Excerpt of LILY'S OUTLAW

Idaho Territory, March, 1887

The pelting rain awakened him, stinging his face and burning an icy trail along the skin above his collar. He flexed into a sitting position, gasped as pain assailed him, and then muttered a string of curses as self-recrimination slammed hard into his gut.

He should have known better, should have known Miller couldn’t go through with the plan.

His thin whistle for his obnoxious horse yielded nothing, and he winced as shards of agony shot through his head and right thigh. Where the hell was Diamond? Fighting dizziness and the foreign taste of failure in the back of his throat, he forced himself to remain upright. If nothing else, he wanted to live long enough to plow his fist into his friend's face.

He scanned the disappearing evidence of his fall, noting the trail of flattened grass and gouged earth. No sign of Miller or their horses. With the rain, he couldn’t even tell whether the bastard had continued on to the kid’s or hightailed it back to Donovan.

How long had he been out?

Was he too late?

Gritting his teeth, he lurched to his feet, flailing his good arm out for balance when his right leg buckled beneath him. Once he steadied, he gingerly explored his thigh. Denim, flesh, and muscle were ripped all to hell and his glove came away shiny with diluted blood.

Damn. Until Miller had fired a bullet into him, he had thought they stood a chance of being noble for once in their good-for-nothing lives. Had thought he could alter the path they’d ridden together for far too many years.

He should have known better.

Gutter rats didn’t grow up to be heroes. After thirty some-odd years of walking the gray line between justice and crime, he should have just left well enough alone.

While a woman died?

He scowled, irritated by his newly awakened conscience. Maybe she deserves it.

And the boy?

His hand balled into a fist. It always came back to the fool kid, a kid he didn’t even know. Given his luck, the boy would be some snot-nosed whelp who whined all the time. A runt who sucked his thumb, was afraid of the dark, and couldn’t throw a decent punch. Hell, the kid probably couldn’t even shoot straight.

He’s eight.

He snorted, and the cold rain burned his nose. He didn’t care how old the kid was. Having no horse, no supplies, and bleeding like a stuck pig sucked the empathy right out of him. If his leg weren’t already beat all to hell, he’d have kicked himself for being so stupid.

Grunting as he yanked the wet bandanna from his neck, he dipped his head to knot the cloth against the wound in his thigh. God almighty, he hurt. He swayed for several long seconds, the breath hissing harshly through his teeth before the dizziness passed.

He tried to remember how far they’d come before Miller had turned lily-livered and backed out. Lily Jensen's small farm was supposed to be ten miles out from the last town they'd passed through, and he hoped like hell he was close. He pressed hard against the bandanna's knot, took a couple of halting steps forward, and scanned the range of foothills barely visible through the slanting rain.

A dark silhouette crouched against a stand of trees, and he squinted to make out the details. A mere shadow, a clump of rocks, or the kid’s home, he couldn’t tell. But the possibility spurred him on, forcing him to ignore the throbbing pain's escalating beat.

He blew out another thin whistle, hoping Diamond hadn’t gone too far. Even though he couldn’t mount, he needed the beast’s warmth. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, couldn't feel his toes. The rational part of his brain told him it was the shock of his injuries, not the weather that made him feel so cold, but his body didn't pay attention. He was losing blood fast and along with it, his normal lucidity. He shook his wet hair out of his eyes, trying to clear his head.

"Focus," he muttered to himself through chattering teeth. "You're almost there."

An eternity later, his pace growing slower by the second, he finally reached the small farm. The windows were dark. The barn was quiet. Too quiet. It wasn’t like Miller to be so efficient. He usually stuck around after to hurl curses at Donovan and then drink himself into a stupor. And weren’t kids supposed to make a lot of noise?

What time was it anyway? He peered at the horizon, his perception obscured by the low clouds and the rising foothills ahead. It was still Sunday, right? Hadn’t they headed out on a Sunday?

He blinked again, his peripheral vision narrowing to pinpoints of black. Without warning, the ground tilted to meet his feet. He shook his head again. “Ten more yards,” he mumbled aloud. “You can make it ten more yards.”

By the time he reached the porch, he couldn’t feel his legs anymore, didn’t know how much blood he’d lost. Snatching the railing, he righted his canting torso before it toppled to the ground. His grip felt slippery, but he held on, pulling himself up the three steps and onto the flat wet boards.

He slapped his palm against the door and waited, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against his wrist. “Hello?” he croaked, his voice sounding oddly distant.

No answer.

Maybe I’ll just sleep standing up. Just for a little while. He closed his eyes while the ringing in his ears took up a deafening refrain. Then, sweet, blessed silence fell. He relaxed, savoring the painless shift into oblivion. He felt like he was floating, spinning, falling...

Awareness ripped through him as the door he'd used for support snapped open and he slammed to the floor inside. White hot pain ate its way along his thigh and he clenched his fists until the worst of it passed. “Jesus,” he whispered, pushing himself onto his hands and one knee.

Crawling now, he dragged himself the rest of the way inside, feeling for softness, for warmth. When he finally reached the knotted coils of a braided rug, he curved his shoulder into it and collapsed. Eyes closed, he held his breath until the pain subsided, reasoning that if he could just rest a few minutes, everything would be fine.