Page 78 of A Forgotten Heart
Nick sipped in air as the cough subsided. Pain coursed down every nerve in his arm.
Isaac examined him, looking for bullet wounds. “You’ve got a bad habit of getting shot at, little brother. We saw the smoke as we were heading to check out an old dugout west of Eagle Creek. You did good.”
Nick’s breath hitched. It had worked. Nick had kept the family safe.
But his smoke signal had come at a high cost of McGraw property. The bunkhouse was a total loss.
Isaac examined the old wound on Nick’s head.
Shouts echoed in the night, the words disappearing into the roar of the diminishing flames.
Not far from the house, Nick could make out a group of men being surround by his brothers and other townsmen Nick couldn’t recognize in the dim light. One smaller form—MarshalO’Grady?—gave instructions to someone with a rope. The man roughly tied the criminal’s hands behind his back as other lawmen followed suit.
Horses scattered across the field, but the threat appeared to be under control.
Over by the bunkhouse, shadows of people formed a bucket brigade, dousing the angry flames before the sparks reached any other building. He thought he recognized David in the distance, and the kid next to David might be Eli.
Nick searched for Elsie but couldn’t see her in the flickering light. He hoisted himself up, but his head rushed, and he caught himself against the barn wall.
Isaac sidled next to him and supported him with an arm around his torso. “Let’s get you inside.”
Nick nodded. If that was where Elsie was, then he wanted to be there too.
Together, Isaac and Nick made their way to the house, passing the group of men whose tin stars glinted in the firelight as they surrounded the scowling bandits.
Isaac slowed, taking a closer look at the men in the center. Nick wanted to count them, but his head hurt too much.
Isaac’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “Quade’s not here.”
Nick heard what Isaac wasn’t saying. If Quade wasn’t among those captured, he was still out there.
Nick’s gaze snagged on the silhouette of a man pouring another bucket onto the flames lapping up the bunkhouse.
Drew.
He wanted to go over, apologize, tell Drew he hadn’t known how else to call for help. But his feet stuck to the ground.
The destruction of the bunkhouse felt like another example of how he was still the weak link.
A lump formed in his throat.
He should at least go help with the brigade.
He started that way, but a hand clamped onto his shoulder, stopping him.
Ed. “It’s almost out. They can handle it.”
Nick’s chest squeezed as he took in the simmering posts and planks, now black. “I wish I’d had another choice.”
Ed didn’t say anything for a minute, watching the form of Rebekah step down from the porch and come toward him. “Nick, I’d rather have my wife than that old bunkhouse. You saved them all.”
A sting nipped at the back of Nick’s eyes.
Ed clapped Nick on the back, then crossed the remaining distance to meet Rebekah with a long kiss. Then they turned and watched the bunkhouse, now a heap of ash and debris, smolder.
Next to Nick, Isaac also watched, his arms crossed over his chest. Drew paced the length of the disintegrated wall, a bucket in his hand, looking for hot spots.
Memories stirred of Nick bunking in there with his brothers. Together. Before wives. Before grown-up responsibilities. Memories that weighed heavy.
