They burst through the trees, armed for battle. But Doyle knew the battle was done for the moment.
“She’s breathing, but she’s been choked, and her hand’s broken, ribs, too. I think her right elbow’s shattered. And—”
On a keening sound of distress, Sasha all but fell on the ground beside Riley. “No, no, no, no.”
“Let me see.” Bran dropped down beside her.
“We need to get her inside, heal her.” Tears shimmering, Annika knelt by Riley’s other side, stroked her bloodied hair.
“I don’t think we move her until we know . . .” Sawyer’s knuckles showed white on the grip of his gun. “You’re not supposed to move her, right, because it can make it worse?”
“Sawyer’s right. That’s sensible.” Calm as a lake, Bran cupped his hands on Riley’s head. “Neck and spine. We should see if they’re injured.”
“I can do it.”
Bran looked into Sasha’s eyes, eyes glazed with shock. “Calmly, fáidh. Slowly. Just the surface now.”
“All right.” Closing her eyes, Sasha took in air, let it out until her breath was nearly steady. She used her hands, her heart, and with Bran’s hands on her shoulders to aid her, she let herself feel.
“Oh, God, oh, God, so much broken, so much damaged.”
“Neck and spine, Sasha,” Bran said quietly. “Start there.”
“Bruised, jolted. Not broken.”
“Then we can take her inside.” Those tears streamed down Annika’s cheeks. “She shouldn’t lie on the ground. It’s cold. She’s cold.”
“Yes, we can move her.” When Bran started to lift her, Doyle nudged him aside.
“I’ve got her.” She moaned when he gathered her up, and her eyelids fluttered—both of which he took as good signs. For an instant, her eyes opened—blind with pain, w
ith shock, met his. “I’ve got you, ma faol.”
Her eyes rolled up white, closed again as he carried her out of the forest.
“Straight to her room,” Bran ordered. “I’ll get my medical kit. Anni, towels and hot water. Sawyer, a pitcher of cool water. Not cold, cool, and a clear glass. Sasha, strip her bed down to the sheets for now.”
They scattered as Sasha ran up the stairs behind Bran. Though he wanted to run himself—and could have, as she weighed nothing much to his mind—Doyle moved carefully, doing what he could not to jar her.
When he turned into Riley’s room, Sasha had tossed the bedding and pillows aside.
“I can help her.”
“Wait for Bran.” As if she were made of thin, fragile glass, Doyle laid her on the bed.
“I can help. If she comes to before . . . I don’t know how she could stand it.”
“She’s tough. She’ll hold up.” With great care, Doyle unzipped her hoodie, ignored the blood, removed her holster, her knife sheath. “Wait for Bran.”
Fighting tears, Sasha sat on the side of the bed, took Riley’s good hand. “How did you know?”
“I saw her go into the forest when I was taking in supplies. Saw her going in with you minutes before I went out for more, and you came down.”
“With me? With me?”
“Hold it together.” He issued the order with a snap. “You can’t help her if you don’t hold it together.”
“You’re right. I will. And if Bran’s not here in thirty seconds, I’m—”