Excerpt of Love Has No Boundaries by I. R. Plummer

"He's alive."

Killer whimpered.

Bobby's solemn eyes watched her every move but he didn't comment.

Amanda wanted to gather Bobby in her arms, wipe painful memories away and shield him from the possibility that the man would die, but Bobby wouldn't welcome her embrace. And tonight when nightmares tore screams out of his trembling body he'd push aside her words of comfort.

"We need to roll him onto his back."

Bobby dug the toe of his boot into the soft ground. "He's dead."

His face was an expressionless mask she recognized. He was ready to unleash his fury at his favorite target—her. He was too young to be forced to deal with death and the pain people inflected on others. And he'd been a lot younger and far more innocent the first time she reminded herself.

She stirred her bangs with a puff of breath and dug deep for a thread of patience. "He's not dead. Give me a hand. Besides the head wound I need to see if he has other injuries."

Their gazes met. Bobby locked his jaw, ducked his head and shuffled his boots through a carpet of pine needles.

She heaved a sigh for a battle won without a fight.

When she ripped the stranger's navy blue pants, blood smeared Amanda's hands. Her head spun faster than a spinning top. She closed her eyes and saw stars dance like fire flies.

"Get a grip, concentrate on the facts," she muttered between short shallow breaths.

The puncture in his thigh was the size and color of a ripe Bing cherry, singed black around the edge. "Bullet hole" echoed through a buzz that sounded like a freight train rolling behind her eyes.

The metallic sweetness of fresh blood mixed with the aroma of damp soil and dead vegetation—she gagged and coughed till her eyes watered and her throat burned.

"Are you going to barf?" Bobby asked.

She swiped her eyes with the sleeve of her t-shirt. "Not if I can help it, but thanks for your concern."

He rolled his eyes.

Good, the sarcasm eased his anxiety.

She skimmed her fingers around the side and back of the man's thigh. "There's no exit hole."

"The bullet's still in his leg? Crap—that must hurt like shit."

Amanda agreed but bit her tongue rather than encourage the foul language. Besides, it was hard to fault his language when her instincts said she'd think or say worse before the day was over.

Her gaze rested on his expensive riding boots. "Did you see his horse?"

"If I'd found a horse I would have ridden home instead of running."

"Makes sense," she muttered under her breath. She scanned the carpet of pine needles. Except for Killer's paw prints and where Bobby dragged his feet, the needles were undisturbed.

Her brothers knew the land and were trained to leave no trace of their visit. But why dump an injured man at the cabin? Unless they hadn't planned on her finding out.

A crack of lightning and a flood of heat washed over the tree tops.

A hoot owl took flight and the horses pawed the ground and snorted.

"We need to get him to the house. Take the horses back to the barn. Connect the lawn cart to the four-wheeler. The wagon trail's overgrown but you'll be able to get the four-wheeler here without a problem."

He didn't move.

"Bobby."

"I heard you. I'll take Clyde and bring back the stupid pole cot you forced me to make. Besides, you hid the four-wheeler's frigging keys because I broke your dumb-ass rules." His voice cracked and dropped two octaves.

Compared to the fear when he'd thought the man was dead, the sarcasm was welcome and familiar. And that didn't say much for the state of their relationship. "Please, do what I ask. We'll discuss the rules later. The copper stand in the mudroom holds a red umbrella. The four-wheeler key's inside the umbrella."

Like heat on asphalt she could almost see the anger roll off his ramrod-straight back. At the road he urged the horses into a trot.

A trail of blood slid across the man's eyelid and down the side of his nose, a nose that had been broken at least once. With her index finger she brushed a lock of blood-soaked hair off his clammy forehead. There was a nasty gash from his brow to his ear.

Her stomach did a slow loop then took a death-defying tumble. Hot acid burned her throat and pushed against her tonsils. She concentrated on slow, even breaths until the lump in her throat eased.

"Damn to hell! Which idiot brother left you here and why haven't they returned?"

She pulled her pale yellow Tinkerbelle t-shirt, with "never stop dreaming" splashed across the chest, over her head. The shirt was the last gift Bob gave her before leaving for Iraq. With a strong tug she ripped the shirt down a seam. Unchecked tears left a salty trail down her cheeks.

By the time the four-wheeler and Killer's excited barks broke the silence she'd wrapped the man's thigh and styled a turban out of the top part of the shirt. Florence Nightingale she wasn't. But she'd heard enough stories to know that the egg-size knot on the back of his head could be his worst problem.

"Holy shit!" Bobby stared at her pink, lacy, pushup bra. An apple-red blush crept up his neck and flamed his cheeks.

"What! I don't look as good as Candy Sue or was Suzi, the February centerfold in Playboy? And don't say you don't know what I'm talking about."

Bobby rolled his eyes and he pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it to her.

Amanda chuckled. The amusement in the mist of fear eased the knot in her stomach. "Let's get him into the cart."