”
“What happened to your head?” she asked, seeing a white bandage wrapped around his forehead.
“Nothing important, love. Can you put your arms around my neck?”
She tried but didn’t have the strength.
‘Shush, it’s all right.” He lifted her into his arms and rose. She had to live, she had to! He’d searched and searched. And he’d found her, just when he’d almost accepted the fact that she was dead.
As he shifted her weight, a searing pain tore through her and she cried out. He felt her go limp and froze in fear. No, she was still alive. He held her close against him and grabbed her mare’s reins. He began the trek to the river. He could feel the clammy dampness of her clothes. She must have ridden throughout the rainstorm. He bent his head down, listening. Was there congestion in her lungs? Was her breathing labored?
There was no doctor in Grass Valley, the last one having died from pneumonia while panning for gold in the Yuba. There was no one to help her but him.
His own breathing was labored by the time he reached the shack. He kicked the door open and carried her inside the one-room structure. It had one table, one rickety chair, and a fireplace. Nothing else. He laid her on the floor, then brought in the bedrolls.
As carefully as he could, he stripped off her damp clothes and wrapped her in a wool blanket on a bedroll. He spread the skirt and blouse on the floor to dry, wondering as he did so where she’d gotten them. And she’d worn nothing else. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about that.
“Please stay unconscious just a bit longer,” he whispered to her. Quickly he filled a pan of water from the river and returned to the shack. He built a fire and heated the water. He thought frantically about what to do about the wound. Whiskey. He had just a bit left.
He gently bathed the blood from her shoulder and breast. The bullet wound was clean and, as he’d thought, through the fleshy part of her shoulder. He poured whiskey on the wound and bandaged her tightly with strips torn from his only clean shirt.
He sat back on his haunches and stared down at her pale face. She was alive; she was his; and he would never let her go. He thought of the long days and nights alone. He shook the thoughts from his mind. There was much to do if they were to survive.
He gently eased her next to the fire, covered her with the rest of the blankets, and rose. He drew a deep breath. One thing at a time, he told himself. He had to find food. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but he had no choice. He picked up his rifle and left the shack.
Chauncey awoke to the smell of roasting meat. She felt her mouth water. Her thoughts were vague, disoriented, and for several moments she didn’t know where she was. She bolted up, crying out, “Del!”
“I’m here, Chauncey,” he said, kneeling beside her. “Lie down, sweetheart. You must rest.”
“You’re really here with me. I thought I’d dreamed it.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
“I’m like a bad penny,” he said. “I’ll always keep turning up.”