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Horse.”

Chapter Five
    Moira was tired of seeing Delaney Crawford’s scruffy face every time she turned around.
    “John’s been shot?” Sheriff Nelson moved to stand next to the captain.
    “Yes. By him .” She lifted her chin as she stared down her new nemesis. He looked even worse for wear than he had earlier, though she berated herself for noticing.
    “Miss Tully.” The sheriff’s tone was equal parts confusion and condescension. “This is Captain Crawford. He just arrived this morning. He couldn’t possibly have shot John.”
    “No, I did,” cut in Crawford, surprising her with his admission. “I was in the clearing to the west of town, and I…reacted without thought.”
    “Is John all right?”
    She turned her attention to the sheriff. “Doc’s been to see him already. Mr. White Horse will recover.” She lifted a finger to point at Crawford. “But that shouldn’t excuse the fact that a crime was committed.”
    “Miss Tully—”
    “No.” Her finger switched to stab at the sheriff’s chest, but she didn’t touch him. Hank Nelson repelled her, in a way that Crawford couldn’t, even after he’d shot her. “Mr. White Horse was assaulted, with deadly force. The perpetrator must be punished.” She ignored the fact that she was shaking, telling herself she shook merely with the force of her convictions.
    She refused to acknowledge the fear tying her stomach in knots.
    The sheriff closed his eyes briefly, as if for patience, which annoyed Moira to no end. He may have been the reason she’d settled in Red Creek, albeit indirectly, but their relationship remained contentious from the day she’d arrived almost half a year ago. Working with Sheriff Nelson on the native inclusion efforts proved a constant battle, until she had begun to doubt he wanted the Cheyenne to integrate in the first place. “Miss Tully, this ain’t Boston, and your fancy jargon doesn’t much matter in my jail. All I need to know is if someone died.”
    She scowled at him.
    “Well? Did anyone die, Miss Tully?”
    Crawford simply watched her, composed and unblinking as he waited for her to fit his jail cell for a shiny new lock. It was a strange sort of trust he put in her, though he could have been spewing self-righteous indignation in his defense, bumping shoulders with the sheriff in that conspiratorial way men had—the bonds of some invisible brotherhood linking them all and making sure that the bitter, weaker woman didn’t get her skirts in a twist. She’d seen it before, and it wouldn’t have shocked her. But his green eyes, suddenly so readable to her, told her he knew she wouldn’t attempt to lie.
    “No,” she grated, not liking the flush she felt creeping up her neck. “No one died.” Mr. White Horse wouldn’t be on his feet for a day or so, as he risked infection and fever, and she was missing part of her ear , but no one had died.
    Evidently that was enough for Sheriff Nelson. With a patronizing smirk, he said, “There now, it’s not all so bad, see? Just a little misunderstanding.”
    Moira fumed. She didn’t care if he was the Mother Superior’s nephew and had offered her the teaching job when she most needed it—Hank Nelson was a pompous ass.
    But she still needed to know if he’d truly summoned Crawford to their town, knowing it would create strife between the Indians and the people of Red Creek. “Is having him here just a little misunderstanding?”
    The sheriff sighed heavily. “Surely you’ve heard the talk about the Indians going about and burning down houses.”
    “That hasn’t happened here.”
    “It’s only a matter of time, Miss Tully. They’ve either got to be driven out or…” He trailed off as his eyes found a spot over her head upon which to focus.
    Her stomach churned. “Or murdered. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “Only before they murder us,” returned the sheriff, glaring at her beneath his thin dark brows. “What’s got your dander up? I’ve never seen you so