Silas did not ask who.
He dragged her inside, locked the door, and retrieved the emergency medical kit he had kept since retirement. His hands immediately returned to the calm rhythm they had followed thousands of times. He cut away the blood-soaked fabric, applied pressure, and determined that the bullet had passed through the upper shoulder without striking the major artery beneath it.
Chloe had still lost a dangerous amount of blood.
“Stay with me,” Silas told her. “Tell me your name.”
“Chloe Callahan.”
“Is anyone coming for you?”
“My husband.”
“Does he know where you are?”
She lifted a small emergency transmitter attached to her belt. “Maybe. I pressed it after the car went over the ridge.”
Silas examined her abdomen. The muscles were tightening in repeated waves, and Chloe’s breathing had changed. Trauma from the crash had triggered premature labor.
“My baby,” she said, grabbing his wrist. “Please don’t let me lose him.”
“You are not losing anyone tonight.”
Silas carried her to the large oak dining table near the fire. It was the highest and cleanest surface in the cabin. He boiled water, sterilized instruments, wrapped heated blankets around her legs, and kept pressure on the shoulder wound between contractions.
Chloe explained what had happened in broken sentences.
She had been returning from a prenatal appointment in Phoenix when a black SUV began following her through the mountains. The men inside belonged to a violent criminal organization that had recently clashed with the Iron Saints. They could not reach Tommy directly, so they targeted his pregnant wife.
The SUV struck the rear of Chloe’s car near a narrow curve. Her vehicle left the road, rolled down the embankment, and stopped against several trees. When she climbed from the wreck, one of the men fired at her from above.