The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,25
Or me. I’m not sure which and I won’t risk your life again. If you take another assignment and leave town, I’m hoping the hired assassins will come after me instead of you.”
Van clutched her elbow to quick-march her to the hotel but she stubbornly set her feet and refused to budge from the spot—short of being scooped up, tossed over his shoulder and carried off.
“What about the horse I bought?” she challenged. “I can’t just leave him here to be stolen. I’m going to need him. And there’s the matter of my luggage—”
His annoyed growl cut her off. Van untied the satchels, dropped them at her feet and then muttered, “I’ll be right back. Do…not…move…or else.”
He knew the instant the words flew out of his mouth that he’d made a mistake. Her chin tilted to a rebellious angle and her spine went ramrod stiff.
“Good God, I married a tyrant,” she sniped.
“Please do not leave without me,” he corrected himself in a gentler tone.
She looked down her pert nose at him, then struck a haughty pose that would have made him grin at her antics if he hadn’t been so aggravated by her.
“Fine, dear, since you asked so nicely.”
He led the strawberry roan into the livery to contact the owner and concoct an explanation for returning the horse.
“What did you tell him?” she demanded the instant he returned. “I want to make sure we have our stories straight.”
“I told him that the kid and I are heading in the same direction tomorrow. I also told him to take care of the boy’s horse as well as he usually takes care of mine.” He arched a brow. “That suit you, sunshine?”
“Yes, but what is not going to suit me is if you are ambushed on my account,” she grumbled as he swooped down to grab her luggage.
“I told you that it’s my would-be assassins who are lurking about, not yours. So stop feeling guilty—”
His voice dried up as he rounded the side of the Simon House to see three horses tethered to the gutter pipe in the alley. Instant concern blazed through him. “Damn Harper brothers,” he scowled. “Stay here.”
He wasted his breath because Natalie, with her curly hair flying around her, leaped over the satchels he’d left behind and followed him up the metal fire escape. With both pistols drawn, Van eased into the hallway. He felt Natalie’s piddly little two-shot derringer jabbing him in the elbow.
“Be careful with that thing,” he warned in a whisper. “Don’t shoot me by mistake.”
“I won’t. Just let me know when I can unload my weapon on those two bastards and their hired killer,” she demanded.
Just what I need, thought Van. A trigger-happy bride.
He definitely had to take time to give her proper weapon and self-defense training before she rode off into the sunset. The way she waved around that snub-nosed pistol, she was going to shoot somebody—and he hoped to hell it wasn’t him!
Van went on full alert as he crept down the hall toward his room. He jerked to attention when he noticed Bart’s door was standing ajar. Bemused, he tiptoed into the sitting room and pulled Natalie along with him. He heard jeering voices in the bedroom so he motioned for Natalie to remain where she was while he crept to the bedroom to investigate.
He instantly recognized the three men standing over Bart, who apparently had regained consciousness after one of the burly brutes pounded on him. Bart’s eye was swollen shut and his split lip was bleeding.
“Toss your weapons on the bed,” Van demanded ominously.
When Jonas Potts wheeled around, his weapon raised threateningly, Van fired off a shot. He left Potts with a wound similar to the one Bart suffered. In the meantime, Bart caused a distraction by hurling the spare pillow at the second burly brute who went by the name of Pete Caine. Van pounded him on the back of the head when he tried to retrieve the pistol he’d tossed on the bed. Caine’s legs folded up like a tent and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.
Van lurched around to confront the third intruder— Evan Rigsby—but he was a moment too slow. Rigsby plowed into him, knocking him off balance and groping at Van’s pistol.
“You ain’t gonna save this scrawny little bastard again, Crow,” Rigsby snarled. “This time both of you—”
His voice fizzled out abruptly and his gray eyes widened in surprise. “What the hell…?” Rigsby chirped, and went perfectly still.