Promised by Post. Katy Madison

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      “That was a great shot, ma’am,” the outrider remarked, awkwardly bending to pick up his rifle. “Where’d you learn to shoot?”

      “My brothers taught me,” Anna managed. A lady never would have shot at anyone. Likely a gently bred lady never would have come close to a gun. Back in Ireland, her brothers had insisted she learn because they’d believed America was still beset by wild savages and knowing how to shoot would save her. They hadn’t encountered any wild Indians in New York. But when her next-in-age brother couldn’t see well enough to shoot the small game she pointed out, she had been able to take the shots for him.

      “Right fine shooting, ma’am.” The oldest farm boy had his hand clamped over his right arm. “You saved us. Thought we were goners when all of us had to reload at the same time.”

      Anna shook her head. How likely was it that a young woman of breeding would know how to shoot a gun? But then the green silk dress didn’t cover a lady, just another poor immigrant whose family had fled Ireland after the potato famine ruined them. “I just got off a lucky shot when the robber left his cover.”

      The soldier stared at his bleeding forearm, probably hoping he wasn’t about to lose his remaining arm. That wasn’t right. A fiery ball fisted in her stomach. Selina turned toward him. The miner leaned against the stage and cussed a blue streak.

      “Sirruh,” objected the preacher.

      If she were really a lady, she likely would have fainted dead away at his language.

      “Damn,” Anna muttered. And she certainly wouldn’t have known any swear words, either. Dropping to her knees beside the shot farm boy, she lifted her dirtied skirt, ripped off a clean petticoat ruffle and wrapped it around the young man’s injury.

      How was it all the men bore wounds in their right arms? Their shooting arms. And only the men who’d had guns. The artist, the preacher and the youngest farm boy had not been wounded. The middle farm boy picked up the bent gun from where it had been shot out of his hand.

      She twisted, taking in details. How could the man’s shots have been so accurate? Dear Lord. Her heart pounded and her hands shook as she secured the makeshift bandage around the young man’s arm.

      “There were at least three of them,” said his middle brother.

      Her dry mouth tasted like copper and dirt.

      “Or four,” added the youngest farm boy, bouncing on his toes, his eyes bright.

      His excitement sickened her. Lives had been on the line or at least the life of the man she’d shot. She’d aimed for his chest, but it looked like he’d intended to just disarm the men shooting at him. Which was pure foolishness. Any gunshot could prove fatal. Including the one that had come from her.

      Nausea churned in her stomach while hot shards throbbed in her veins. She shook her head. “No. There weren’t. There were two.”

      One hadn’t fired a single shot. No, he’d roped the outrider and yanked him from the roof before he could shoot a second time.

      She fumbled with the makeshift bandage. Her hands wouldn’t hold steady. She couldn’t have hit the side of a building if she tried to shoot the rifle now. She could barely tie a knot.

      “She’s right. There was the one behind and the one in front,” confirmed the guard, who couldn’t seem to straighten all the way. His face twisted as he braced his palms on his thighs.

      Anna scrambled over to the miner while Selina bandaged the soldier. Whatever injuries the outrider had sustained in his long fall, the men with bullet wounds needed attention first.

      Trying to keep her face composed, she urged the miner to sit and lean against the wheel as she ripped open his sleeve. A deep gash ran across his upper arm. Blood welled in the wound. Her stomach turned again, and she swallowed hard. She bunched another strip of petticoat ruffle and pressed it against his arm.

      The miner sucked air between his teeth.

      “Sorry,” she muttered.

      “No. Thank you,” he said. “Much as I hate to think a girl saved us, you did. Wait’ll they hear about your shooting in town.”

      “Oh, no.” The last thing she needed was being made into a heroine. “I just was lucky enough to have the rifle fall beside me. Over that distance, it’s hard to be accurate with a pistol.”

      “Reckon so,” said the soldier. “But most folks ain’t got the gumption to shoot a man when they’ve never done it before.”

      “Well, I didn’t have time to think about it.” Sour acid burned her mouth, and her eyes watered. She’d shot a man. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth for fear she was going to be sick. Oh, goodness, she’d shot a man—a robber for certain—but she’d never wanted to shoot a man.

      The driver finally calmed the horses, and he climbed down from his perch. “We need to get to Stockton as quick as we can. There’s a doctor there.”

      He drew to a halt and gaped at her dress. “Are you injured, miss?”

      She followed his gaze to a smear of blood on her sleeve and another on her skirt. “It’s not mine.”

      Her bodice was filthy; the dust of the road was streaked all down her front. Oh, no, this was her best dress. Her only good dress, really. The dress she planned to wear while being married. She brushed at the dirt and added a new blood smear. A lock of hair slipped from her head and in front of her eyes. She reached up to feel the whole mass of the once-neat bun hanging lopsided on her head.

      She must look a fright. What would Rafael think when he saw her? He’d never think her a lady. A real lady wouldn’t have jumped out of the stagecoach, shot a robber or looked like a ragamuffin. No, a lady was always clean and properly coiffed and didn’t sweat as if she’d been digging ditches. Her hat lay in the dust of the road, and surely her fair skin was freckling under the harsh midday sun.

      If they pulled into town and he saw her like this, he’d likely put her on the next stage back.

      Anna tried to think what her friend Olivia would have done in this situation, but the truth was Olivia would never have been in this situation. Olivia had probably never touched a gun in her life, let alone known how to fire a one. Anna hadn’t even made it to Stockton and already it was clear she wasn’t genteel in any sense of the word.

      * * *

      Daniel had to get his brother home fast, but he couldn’t lead a posse directly to their ranch or they’d be dead men. Plenty of the newcomers to California didn’t trust Mexicans and would be glad enough of an excuse to hang Rafael and himself, even though Daniel was only half-Mexican.

      “Are you going to fall off?”

      “I’ll try not to,” answered Rafael. He coughed up a frothy pink spittle.

      “Damn.” Daniel’s insides went watery. A lung shot meant the wound could prove fatal. “I need to get you to a doctor.”

      “Can’t. Home.” Rafael straightened in the saddle. “Doctor won’t do anything Ma can’t do.”

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