Sharon bawled. She hunched over an unconscious Ruby, now sprawled on a braided rug before the guesthouse fireplace. A strong woman and big, not even Sharon could stop the thin, fitful blood-geysers pumping from Ruby’s severed wrist. The rug was slowly turning a deep rust color as Ruby’s arteries emptied. “Come on, come on, come on!” “Just a sec, just a sec!” Fumbling, Alex stripped the lace from her boot and then crowded in beside Sharon. She lashed the lace around Ruby’s forearm a few inches down from the old woman’s bloodstained elbow—once, twice. For a moment, she worried the polypropylene would saw right through Ruby’s skin, which was frail and paper-thin. Well, screw that. She put some muscle into it, cinched down hard. “Okay, ease up.” The big woman’s fingers cautiously relaxed. The steady crimson pump dribbled to an ooze. “Christ.” Sharon was panting. Her sweat-drenched face was matted with hanks of her bullet-gray hair.
