PART 2 — THE WOMAN THEY LAUGHED AT BECAME HIS ONLY HOPE

Clara Whitmore had never been afraid of blood.

She was afraid of losing someone she might have saved.

She looked at Caleb Turner, who stood beside the kitchen table with his fists clenched.

“Hold the lamp steady.”

Then she turned back to Ethan.

The cowboy lay motionless beneath the flickering light. His enormous frame seemed strangely fragile now, his breathing so shallow that Clara found herself watching his chest between every movement of her hands.

She had seen this kind of mistake before.

A wound that looked closed on the outside could hide a terrible problem underneath. Whoever had treated Ethan had mistaken a neat-looking bandage for a healing injury.

And Ethan was paying for it.

“Jesse, bring me another basin.”

The young rider hurried to obey.

“Holt, I need you to keep Caleb from interfering.”

“I’m not interfering,” Caleb protested.

“Not yet,” Clara replied. “But you look like you’re about to.”

For the first time that evening, Jesse almost smiled.

Clara continued working, carefully removing the old dressing and examining the damaged tissue. She cleaned the area and prepared fresh supplies, refusing to let the men’s anxious faces distract her.

Then Ethan suddenly moved.

His hand sH๏τ out and caught her wrist.

His eyes opened halfway.

“Don’t…” he rasped.

Clara leaned closer.

“Don’t what, Mr. Blackwood?”

His lips barely moved.

“Don’t let him…”

His grip weakened.

“Who?” she asked.

But Ethan had already slipped back into unconsciousness.

Caleb exchanged a worried look with Holt.

“He’s been saying things like that for two days,” Caleb admitted.

“What things?”

“Something about a man. We thought it was the fever.”

Clara glanced toward Ethan’s face.

“Perhaps you should stop ᴀssuming everything he says is nonsense.”

She returned to her work.

The hours that followed pᴀssed slowly. She cleaned the wound, removed the contaminated material, and did everything she could to give his body a chance to recover. She prepared warm compresses and carefully measured the herbal preparations she had used for minor ailments in the past.

But she knew herbs alone wouldn’t solve this.

Ethan needed a proper physician and urgent medical treatment.

Unfortunately, the nearest qualified doctor was nearly twenty miles away.

And the snowstorm was getting worse.

By midnight, Clara had finished the immediate work she could safely do.

She covered Ethan with clean blankets and checked his breathing again.

“Will he live?” Jesse asked.

Clara didn’t look up.

“I don’t know.”

Holt frowned.

“You just spent six hours saving him.”

“And I’ll spend another six if I have to. But I’m not going to promise you something I cannot know.”

Caleb pulled a chair beside the table.

“What can we do?”

“Keep him warm. Give him nothing to eat or drink while he’s barely conscious. And someone needs to ride for Dr. Mercer at first light. Tell him exactly what happened.”

Caleb nodded.

Then Clara noticed something.

Ethan’s right hand was тιԍнтly closed around a small piece of fabric.

She gently examined it.

It was a torn strip of dark blue wool.

Not from his shirt.

Not from his coat.

Someone else’s clothing.

“Where did he get this?” she asked.

Caleb leaned forward.

“I don’t know. He was holding it when we found him.”

Clara turned the fabric over.

There was something embroidered along its edge.

A small silver letter.

B.

She stared at it.

Then she looked toward Caleb.

“Does Ethan have enemies?”

Caleb gave a humorless laugh.

“Half the territory, depending on which cattleman you ask.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Holt stood and approached the table.

“Three nights ago, we found him near his horse. He’d been attacked on the north ridge. His saddle was gone, his rifle was missing, and somebody had dragged him away from the trail.”

Clara slowly lowered the fabric.

“Then the bear story is a lie.”

Neither man answered.

That silence told her enough.

At dawn, Ethan’s fever finally began to ease.

His breathing was still weak, but his eyes opened briefly.

Clara was sitting beside him, replacing the cloth on his forehead.

“Where am I?” he whispered.

“Willow Creek. My house.”

He tried to move.

“Don’t,” she said firmly. “You have been through enough.”

His eyes traveled around the room before settling on her.

“You’re Clara.”

She nodded.

“How do you know my name?”

“Caleb told me.”

He swallowed painfully.

“Did you…?”

“You’re still alive.”

A faint expression crossed his face.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Clara understood.

“Your wound has been cleaned and dressed. But you’re not out of danger. We need a doctor.”

Ethan closed his eyes.

“Thought you were one.”

“I’m not.”

He looked surprised.

“Then why did you help me?”

Clara considered the question.

Because nobody else would.

Because she knew what it felt like to be dismissed before anyone bothered to discover what you could do.

Because she couldn’t stand watching a man die simply because the people around him had decided he wasn’t worth another effort.

Instead, she answered simply.

“Because you needed help.”

Ethan studied her for several seconds.

Then he whispered something she hadn’t expected.

“People in this town said you were useless.”

Clara’s expression hardened.

“They say many things.”

“They were wrong.”

She looked away before he could see how deeply those words affected her.

Then the cabin door opened.

Caleb entered carrying a telegram.

His face was unusually pale.

“Clara, this came from the telegraph office.”

He handed it to her.

The message was short.

TO ETHAN BLACKWOOD.

WE KNOW YOU SURVIVED.

THE LAND DEED MUST BE DESTROYED BEFORE THE SHERIFF ARRIVES.

YOU HAVE UNTIL TOMORROW.

Clara read it twice.

Then she looked at Ethan.

His eyes were open.

And for the first time since he’d arrived, he looked genuinely frightened.

“Who sent this?” she asked.

Ethan slowly turned his head toward Caleb.

“Tell her.”

Caleb hesitated.

Then he said the name that made Clara’s stomach drop.

“Benjamin Blackwood.”

Ethan’s older brother.

The richest cattleman in the county.

And the man who had publicly promised to bury Ethan before he ever allowed him to inherit their father’s land.

Clara looked down at the torn blue fabric in her hand.

The embroidered letter suddenly made sense.

B.

She turned toward Ethan.

“Was your brother the man who attacked you?”

Ethan didn’t answer immediately.

Then his voice came out barely above a whisper.

“No, Clara.”

He closed his eyes.

“He was the man who paid someone else to do it.”

And outside, a horse began approaching the cabin.

Someone was coming.

Someone who knew Ethan was alive.