Tate’s eyes roll up into his head. Holt sprang forward but not quickly enough to keep the other man from folding into a heap on the oiled wooden floor. Holt reached his side at the same moment as Lizzie. They bumped into each other, backed away. Embarrassment fluttered through her eyes and then she turned to kneel at her father’s side. “Pa.” She nudged his arm. “Pa.” Holt pushed aside a rush of wishes. Life would never include the things a man wanted—home, a woman to smile in greeting as he walked in the door. Not while he was a hunted man. But the alternative was to face biased justice. His false accusers had left no doubt in anyone’s mind that Holt was guilty. Not that a soul had been looking to defend his innocence. He knelt beside Lizzie, studying the inert man. “He’s passed out.” He shoved one arm under Mr. Tate’s shoulders and the other under his knees, grunting as he lifted him. “Show me to his bed.” Lizzie considered the request for barely a second before she nodded.
