34

The closer they came to the clearing, the harder Amos’s heart pounded in his chest. Not from fear this time but from righteous anger. Flashes of Lockhart forcing Grace’s head into that water barrel rose in his memory to heat his blood, fueling his need for justice.

A gunshot pierced the quiet. The lantern Porter held aloft to light their path shattered. Hermes spooked and reared. Amos grabbed for Porter’s waist, but without stirrups to brace himself, he was helpless against gravity. He tumbled to the ground. Recalling the size of the draft horse’s hooves, Amos immediately rolled away from the skittish animal.

Porter settled the beast in admirable time, while Shaw circled his own mount to keep him under control.

“Bledsoe!” Porter hissed into the darkness. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Amos got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his trousers. “Which direction did the shot come from?”

“West.” Shaw’s answer was definitive, as was his gaze as he searched the shadows for any sign of their attacker. “Toward the Gladstone place. Probably going for a horse. Gotta cut him off before he gets there. We need to split up, try to surround him. Bledsoe, take the rifle from my saddle boot. It’s got fifteen shots. There’s a box of cartridges in the side pouch, too.”

Amos did as instructed, the rifle heavy yet comforting in his hands.

Another shot rang out, and Amos ducked. Shaw’s horse sidestepped out of reach before Amos could retrieve the extra ammunition.

“Porter?”

“I’m good,” the freighter called from a few feet away. “But we can’t stay here and let him pick us off.”

“I’ll circle left. You go right. Bledsoe, take cover in that juniper over there.” Shaw pointed to a cluster of brush about twenty feet away. “Keep low to the ground. Flat on your stomach is best. Rifle aimed and ready. With as dark as it is, the closer you are to the ground, the harder it will be for him to distinguish you from the landscape.”

A third shot blasted.

Shaw spurred his mount. “Go!” He laid down cover, firing three shots in Lockhart’s general direction as they all took up their positions.

Amos ran toward the juniper, rifle in front of him. A yard out, he dropped to his belly and crawled on bent arms to the far side of the brush, not wanting Lockhart to see precisely where he was going to ground.

Then chaos ensued. Gunshots to the right, the left. They seemed to come from everywhere. Amos stared into the night, trying desperately to make out shapes. To identify his friends. He kept his rifle aimed low. Porter and Shaw were mounted. Lockhart was on foot. Yet Amos didn’t pull his trigger and add to the storm of bullets. He couldn’t risk shooting the wrong man.

The sounds grew closer. Louder. As if Shaw and Porter were herding Lockhart toward him, like dogs flushing quail for the hunter. Only Amos was the least qualified hunter of the pack.

Amos’s hands shook as he shifted the rifle to cradle it more securely in the hollow of his shoulder. He braced himself on his elbows and tried to relax his legs, recalling what his father had taught him about shooting when he’d been a boy. The prone position was the easiest and most accurate, his father had explained, because the ground would steady his shot. Amos lowered his head to sight along the barrel. The easiest and most accurate. He could do this. He would do this.

He might not be a lawman or have muscles the size of boulders, but he had heart. A heart that belonged to a beautiful woman who’d been willing to die rather than put the people she cared about in danger. A heart that demanded he protect this woman, no matter the personal cost.

His panic ebbed and his pulse steadied. Amos clenched his fist, then slowly unfolded his fingers one at a time before fitting his forefinger once again to the trigger.

Out of the darkness, a figure emerged. Hunched. Lumbering.

Lockhart.

He couldn’t be more than ten yards away. He looked nothing like the cocky, coldhearted ladies’ man he’d been the last time Amos had seen him. His hat was gone, and his hair stood on end as if he’d crawled through a bramble. His shirt had been torn off and fashioned into some kind of bandage around his left shoulder and across his torso. Dark streaks stained his chest and side—blood. Yet it was his eyes in the moonlight that made Amos catch his breath. Wild. Animalistic.

Lockhart pivoted back toward his pursuers and fired off another two shots from his rifle. He pumped the lever for a third shot, but nothing fired. With a growl, he threw the weapon to the ground and yanked a revolver from his waistband behind his back. The very revolver he’d confiscated from Amos. A revolver with six shots, any one of which could end Shaw or Porter’s life. Amos’s life. Grace’s life.

Amos took aim.

“I’ve got a bead on you, Lockhart,” Amos called. “Throw down your weapon.”

Lockhart paused. He raised his right hand, pointing his pistol harmlessly toward the sky. He started to turn.

“I said, throw down your weapon!” Amos couldn’t let him turn with the gun still in his hand. He was too good a marksman.

Hoofbeats echoed, coming closer. Shaw and Porter would be here any second. He only had to hold Lockhart a little—

Lockhart spun, dropping to a crouch. His eyes found Amos through the juniper and his jaw tightened. The revolver came around.

Amos pulled the trigger.

But his wasn’t the only shot to ring out. Three others blasted through the night. Lockhart’s body jerked as each one hit from a different angle. Finally, he fell forward onto his face, the revolver tumbling from his hand unused.

“Nice of you to join the posse, Tabor.” Shaw tipped his hat to someone on Amos’s left, then dismounted and made his way to the body.

Amos got to his feet, his legs shaky and his mind numb. He’d never shot a man before.

“Well, I had me a personalized invite.”

Amos slowly turned his head toward the unfamiliar voice. A man on horseback with a star on his lapel was returning a gun to his holster.

The sheriff’s gray mustache twitched slightly as he crossed his wrists over his saddle horn, leaned forward, and scowled down at Lockhart. “Terrible business, this. Kidnapping womenfolk. Impersonatin’ lawmen. Pulling sheriffs away from perfectly good suppers to give chase. My stew’s gonna be stone cold by the time I get back to Seymour.” Sheriff Tabor shook his head as if that were the biggest crime of the night. “He dead, Shaw?”

The marshal stood from his crouch and nodded. “Yep. Though it’s impossible to tell whose bullet did him in.”

“Since you folks got no undertaker over in Harper’s Station, let’s say it were mine. That way, the county’ll pay for the pine box.” The sheriff eyed Shaw and Porter, his wily gaze lingering on the freighter’s mount. “I’ll let you younger fellas drag in the carcass, though. That Shire of Porter’s could probably carry all three of ya plus Lockhart’s dead weight without breaking a lather.”

“We’ll see to it,” the marshal agreed.

Sheriff Tabor tapped the brim of his hat in thanks and reined his mount back toward the road.

“Wait!” Amos darted forward, dropping his borrowed rifle near Malachi’s feet before intercepting the sheriff. “Could you take me back by the Gladstone place on your way? I stashed my mare near the barn, and I’ll need her to track down Miss Mallory.” He glanced back at his friends, hoping they’d understand his desertion. “Grace left here fleeing for her life. She’s terrified and most certainly injured. I have to find her and let her know she’s safe.”

“Whoa now, partner.” Sheriff Tabor leaned forward in his saddle. “Yer throwin’ words faster than my ears can catch ’em. This female yer talkin’ ’bout, she got brown hair, all wet and in a tangle, with a dark blue skirt?”

Amos nearly leaped from his shoes. “Yes! Have you seen her?”

The sheriff nodded, unhurried. “Crazy woman nearly ran me off the road. She had no business ridin’ a horse two sizes too big fer her. Stirrups floppin’ all over the place. Had to fix those for her before lettin’ her go on to town. All the while, she flapped her gums about some poor fella named Bledsoe being hunted down.” Tabor tilted his chin toward Amos. “I’m guessin’ that’s you. Anyhow, she demanded I leave her be and hurry over to Gladstone’s place to apprehend the same reprobate you wired about. Which I did. Thankfully in time to add my lead to the bullet sandwich you boys were offerin’ up.”

“So she’s in Seymour?” Amos fought to hide his impatience. The sheriff chewed his words like a cow did cud. Slow and circular, when Amos needed quick and direct.

“Yep. Told her to take the horse she borrowed to Bart Porter’s livery. Figured his wife would tend to her.”

“Their house is behind the livery,” Ben Porter said, blessedly concise and to the point. “On Main Street. A block north of Fischer’s Emporium. Not the stable near the depot where you rented that mule.”

Amos nodded, took the hand Sheriff Tabor offered, and swung up behind him.

“Addie’s a good woman.” The freighter’s endorsement of his sister-in-law’s character relieved Amos a bit, but the urgency to see Grace for himself refused to abate. “She’ll take good care of Miss Mallory.”

“Sorry to leave you to deal with Lockhart.” Well, not really. Amos’s stomach roiled every time he glanced at the fallen body, knowing he’d had a part in bringing him down. No matter how justified the killing, it still left him rather ill.

Shaw waved him on. “Don’t worry about it. Go see to Grace. She needs you.”

She needs you. The words did something strange to Amos’s chest, flooding it with warmth and protectiveness. And love so rich and soul-stirringly deep it left him rather shaken.

Grace needed him. Loved him. And heaven knew he needed her. Needed to be with her, to care for her, keep her safe, and never let her go.

Sheriff Tabor tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Ready, Bledsoe?”

Ready didn’t even begin to describe it. “Yes, sir.”

“Then hold on.” With a nudge of his heels, they were off, and for once Amos found himself glad to be on a horse instead of a bicycle. Transport involving four unwearied legs and superior night vision had its advantages. And he’d take any advantage he could wangle to get him to Grace’s side as fast as possible.