Page 57 of Prohibited

“GET DOWN!” Ryan bellowed. Evie threw herself down with him onto the rough concrete, feeling her knees split under the wool of the trousers she wore.

France again. The smell of smoke. Gunfire. Screaming. Airplanes. Would she never leave?

Ryan was kneeling in front of her, shielding her with his body, firing rounds with his revolver toward two figures, dark against the brilliant light of the burning building. One of them shouted and went down. Ryan fired another shot and the second one went down.

More shots being fired back and forth behind them. A cry of surprise and pain that sounded like Lindsay.

Everything was a shimmering blur. Her hands were numb, like dead flopping fish at the end of her arms as she pressed them against her ears. A thick barrier, like a column of water, stood between her and the world around her. Buildings. Concrete. No–trees, tents, and wagons with screaming horses. Dead horses.

Ryan fired another shot and the other man dropped. He turned and looked over his shoulder and Evie turned too. Alex was crouched on the ground. Beside him Lindsay lay in a heap. Ryan leapt to his feet and ran toward the two of them.

Evelyn was standing now too. She could run into the trees.

And she did, she turned and moved toward the darkness of the forest. Away from the fire. Away from war and death.

Ryan’s voice screaming Lindsay’s name. It broke through the thickness that had settled over her ears and hit her, sharp and hot like a hammer against an anvil.

“No, no, no, no,” Ryan said. She turned back to look at him, the big, beautiful man hunched over the limp form of his cousin. Alex was standing straight, holding a revolver with two steady hands as he faced down two more men coming toward them. More gunfire and the flash of sparks in the night as the gunpowder lit and exploded, propelling the bullets out of the pistol. The urge to run overcame her again, and she tensed, ready to move. Somewhere in the fog of her mind, she realized that this was her chance. This was her chance. She could run now and they wouldn’t catch her.

But Lindsay.

Lindsay was down.

Bullet wounds and faces blown away and arms ripped apart by shrapnel came swimming up to the surface of her mind. And before her, her hands working to clean, to stitch, to medicate. To heal.

Lindsay’s soft green eyes. His sweet smile.

And Ryan’s brother dead. Dead because of her.

She hadn’t done a single goddamn thing right since she came home from the war. Now was as good a time as any to start.

“Get the truck started!” she heard Ryan shout over the chaos. He was half dragging Lindsay around the back of the truck while Alex whipped the crank around until the engine started.

Ducking, she ran toward the back where Ryan was shoving Lindsay inside. Lindsay bit down on a shout, but there wasn’t time for gentleness. There wasn’t time for anything.

Ryan whipped around, aiming his pistol at her until he realized who he was looking at. Alex was already closing the door to the cab and bellowing, “GET IN.”

Ryan picked Evie up and threw her roughly back into the truck and climbed in after her.

“You came back,” Ryan said. Evie looked over at him and even in the darkness of the back of the truck, she could see the amazement in his face.

“I had to,” she said, though her stomach twisted unpleasantly. Panic was rising through her. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life? Probably. She had a talent for it. But it didn’t matter because it was done. And if Ryan had an ounce of the humanity in him that she believed he did, perhaps he would allow this good deed to go unpunished. “L-Lindsay.”

“How is he?” Alex shouted from the cab of the truck through the little grated window.

Staying low, she turned to Lindsay who was between them.

“Not sure,” Ryan shouted back, crawling forward so that he was closer to Alex so they could hear each other better.

“Lindsay,” she said in her nurse voice. Commanding, but calm. “Lindsay, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said, though his voice was a gasp.

“Where are you hit?” It was impossible to tell in the dark of the covered truck bed. He was covered in blood. Her hands were already sticky with it, the way they searched over his body for the bullet wound.

“Shoulder,” he said. Her hand went to his face. And though he felt clammy with sweat, he wasn’t turning cold. Thank god. “R-Right shoulder. I don’t think it passed through.”

“Dammit,” she murmured. She felt along his shoulder as delicately as she could, feeling the sticky spread of blood over his linen shirt. Her fingers finally found the wound, hot and open.

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