Hallowed Ground by Lori G. Armstrong Read Free Book Online Page A

squeamishness, I examined his body, trying to figure out where the hell all the blood was coming from. I found one entrance point in his left shoulder. Another, on his left thigh. The worst injury was in the middle of his stomach. Blood darkened his T-shirt, spreading out like a dreamcatcher the size of a compact disc.

    Shit. This was bad, and I couldn’t even see the back of his head, where he’d nailed the barbecue grill. I assumed he’d have a bump the size of a cantaloupe, or he’d cracked his skull open.

    I peered at the dirt beneath his head. No puddles of liquid oozed out. Was that worse? Could he be hemorrhaging internally?

    Automatically, I patted my hip for my cell phone. My fingers connected with air. Crap. I’d left it on the picnic table.

    I hadn’t heard any additional shots. With my pulse booming in my ears and adrenaline crashing through my system, the damn shooter could’ve skipped up behind me whistling show tunes and I wouldn’t have noticed.

    Chills raced down my spine at the silence, like the earth was holding its breath.

    After another quick glance around, I crouched and ran the twenty feet to the table. Snatching up my cell phone, I flipped it open, and hit speed dial for the sheriff’s office.

    I yanked off my frayed shirt as I scurried back toward Donovan. One hand held the phone. The other wadded up the cotton fabric and pressed against the gunshot wound in Donovan’s stomach in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

    “Bear Butte County Sheriff’s Office.”

    I recognized the voice on the line. Missy. Thank God. She might be a royal pain in the ass in person, but in a crisis she was top notch.

    “Missy. This is Julie Collins. I need an ambulance at Bear Butte ASAP. I’ve got a victim with multiple gunshot wounds and a possible brain hemorrhage.”

    “Julie, what exactly is your location at Bear Butte?”

    “Picnic area on the south side, about a mile from the main entrance next to the creek.”

    “Are shots still being fired?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Are you injured?”

    “No.”

    “Did you get the victim’s name?”

    “Yes. Donovan Black Dog.”

    “Good work, honey. Stay put. Stay calm. An ambulance is on its way.”

    I hung up, and dropped the phone, hoping that two hands would apply enough pressure to keep Donovan alive until the ambulance arrived. I did another visual sweep of his body.

    When had the wound in his leg started gushing like Old Faithful? If the bullet had nicked the femoral artery he’d bleed out before help arrived and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

    I tugged the bloody sleeve of my shirt loose from where I’d pressed it into his stomach, stretching it across his pelvis, placing one hand firmly on his leg and keeping the other in position on his belly.

    Please, please, hurry.

    Hot, dry wind slapped my face, momentarily breaking my concentration. A lonely hawk’s cry echoed in the canyon, a ricochet of desperation I felt to the marrow of my bones.

    Where the hell was everybody? Had they all packed up their sage bundles and gone home?

    Time passed slowly, a bark beetle inching its way up a diseased pine tree.

    My arms ached. The muscles across my shoulders screamed.

    Why kept echoing in my head. Why hadn’t the shooter picked me off?

    Sweat dripped into my eyes. Unable to use my hands, I whipped my head like a wet dog, flinging away the salty droplets. When I looked down, Ben’s face swam into view.

    My breath caught.

    Ben. Oh God. It was Ben. This was my chance to save him.

    Tears filled my eyes. My vision blurred.

    Reality shattered the illusion: This is not Ben, Ben is dead. Donovan isn’t. Focus .

    I felt nauseous, which triggered my gag reflex and I swallowed until the bile burned back down where it belonged. Squeezed my eyes shut to stop the tears.

    Goddamn it. He wasn’t Ben, but Donovan wasn’t going to die. Not here. Not like this. Not if I could help it.

    Talk to him , a voice