“Trying to get up was a damn fool thing to do,” she said.
“Not as foolish…as shooting a marshal,” he shot back.
“Brave words in your position,” she replied. “I can always finish what I started.”
He tried to move again and succeeded this time, but only a few inches. He sank back against the pillow and closed his eyes as if he was too tired to keep them open. The attempt to stand had taken everything left in him.
His breathing was ragged, then calmed. The whiskey was getting to him, or maybe that drop of laudanum.
She pulled up a chair and sat down. She would wait until she was sure he was asleep. Then she had much to do. They had to be ready to leave as soon as Mac could travel.
But all she could focus on was the figure in the bed, the face tight with pain even in the drugged sleep. She wondered whether those midnight eyes would haunt her forever.
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