When the shot rang out, she jerked as if the ball had plowed into her own body....

When the shot rang out, she jerked as if the ball had plowed into her own body. The blast echoed and reechoed, loud and reverberating, punctuating her worst fear with a cutting finality. Running, running. She saw only Hunter, sitting on his horse one second, beautiful and proud, then thrown forward, as if a mighty hand had slammed into his back. He pitched sideways off his horse. Falling, falling, forever falling.
Hunter, shot. Loretta couldn't think beyond that. The other Comanches were a blur. Hunter was her only reality, and the cold fingers of death were curling around him. The events of the last three months spun through her head like the acts in a play. Her fierce captor, her trusted friend, her gentle lover. She couldn't lose him like this.
"Hunter! Oh, please, dear God, not Hunter!"
Loretta reached him and dropped to her knees, trying to gather him into her arms. She couldn't lift him. A tortured moan worked its way up her throat. With a trembling hand, she cupped the side of his jaw, sobbing his name. She touched the scar that slashed his cheek, the lifeless lips that had so frequently whispered comfort to her. If her face was carved on his heart, his was carved on her soul.
"Don't die! Hunter, please, don't die! I love you! Hunter--" A sob tore the words from her guts in ragged spurts. "I love--you. , you hear? I love you! You can't die and leave me. Please, don't leave me!