The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,86

pain in the ass,” said the second outlaw.

“I hear that often,” she said, undaunted. “So why did you wait two years to approach Cahill about the wreck? Why did you set him up for murdering your buddy at Phantom Springs?”

“Enough!” the second thug snarled as he stalked toward her. “Where’s the damn money!”

“Answer my questions and you can have it,” she countered defiantly. “You—”

Her voice became a pained yelp when the stocky, thick-chested hooligan backhanded her, causing her to stumble and fall. Despite her stinging cheek and the stars revolving around her eyes, she scrambled to her feet to plow into the first thug. He yelped as the two of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Adrianna made a wild grab for his pistol but Number Two pounced on her and jerked her up by her braid.

He crammed his pistol into the underside of her neck and clamped his burly arm diagonally across her chest. The man reeked of whiskey and sweat. She stamped on his foot, hoping he’d recoil so she could launch herself away from him. No such luck. He grabbed her braid like a rope and jerked her against him again.

“Let her go,” Quin snarled viciously as he appeared from the shadows of the trees. He stepped into the clearing with both pistols drawn and ready to spit lead.

Both men lurched sideways. The first man stepped behind the second—who held Boston as if she were his shield of armor.

“Give us the money and we’ll let this hellcat live,” the second ruffian demanded as he crammed the pistol barrel deeper into Boston’s throat.

“I don’t have money. I just returned to the house, then came looking for Boston.”

Both men muttered beneath their concealing black hoods. It no longer mattered if Quin received the answers to the questions that hounded him. His only concern was Boston’s survival. If these men had killed his parents in a robbery attempt, he’d track them down and dispose of them later.

“Let her go. I’ll bring money to you,” Quin bargained, holding both men at gunpoint—while they held him at gunpoint.

“I don’t trust you—awk!” The bandit’s voice dried up suddenly.

Quin nearly suffered a stroke when Boston took advantage of her captor’s distraction and gouged him in the soft underbelly. The outlaw cursed foully and backhanded her, sending her cartwheeling in the grass. Then he aimed his pistol at her.

Quin moved into the open to make himself a target. He fired both six-shooters simultaneously, drawing attention away from Boston. He hit the second hombre twice in the chest. The man yelped and slammed into his friend but he fired off a shot before his legs buckled and he dropped to his knees.

“No!” Boston shrieked at she stared at Quin in horror.

Quin felt the burning pain in his left side but he was too intent on holding the first man at gunpoint so he couldn’t use Boston for his shield of protection.

Stalemate, he thought, breathing raggedly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Boston reach into her boot to grab her concealed dagger. She sprang to her feet and charged the bandit left standing. She managed a glancing blow to his neck before he knocked her aside but she came at him again, slicing his arm.

“Where’s the money?” the thief demanded as he pointed his weapon at Boston and cocked the trigger.

Somehow, Quin found the strength to shoot the pistol from the man’s hand, but the outlaw swung his second revolver toward Quin, who wobbled unsteadily, then sagged to his knees.

“Get the money, lady, or I’ll kill him, I swear it!”

Quin swore mightily as his strength ebbed and the world faded in and out of focus. He tried to raise his arm to fire off another shot but the bandit darted over to kick the six-shooter from his hand. The coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils. He refused to look down to see how badly he’d been injured. All that mattered was seeing Boston escape with only two bruises to the cheek.

“I’ve got the money with me,” she insisted as she bounded to her feet. “He’s been shot. He can’t attack you. Just let him be.”

She dashed off, then returned a minute later with a leather pouch. Defiant to the end, Boston tossed the money out of the man’s reach. “Take it and go.”

The gunman kept his gaze trained on Quin as he scooped up the leather poke. When he turned to leave, Boston darted toward the downed man’s pistol.

“Damn it,