Mackenzie's Magic by Linda Howard

internal organs affected, but some chest muscle torn. He won’t settle down and let the bleeding stop."
    "Let’s take care of that problem, first off. I’m George Norton, the vet hereabouts." He was working as he spoke, setting down the bag and opening it. He prepared a hypodermic and stepped forward, smoothly injecting the sedative into one of the bulging veins in Pleasure’s neck. The stallion danced nervously, his shoulder shoving her once again. She clenched her teeth, enduring.
    "He’ll quiet down in a minute." The vet gave her a sharp glance as he peeled away the blood-soaked gauze she’d been holding to the wound. "No offense, but even with the blood, the horse looks in better shape than you do. Are you all right?"
    "Concussion."
    "Then for God’s sake stop letting him bump you around like that," he said sharply. "Sit down somewhere before you fall down."
    Even in the midst of everything that was going on, as the medics readied Joan for transport, Mac somehow heard the vet. All of a sudden he was there, looming behind her, reaching over her shoulder for Pleasure’s bridle. "I’ll hold him." The words sounded as if he were spitting them out one at a time, like bullets. "Sit down."
    "I—" She’d started to say "I think I will," but she didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence.
    He assumed she was about to mount an argument, and barked out one word. "Sit!"
    "I wasn’t going to argue," she snapped back. What did he think she was, a dog? Sit, indeed. She felt more like lying down.
    She decided to do just that. Pleasure was going to be all right; as soon as he quieted and let the vet do his work, the bleeding would stop. The torn muscle would have to be stitched, antibiotics administered, a bandage secured, but the horse would heal. Even though the truck and trailer were stolen, under the circumstances she couldn’t imagine that there would be any problem with using them to transport Pleasure back to Solomon Green. Until the vet was finished and Pleasure was loaded in the trailer, she intended to stretch out on the truck seat.
    Wearily she climbed into the cab. The keys were still in the ignition, so she started the engine and turned on the heater. She took off her coat, removed the Kevlar vest and placed it in the floorboards, then lay down on the seat and pulled the coat over her.
    She almost cried with relief as the pain immediately began easing now that she was still. She closed her eyes, letting the tension drain out of her, along with the terror and absolute rage. She might have killed Joan. If the woman had shot Mac, she would have done it. Enveloped in that strange vacuum of despair and rage, she had been going for a head shot. She hadn’t even thought about Pleasure, not in that awful moment when Joan turned on Mac. She was glad she hadn’t had to pull the trigger, but she knew she would have. Knowing her own fiercely protective nature was one thing, but this was the first time she had been faced with the true extent of it. The jolt of self-knowledge was searing.
    Mac had already faced this; it was in his eyes. She had seen it in her father, in her brothers, the willingness to do what was necessary to protect those they loved and those who were weaker. It wasn’t easy. It was gut-wrenching, and those who were willing to stand on the front lines paid for it in a thousand little ways she was only beginning to understand. She hadn’t had to take that final, irrevocable step, but she knew how close it had been.
    Her mother also had that willingness, and a couple of her sisters-in-law. Valiant Mary, intrepid Caroline, sweet Barrie. They had each, in different circumstances, faced death and seen the bottom line. They would understand the wrenching she felt. Well, maybe Caroline wouldn’t. Caroline was so utterly straightforward, so focused, that Joe had once compared her to a guided missile.
    The door by her head was wrenched open, and cold air poured in. "Maris! Wake up!" Mac barked, his voice right