The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (24 page)

"I ain't got no quarrel with yer references, son. Don't go gettin' yer longjohns all wadded up. I reckon we'll take what we kin get an' be glad of it."

"Of course we will," Grace agreed. "After all, it can hardly be worse than what we've already been through."

Beside her, Brew sat up straight as if someone had stuck him with a cactus needle. Reese looked at him questioningly.

"Don't get too cocky yet," Brew warned.

"What is it?" Reese asked.

"Kick me if I'm wrong, but don't the sun come up in the east?"

As one, they turned toward the rosy light spilling through the shuttered window. Dawn had broken, slanting into the cabin in what should have been a westerly direction.

"Shit." Reese dove for the window, trying the shutters, which were tightly blocked from the outside with a thick board.

Brew tried the small door cautiously with the same dismal results. Reese groped under the bed for the gunbelt he'd removed from his hips before lying down. The sidearm was gone, as were all their other weapons.

The two men exchanged grim looks.

"What's happening?" Grace asked. "Are we—?"

"Screwed," Reese finished succinctly, pounding a fist against the tattered newspapered wall. "St. John double-crossed us. He turned around in the night and now he's heading back upriver. He's no doubt going to deliver us right into Sanders's hands like well-crated lambs for the slaughter." He let loose a string of blue oaths.

Outside, the steady, watery rush of the current against the boat's hull took on a new significance. From somewhere above them came the cry of circling seabirds.

"If anyone's to blame," Brew said, lowering himself into the chair, "it's me, fer hookin' up with St. John in the first place."

Reese sat on the cot, cradling his head in his hands. "By the time we got there, every man, woman, and child on the waterfront knew Sanders was looking for us and how much he would pay to get us. No doubt, considerably more than we forked over."

"Well, we can't just sit here and let him take us!" Grace exclaimed. "We have to do something!"

Reese slid a look up at her, then glanced out the slatted window. Somewhere to his right he could hear the deckhand's long pole scraping against the side of the boat. St. John poled the river on the other side, a fat cigar dangling from his lips, a sidearm visible at his waist and Reese's own rifle propped nearby. He was fighting the current, working his way to the north shore. Reese followed the captain's gaze to a stand of cottonwoods that grew thick around a deep inlet in the river. A lone, saddled horse stood waiting in the shelter of that grove of trees—waiting for a rider who would relay their position back to Sanders's men in Brownsville.

He should have known. It had been too easy. Too clean. A bead of sweat slid down along his ribs. If he could only get to that rifle before St. John made a holey curtain out of him, and if he could stop them before they made the shore, and if pigs could fly...

What a week.

Scanning the room for something, anything he could use, his gaze fell to the keg beside Brew's chair with the words Bansom And Bansom, Two-Penny Nails stenciled on the side in black letters. The gears in his mind started to turn.

He shoved Grace to the floor with one hand. "Get down and stay down," he ordered.

"But I can hel—"

"Don't argue and whatever you do, don't get up. Understand?"

She nodded, wide-eyed with fear.

"Brew, give me a hand with this keg. We've got one chance and one chance only." The two men grunted, lifting the heavy container.

"What do you want me to do?" Brew asked breathlessly.

Reese paused, looking Brew in the eye. "Old man, when the shooting starts, duck. There's only room for one of us out there."

Brew scowled with disbelief. "Like hell I wi—"

Cutting him off with a fierce look that brooked no argument, Reese said, "I'm the one they want. You stay with Grace. You're all she's got. If this doesn't work, maybe you can talk your way out of this with Sanders."

They both knew that was a lie.

Brew nodded. "Be careful out there, son."

Cradling the hogshead between them, Reese aimed it at the window. "Ready?" he asked. The old man nodded.

"All right then—on three. One, two—"

* * *

Lyle St. John whirled at the sound of splintering wood in time to see a keg of nails sail across the
Lizzie's
deck, followed closely by the arching blur of Donovan's body as he dove after the keg through the shattered window. The keg flew past St. John like a cannonball and plunged off the side of the deck with a tremendous splash.

He cursed loudly, hauling upward on the long pole, which he'd only just shoved downward to its full length into the sandy river bottom. At the same moment, Donovan rolled between a pair of net-draped crates on the deck halfway between him and Tom Oakes, the deckhand.

St. John swore, then cursed himself as well for underestimating the man's resourcefulness. He should have known the cabin wouldn't hold him. One hundred more yards and he would have had him!

Tom Oakes, with his shock of strawberry red hair, peeked around the far end of the square cabin, his drawn gun tilted up near his face. "What was that?"

Dropping the long pole on the deck, St. John yanked his gun out of his holster then pointed it at the pair of crates. "That was our blushing bridegroom, 'Melvin.' Or is the name Reese Donovan?" he shouted, calming the thud of his heart. He smiled. They had him. There was nowhere for the bastard to go. And as he aimed his gun in that direction, he knew Donovan must know it, too.

Lyle squinted into the morning sun. There was only one condition Ephram Sanders had placed on the money he'd promised for Donovan's capture: He wanted him alive.

"He's unarmed, Tom. But be careful."

"You sure about that?" came Donovan's voice from between the crates. "Maybe you missed something when you skulked into the cabin this morning."

Lyle's blood froze and he looked accusingly at Tom, who shook his head.

"I cleaned 'em out, Lyle," the younger man said. "I swear. He's bluffin'."

"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not," Donovan said. "You won't know until you get to me, will you?"

With a curse, Lyle realized that he was on the brink of losing every dime of reward money he'd been counting on to save what had been a dismal season. But dying himself for that crazy lawman's personal vendetta wasn't in Lyle's grand scheme. No, if the bastard was armed, he'd shoot first and think about money later. And if that happened, the other two would have to meet a similar fate. One couldn't be too careful these days along the river.

He waved the gun at Tom, instructing him wordlessly to start toward the crates. He edged toward them himself with his gun aimed and ready. Unmanned, the boat spun slowly around, drifting back with the current toward the center of the river.

Inside the cabin, Grace lifted her cheek from the dirty floor, listening. She could hear the creak of wood as St. John and his lackey moved toward Donovan. And who did he think he was fooling, telling them he was armed? It was only a matter of seconds before they found him out and killed him. She started to move but felt Brew's hand on her arm.

"Stay where ya are, Missy," Brew ordered.

She closed her hand over his gnarled one. "And let Reese die?" she whispered urgently. "Brew, we have to help him. They'll kill him!"

"He ain't a fool. He knows what he's doin'."

"Sacrificing himself, you mean? Because that's what it amounts to." Her words were a ragged whisper. Still, Brew held her arm. "We're all going to die here, don't you understand that? Do you think they'll stop with Reese? Our only chance is to help him."

"With what? We got nothin'!"

Grace got to her hands and knees and frantically scanned the tiny cabin. They'd taken their guns, but there must be something she could use as a weapon.

When she saw it, a slow smile spread across her face. It wasn't much, but maybe it would work.

Crouched in the netting, Reese flattened himself against the crates. He wasn't a praying sort of man, but if ever there'd been a more appropriate moment for such a thing, he couldn't remember it. His timing would have to be perfect and even if it was, there was no guarantee he wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. He had to count on that moment of reaction, the moment that would get him clear and put St. John and Tom Oakes in direct opposition. It was a thin plan. Very thin. In fact, it had about as much chance of working as this flat-bottomed boat would against ocean swells. But it was all he had.

He could hear their worn heels against the planking. Closer, closer. He tried to slow his breathing. The ache in his side was a distraction he tried to put out of his mind. But another distraction took its place. It seemed wholly inappropriate that Grace Turner should choose this moment to fill his thoughts, but then he'd come to expect the unexpected from her. In his mind's eye, she was laughing, quoting Ned What's-His-Name and touching his face with those soft hands of hers, kissing him.

Reese swallowed hard. Kissing him. As pictures of his life played out in his mind like flashes of light, he suddenly knew that for one brief moment he'd been a part of something good and right. A part of Grace. He owed her for that.

A board creaked four feet away. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. It was now or never.

He exploded upward from the crates. In the split second it took to clear the boxes and make himself a plain target, a cast-iron frying pan swung out of the splintered cabin window and collided with a sickening thud against Tom Oakes's stunned face.

Grace!

Oakes's gun discharged harmlessly into the air and Reese dove sideways. St. John's shot missed him by inches. Reese rolled to a stop and lunged for the boatman's legs. Caught off guard, the corpulent pilot went down like a felled cottonwood and his gun went skidding out of his hand across the deck. Reese dragged the older man to him, and drove a fist into his beard-covered jaw, forcing his head backward against the boards with a crack.

"That's for takin' our money when you were already employed," Reese told him.

St. John blinked hard and, clutching the throat of Reese's shirt, struggled to get up. Reese obliged him by dragging him to his knees. He hit him again, this time drawing blood.

"And that's for stealing my gun."

The boatman's breath chugged in his throat and he shook his head to clear it. "Bastard," he gasped, his gaze searching the deck for his lost weapon.

Reese gathered the man's shirt in his fist, intending a finishing blow when St. John used his considerable bulk to shift the balance of power. He threw a fist at Reese's cheek, then slammed his knee against Reese's midsection, knocking him sideways.

Reese gasped at the white-hot pain that shot through his side. He couldn't breathe. Black spots swam in his vision as he careened toward the edge of the deck like an out-of-control wheel.

A thick pile of three-inch rope stopped his momentum. Reese doubled over, clutching his side, unable to move to defend himself as St. John got to his feet and started toward him. Reese looked to his right. The gun was five feet away. Too far. St. John saw it, too.

"Stop where you are, or I'll shoot you where you stand!"

Grace's command froze St. John midstep. Reese lifted his head. She stood ten feet away, pointing Tom Oakes's gun at the captain's head. The tip wavered slightly, but her expression didn't. Behind her, Brew was climbing awkwardly out of the window.

"Reach for the sky, you lowlife, back-stabbing double-crosser!" she ordered.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

"You ain't gonna shoot me, little lady, are ya?" St. John taunted with a condescending grin. "You ain't got it in you."

"Oh, no?" She dipped the gun and sent a bullet ripping into the deck six inches from his foot. And a mere two feet from Reese's head. His eyes widened.

St. John hopped sideways, his hands shooting over his head. "All right! All right!"

It seemed to Reese that the gunshot had startled her too. Her voice shook when she spoke again. "Now kick that gun over toward... Melvin there."

He did. Donovan picked the weapon up just as Brew reached the rifle propped by the rudder. He cocked it with a quick one-armed movement as he took St. John by the elbow and shoved him down hard onto a crate. "Don't move an eyelash, y' hear?" the old man said, aiming the rifle at St. John's head.

With a sigh, Reese leaned back against the rope.

"You all right, son?" Brew asked.

Reese grinned at him. "Much better now, thanks." He rolled to his knees and stayed there for a moment, catching his breath. A few feet away, Tom Oakes, who lay sprawled beneath the window, stirred and moaned. His mouth and chin were bloody and his nose lay at an odd angle to his face.

Reese looked up at Grace. "Thought I told you to get down and stay down."

"And I thought suicide missions weren't your cup of tea."

A smile curved his lips and he got to his feet. "Ah, you've got a mouth on you, Grace Turner. And a smasher of a left arm."