behind her greater fear for Manuel. "I'm not telling you anything until you put that boy down, sir. I insist you release him at once. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, picking on a child."
As if remembering what he held in his hand, the man abruptly turned the boy up by his heels and began shaking him. Manuel screamed, and Evie rushed in with her skillet, slamming it as hard as she could against the giant's broad side. He roared and swung one fist backward to knock her away as another man would a fly.
The click of a six-gun could scarcely be heard over the commotion, but the man's voice following it was cold and clear and deadly.
"I'd suggest you put that boy down very gently, mister. And if you've hurt the lady, you'd better come around with your gun in your hand."
Caught off balance dodging the blow, Evie righted herself and swung to stare at the man aiming a pistol at the giant's back.
Tyler.
Chapter 21
Evie's words might have failed her, but her wits had not. She did what any sensible woman would have done when her husband put himself in danger of being shot down by a giant bully. She screamed.
She screamed when the man dropped Manuel. And she screamed as she swung her skillet with all her might and nearly took the man's gun hand off before he could reach for his holster. And she screamed when Tyler jumped on the giant's broad back and caught his neck in a stranglehold. That last scream was just for good measure. Evie was quite certain Tyler had the man well in hand as she swung her skillet at her attacker's kneecaps.
The man went down with a bellow of rage and pain. Tyler went with him, pinning his knee in the hollow of the man's back and jerking his head backward until his captive could no more than gurgle a protest.
"Don't kill him, Tyler," Evie told him calmly. "He says his money's been stolen. Jose has gone for the sheriff." She turned a thoughtful look on Manuel who had forgotten his own peril in the excitement, and was now bouncing up and down with glee and offering murderous threats.
He stopped bouncing when he caught Evie's look.
"Why did that man think you stole his money?" she asked with a deceptive calm.
"Evie, for Christ's sake, that can wait. Get this brute's gun and let me get him out of here." Tyler threw her an exasperated glance over his shoulder.
By this time a small crowd had gathered. Most of them were women who had been shopping in the general store, but one of the clerks came out and was busy snapping his suspenders while watching the proceedings, and Phil from the hotel had sauntered over to see the fun. Neither of them seemed much interested in helping until Evie bent over and removed the stranger's gun. Then they grabbed the giant's arms and held them so Tyler could get up and dust himself off.
By the time the sheriff made his way through the crowd, Tyler was returning to his normal dapper self. He straightened his string tie, pulled his ruffled cuffs into place, checked the buttons on his expensive brocade waistcoat, and glared daggers at Evie.
Evie was more concerned with the boy whose collar she held as he tried to make a dash through the crowd. "Manuel, I want the truth now. If you didn't do it, I want to know why that man thought you did."
"Because I'm a greaser, that's why!" the boy spat out with anger and shame. "Anything goes wrong, and they always point the blame at me."
"A greaser?" Evie lifted a questioning gaze to Tyler, who shrugged, then to the sheriff who came in for the last of this conversation.
Powell offered the explanation she sought. "A Mex. They're considered lower than a snake's belly around these parts. You got to know the history, Mrs. Peyton. During the war, the Mexicans would lie and connive and shoot a man as soon as his back was turned. Some consider them worse than red devils."
Red devils. Indians. Evie sighed and shot Tyler another glance, but his mouth was pursed tight with disapproval, and she couldn't tell whether it was for this prejudice or for herself. She donned her sweetest smile and turned it on the sheriff.
"Why, I believe my father was of Spanish origin, Mr. Powell. I guess that means I'm a greaser, too. But I like to think of myself as