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Clutching Mae's hand as they stood in the doorway, Wolstan stared at the blood on his mama and Uncle Em's clothes and pooled on the floor beneath his uncle's upper body, grateful for his experience on the battlefield.

Because without the year and a half making him immune to seeing bodies shredded by cannons and covered in gore, he would have dropped to the floor in a dead faint like he used to at first sight of the crimson liquid.

"Wooly, I can't get the bleeding to stop," Emmaline whimpered, pressing a saturated cloth against Emerson's left shoulder.

"Here, Mama," he gently murmured, tossing his jacket aside and untucking and pulling his shirt over his head as he knelt beside her. "Let me have a try."

Her chin wobbled, and tears gathered in her lashes, cascading down her cheeks when she nodded and removed the drenched cloth she'd been holding.

"I keep trying to tell her it looks worse than it is," Emerson groaned.

Mae walked over and helped Emmaline to her feet, keeping hold of her trembling hands.

"WOOLY," Declan yelled outside amid several sets of heavy footfalls running across the veranda before the kitchen door slammed against the outside wall, and they stepped inside.

"Is that Cyrus Buchanan?" Sheriff Laverton asked, walking through the room.

"What's left of him," Declan replied, then raised his voice and called out, his tone full of alarm, "MAMA—"

"WE'RE BACK HERE," Wolstan hollered, immediately regretting it when the increased volume heightened the intense throbbing in his head. "Uncle Em's been shot."

Declan cursed, and he and the sheriff raced down the hall, skidding to a stop in the doorway. His eyes grew wide as they took in the scene. "How bad is it?"

"Hurts like the very devil."

"Two wounds; left arm—is only a graze... the other," Wolstan moved his shirt aside and clucked his tongue at the bloody hole above his uncle's left collarbone before putting pressure on the wound again, "is between the top of his left shoulder and neck, I'm still trying to get it to stop bleeding. Will you help carry him to the dining room?"

"You mean my operatory?" Emerson teased.

Declan walked into the bedroom. "Head or feet?"

Wolstan looked at his uncle. "Any preference?"

"There's no need for me to be carried, boys. Both legs are in perfect working condition." Emerson pushed himself to a sitting position, immediately turning pale and swaying. But after a moment, he smiled at Emmaline. "I'm fine, love... just need... to wait for the room to stop spinning." Then turning to Declan, he said, "See? I'm halfway there already."

Declan looked at Wolstan. "I'll take his feet."

Wolstan nodded and moved into position, ignoring Emerson's protests as they picked him up and carried him out of the bedroom.

Emmaline and Mae followed close behind.

"So," Declan asked while waiting for Sheriff Laverton to drag Cyrus's bullet-ridden corpse out of their way through the kitchen, "which one of you finally managed to kill the slimy old toad?"

"I did," Mae said.

"Talk about an unexpected yet delightful wedding present," Emerson groaned, "though I could've done without getting wounded."

Declan met Mae's stare over Wolstan's right shoulder, then glanced behind him and continued down the hall to the dining room. "Does this mean I should return the gift I bought you and Mama? Sounds like it might pale in comparison."

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