Chapter 23
Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867
Adrenaline coursed through Buck's veins, dulling the throbbing ache in his jaw and ribs. He barked a hurried instruction. "Róise, get to the saloon. Pack a bag, only what you need. Meet me at the train car in fifteen minutes."
He didn't wait for her response. There was no time. Every second they lingered increased the risk of being caught. He untied a horse from the restless herd, the animal nickering impatiently. Back at his tent, he grabbed his meager belongings – a bedroll, some jerky, and a canteen – shoving them haphazardly into a saddlebag.
Minutes ticked by like hours. Worry gnawed at him, each passing second felt like an eternity. Finally, a dark shape emerged on the horizon, growing larger with each passing heartbeat. It was Róisín, her slight silhouette outlined against the moonlight.
"You good to ride?"
"I am." Róisín's voice was raspy from exsertion.
He saw the fear in her eyes, though she was trying to mask it with bravery. The toll the ordeal had taken on her was etched on her pale face, mirrored in the way she moved, stiff and hesitant. But they were both in no shape for arguments. He winced as he helped her onto the other horse, his movements jerky and slow.
He adjusted the stirrups, making sure she was secure before swinging onto his horse. Casting a final glance back at the dark encampment, knowing that the minutes were numbered, Buck nudged his horse forward. He knew it wouldn't be long. Carson, wounded but alive, would raise the alarm.
The town Marshal, fed by lies of what happened to Lochlan, wouldn't hesitate to hunt them down. His heart raced as he nudged his horse forward. He wanted a life with Róisín, but not this way. Forced into a partnership to survive, but it wasn't the time to worry about that. He had to make sure they were safe.