It was her blood that got Vaughn’s legs working.

“Damn it, your arm! Were you shot?” He dropped to his knees at her side. When he eased the gun from her fingers, she turned her bloodshot, dirt-rimmed eyes on him. He flipped the revolver’s cylinder open and found six empty casings. A rush of acid pooled in his mouth. Dear God, what has she done?

“They hurt Lincoln.” Her voice was weak, hoarse as though from screaming.

Looking at the dull hopelessness on her face, he was overcome by the impulse to snatch her up in his arms and run away to some hidden place where he could lose his cool like he wanted to, without anyone witnessing the spectacle.

Biting his lip, he looked over his shoulder. The man in the dirt lay unmoving as the paramedics worked on him, his shirt crusted with drying blood. Stratis stood over the man leaning against the mesa, who looked to be in his early twenties. He whimpered, and Vaughn couldn’t fault him for it—his right thigh was a bloody mess.

Vaughn wrapped Rachel’s revolver in the handkerchief he kept in his pocket for such a use and set it on the ground. “These men, they shot Lincoln?”

His fingers flew to her injured arm. She started to answer, but when he pushed her sleeve up, it stuck to the drying blood and she hissed through her teeth. Despite her obvious pain, she held still and allowed him to evaluate the damage. A bullet had grazed her arm near her shoulder, cutting an angry path through her skin and muscle. Dirt and pebbles compromised the area. She needed the wound cleaned and her shock symptoms and dehydration addressed immediately.

Another look over his shoulder told him the paramedics were too busy to see to her relatively minor injuries. They had the man on the ground rolled over and fitted with an oxygen mask, and were in the process of transferring him to a stretcher. The second ambulance probably wouldn’t arrive for another half hour. Time Rachel couldn’t afford, if there was any alternative.

Vaughn could have her to the hospital in Tucumcari in forty-five minutes if they left right now. But he was the sheriff, the boss; this was his game. He should direct Stratis to take her. Any other case, he would’ve had no uncertainty over his need to stay on the scene. But there was a huge part of him that still burned with the need to be Rachel’s protector, and he knew it would kill him to stuff her in another man’s car and watch them drive away.

Then again, if Rachel shot those men, there would be an investigation. Legally, ethically, he’d need to recuse himself should it come to that. In that case, he should probably appoint Stratis to run lead on the case right off the bat.

Fuck.

Take a breath, Vaughn.

What was happening now, his hesitation, that was the crux of his problem—Rachel short-circuited his intuition. Every time he got inside her orbit, he started second-guessing himself. More than anything, he hated that about their relationship. Or lack of relationship, as it was.

He peeled a sticky strand of hair from her wound. “Where’s Lincoln now?”

She shuddered. “In the canyon. Dead.”

His heart constricted. She loved that horse. “They killed him?”

Her tongue moved over the roof of her open mouth. “I’m thirsty.”

Damn, she needed medical attention in a bad way. “I know. I’m going to get you water in a sec. Did those two men kill Lincoln?”

“Four men.”

Vaughn reeled. Four?

Rachel continued. “But it wasn’t them who killed Lincoln. It was me.”

Vaughn got his face near hers, set his eyes right in front of her, and took her shoulders in his hands, careful to steer clear of her injury. “Rachel, listen to me. We only found two men. Where are the other two?”

Her gaze drifted past him. “They left. In the truck.”

He followed her line of sight to the top of the mesa. When he saw what she was looking at, he rose to his feet, his jaw so tight his teeth ached.

Fourteen years in law enforcement had trained him not to rush forward, but to listen and watch, to pause and take in a crime scene all at once. Like a photograph that captured body positions and facial expressions, evidence scattered around the scene, the nuances a civilian’s eye would miss. Today, though, he’d missed the writing on the boulder. Another testament to how Rachel messed with his self-control.

In block letters was a message that left him stone-cold. bitch we warned you—now you die.

So much for his job as sheriff. The need to protect Rachel blazed inside him, hot and dangerous, leaving no room for logic. “I’m getting you out of here.” He squatted and draped her right arm across his shoulders. “Hold tight.”

Her fingers squeezed him, but her grip was negligible at best. Not a good sign. He straightened his legs gradually, giving her body time to adjust to the movement. As soon as they were both standing, he shifted his hold and lifted her into his arms. She buried her face in his neck as he walked, and it should’ve felt perfect, being so close to her, but he was too disturbed by the message on the boulder to think past his wild, illogical need to flee with her. Whoever shot her and hurt her horse, they were going to pay. Every last one of them.

When they reached his car, he set her on her feet, opened the door, and helped her in. He unscrewed the lid from a fresh bottle of water and handed it to her. It slipped through her fingers. Gnashing his teeth, he held the bottle to her lips and dribbled water onto her tongue. He stroked her hair away from her face as she drank, then set the bottle in her lap and jogged toward the mesa to touch base with Stratis.

“Talk to me,” he prompted his undersheriff of three years.

Stratis pushed the brim of his hat up with his finger. “We got a problem.”

“Got that right. What’s the status of the injured men?”

“Nonfatal gunshot wounds, both of them. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Vaughn scanned the ground. “Did you locate their firearms?”

“No, not yet, but—”

“Rachel said there were four men, and two of them took off in a truck. Probably took the firearms with them. I radioed Reyes. He should be here soon, along with another ambulance for the second man. Have you gotten names out of them yet?”

Stratis leveled his gaze at Vaughn. “That’s the problem I’m talking about. Man with the leg wound is Jimmy de Luca.”

Name didn’t ring a bell. “And the other?”

Stratis swallowed. “He’s still unconscious, but I recognized him. Pulled his wallet to confirm. Looks like Rachel shot Wallace Meyer Jr.”

All Vaughn could do was blink. The tingling in his throat kicked up, making him jones for a cigarette. He looked past Stratis to the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance and swabbed his forehead with his hand. The tingling grew unbearable. Wallace Fucking Meyer.

“Don’t talk to anybody, understand?”

Stratis’s jaw rippled. “Understood.”

“Not until we get the details,” Vaughn amended. “If he’s stable, stall the ambulance. We don’t want Junior expiring on us—Jesus, I can only imagine the shit storm we’d be in if he died—but if we can wait until Reyes gets here, he can keep an eye on the scene and this de Luca guy while you ride in the ambulance. If Wallace Jr. comes to, press him for everything he’s worth, because once he gets to the hospital, we’ll lose access to him.”

“Got it.”

“Tell Reyes to look in the canyon. He’ll find Rachel’s dead horse. Her camera won’t be far away either. I’ll call Kirby, Molina, and Binderman. Their day off just got cancelled.”

He swung by the tree, grabbed the revolver, and locked it in the evidence bin in his trunk. He snagged his first-aid kit and got into the car. Rachel didn’t turn to regard him. She was staring at the message on the boulder. Her wound gaped at him, a stew of blood, flesh, and dirt. He ripped open a pack of pre-medicated gauze and pressed it to her arm, securing it with a length of medical tape. She didn’t seem to notice.

He turned the engine over and cranked the wheel, anxious to remove the graffiti from her line of sight. Once they were on the road toward the highway, he set his hand on her knee. “Do you know who those men were?”

She rubbed the elbow of her injured arm. “No.”

Good. Because when she found out, she’d understand how screwed they both were.

“I’m sorry,” she added in a whisper.

He squeezed her knee, hoping she didn’t sense his agitation. “Don’t say that. We’re going to get you patched up, and then we’ll talk. For now, rest. I’ve got to make some calls.”

She closed her eyes. “Amy,” she breathed.

“Yeah, I’m calling your sisters. They’ll meet us at the hospital.”

First things first, though. Time to alert his deputies that the Quay County Sheriff’s Department just went into crisis mode. He dialed Torin Kirby’s number, but his mind was on Wallace Meyer Jr.

The younger Meyer’s delinquency was a sore topic in his department, muttered about for years. But under the protective watch of his father, the boy was exempt from the arm of the law—or, at least, that was what the good ole boy club believed. Still, what was the son of a bitch thinking, trespassing in the middle of the day to scrawl threatening messages on the property of a family already steeped in controversy? Did he ever consider he might get caught?

Then again, Wallace Meyer Jr. had the luxury not to think of consequences at all. It was a fact of life Vaughn became aware of as a teenager—thanks in large part to the Meyer family—that the people with the power called the shots. Wallace Meyer Sr., Tucumcari’s police chief for the past twenty-eight years, had more power and political influence than any other law-enforcement authority in eastern New Mexico.