Page 55 of Branded

I slide off Duchess, my legs shaking now that the adrenaline is fading. My hands are steady, though. Too steady. I’ve just shot a man, probably killed him—no, absolutely killed him, and I feel nothing.

We went to take back stolen cattle. Instead, we came limping home with a wounded patriarch and nothing to show for it except proof that the Marshalls were ready and waiting.

19

SEBASTIAN

Dad lies on the examination table, his shirt cut away, his shoulder a mess of torn flesh. Doctor Reeves, a former army surgeon who’s been on retainer since I was a kid, works with efficient calm while two nurses assist.

“Clean through and through,” he says, probing the wound while Dad grits his teeth. “Missed the bone, missed major arteries. You’re lucky, Walker.”

“Don’t feel lucky,” Dad says with a grimace.

“You’re alive. That’s lucky.” Reeves irrigates the wound, blood and saline running pink into a basin. “But you’ve got tissue damage, probable nerve involvement. You’ll need surgery to repair it properly.”

“Repair it here.”

“Walker, I can stabilize you, close the wound and manage infection. But for nerve repair, you need a real surgical suite. A hospital.” Reeves meets Dad’s eyes. “What you don’t need is sepsis because you’re too stubborn to get proper treatment.”

“He’s right, Dad,” I say, standing against the wall, arms crossed, trying to ignore his blood on my hands. “This needs more than we can get here.”

“And how do we explain a gunshot wound? Tell them I was cleaning my gun and it went off?” Dad’s laugh is bitter. “Every law enforcement agency in three counties will be crawling over this ranch by morning.”

“So we say you were target-shooting and there was an accident,” Caroline interrupts from the doorway. “Ricochet, bad angle, happens all the time. No one needs to know you were shot during a cattle raid.”

“They’ll ask questions.”

“Let them ask. Give minimal information and dare them to prove otherwise. I’ll deal with the questions.” Caroline moves into the room, her heels clicking on the tile. “But Dad, you need actual surgery, which means a hospital. We can manage the narrative.”

I watch the argument play out, but my mind is on the ambush. The trap. The fact that Marshall knew exactly when and where we’d be coming.

Someone told them.

Someone in our camp leaked our plans.

“Where’s Nathaniel?” I ask.

“Checking the perimeter with the ranch hands,” Caroline answers. “Making sure the Marshalls didn’t follow us back.”

“And James?”

“On the phone with my legal team. Making sure we have cover for whatever fallout comes from tonight.” She turns to Dad. “Which brings us back to the hospital question. What’s it going to be?”

Dad looks at me, and I see something I’ve never seen before in his eyes. Uncertainty. Maybe even fear. He is sixty-eight years old with a bullet wound that could cost him the use of his arm if it isn’t properly treated. For the first time in my life, my father looks old.

“Hospital,” I say before he can argue. “We’ll handle the questions. Right now, you need surgery.”

“When did you become so bossy, Sebastian?”

“You taught me that protecting the family means making hard choices. This is one of them.”

The room goes quiet. Everyone stares at me, Caroline with surprise, the medical staff with relief, Dad with something that might be pride mixed with resentment.

“Fine,” he finally says. “But, son, you find out who leaked our plans. Someone told the Marshalls we were coming. Someone on this ranch betrayed us.”

“I know.”

“Find them. Deal with them. Quietly.” Dad’s eyes are hard despite the pain. “We can’t afford traitors.”