The Horseman's Bride. Elizabeth Lane
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pulled back the pistol’s hammer. “The knives, too. Nice and slow. Don’t make any sudden moves and give me an excuse to pull this trigger. I’d shoot you in a heartbeat.”
Rooted to the spot, Clara watched the men draw their hunting knives and toss them to the gravel. Mary had risen and slipped into the house. She emerged with the shotgun cocked and aimed at the two desperados.
“I’ve got your back, Tanner,” she said. “Say the word and I’ll blow them to kingdom come.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Tanner’s grin flashed. Then for the first time, he seemed to notice Clara. “When you get yourself together, Miss Clara, maybe you could get down here and gather up their weapons.”
Cheeks blazing, Clara put down the paring knife and fumbled with her buttons. She must have looked like a fool, standing there with her chest exposed, brandishing that pathetic little blade. Behind that sneer, Tanner was probably laughing his head off.
“What should we do with these two buzzards, Mary? Do you want me to shoot them for you?” Tanner seemed to be playing with the two men, trying to make them squirm.
“That’s tempting,” Mary replied. “But I suppose the right thing would be to lock them in the granary and telephone for the marshal.”
Clara had come down off the porch, close enough for her to see the twitch of a muscle in Tanner’s cheek as he hesitated. What if he didn’t want Mary to call in the law? What if he was worried about being seen?
Still pondering, she moved to the far side of the horse and bent to pick up the gun and the two knives. That was when she saw the flicker of movement. The dull-eyed man who sat in the rear had slipped a thin-bladed knife out of his boot.
“No!” she screamed, but it was too late. The man’s supple hand moved with the speed of a striking rattlesnake. The knife sliced the air, sinking hilt-deep into Tanner’s right shoulder.
A curse exploded between Tanner’s lips. His gun hand sagged. The man in front yanked the reins and the piebald reared and wheeled, its hoof grazing Clara’s head. Clara reeled backward, lost her balance and went down rolling to avoid being trampled.
The shotgun roared behind the fleeing outlaws. But Mary had fired high. The blast went over their heads as the horse thundered down the drive toward the main road with the two men clinging to its back.
Still dazed, Clara struggled to her feet. Mary had collapsed in the rocker with the shotgun across her knees. Tanner had lowered the pistol. His face was ashen. His torn sleeve oozed crimson where the knife handle jutted out of his shoulder.
Clara could feel a throbbing lump at her hairline where the iron shoe had grazed her skull. A wet trickle threaded its way down her temple.
Mary laid the shotgun on the porch and rose shakily to her feet. “We’ll need some wrappings,” she said. “I’ll get something we can tear into strips. Meanwhile, Clara, you’d better help this fellow to the porch before he takes a header. Don’t try to take the knife out until we’ve got something to stop the blood.”
“I’ll be all right.” Tanner spoke through clenched teeth, swaying a little as he staggered toward the steps. Clara darted to his side and braced herself against his left arm. His body was warm and damp, the muscles rock hard through the worn chambray shirt. She felt the contact as a shimmering current of heat.
Mary paused at the door. “I suppose we should call the marshal. He’ll want to pick up their weapons and question us about what happened.”
Clara felt Tanner’s body tighten against her, felt his hesitation. “Why bother?” he asked. “In the time it takes the marshal to get here, those ruffians could be halfway to the next county.”
“But what if they try to rob somebody else?”
“They’re unarmed, Mary. And they know we can identify them. Trust me, all they’ll want to do is hightail it out of here, as far away as they can get.”
Beside him, Clara studied the chiseled profile, the narrowed eyes and tense jaw. Where she stood against his side, she could feel the pounding of his heart. If her grandmother called the marshal, she sensed Tanner would slip away and be gone—along with his beautiful stallion, and a wound that could be fatal if left untreated.
He had just rescued them, possibly saving their lives. Would it be so wrong to keep him here a little longer?
“Tanner’s right, Grandma,” she said. “Once those men are outside the marshal’s jurisdiction, there’s nothing he can do. Why waste his time?”
His eyes flashed toward her, caught her gaze and held it. In those fathomless blue depths she read gratitude, suspicion and a world of questions.
Mary sighed. “Oh, that makes sense, I suppose. But I hate the thought of that awful pair getting away. I’d have aimed lower but I didn’t want to hit that poor horse.” She opened the screen door and hurried into the house.
Clara supported Tanner as they covered the short distance toward the porch. “You don’t need to hold me up,” he muttered. “My legs are fine.”
“Don’t be so proud!” she scolded him. “You’re in shock. You look as if you could pass out any second, and you’re about to drop that pistol.” She took the heavy .38, which was barely dangling from his fingers. “Here, sit on the steps. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“I’m guessing there’s no whiskey.” He sank onto the middle step with a grunt of pain. His left hand clutched his right arm, the fingers tight below the wound.
“My grandmother does keep a little—strictly for medicinal purposes. Will you be all right while I get it?”
“Just get the blasted whiskey!”
“Hang on.” She dashed into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.
Only after she’d gone did Jace give vent to the pain that pooled like molten lead around the knife in his shoulder. A string of obscenities purpled the air. If nothing else, the muttered oaths braced his courage. The wound itself didn’t appear that serious, but if that blade was as filthy as the bastard who’d thrown it, he could be in danger of blood poisoning.
The girl had surprised him, standing there like a defiant little cat pitted against a pair of mongrel curs. He’d been in the woodshed looking for gate timbers when the two ruffians appeared. It had taken him precious minutes to circle around and retrieve the pistol he’d hidden in his bedroll. He’d returned to find her with her shirt gaping open as she threatened two armed criminals with that silly little paring knife.
His mouth had gone dry at the sight of her.
He’d be smart to banish the image from his mind, Jace lectured himself. Clara Seavers was a lady. Her courage and fighting spirit merited his respect. But the memory of her standing there on the porch, her proud little breasts straining against the wispy fabric that covered them, would fuel his erotic dreams for nights to come.
Damn!
He shifted his weight on the step. The movement shot pain all the way down to his fingertips. Biting back a moan, he focused his gaze on the circling flight of a red-tailed hawk. Beyond the pasture, where the road stretched into open country, the two intruders had long since vanished from sight.
What would have happened if he hadn’t been here? The thought sent a dark chill down his spine. He found himself wanting to catch up with the miscreants and rip them limb from limb. If either of them had so much as laid a hand on her …
Jace shook his head, silently cursing his own helplessness. He should be counting his blessings that the idiots had gotten away. If he and Mary had been able to hold them, the marshal would have been called in, and he’d have found himself dragged to jail along with them. Even now, he had to wonder if the men, if apprehended, would be able to identify him. Now would be the smart time to climb on his horse and ride away. But he was in no condition to go anywhere.