Cherish (42 page)

“Rebecca!”

Race’s hoarse cry jerked her gaze back to him. He had fallen to his knees. Blood streaked his dark face. His dark eyes burned into hers.

“Run, darlin’!” he cried. “Run!”

A dizzying sensation of tumbling backward came over Rebecca. As if separated from her own body, she saw herself in the arroyo, huddling in the bushes with her hands over her ears.
Rebecca
! her mother had screamed.
Rebecca! Run, sweetheart, run! Save yourself. Run, baby. Run
! Only she hadn’t been able to move. Terror had held her in its grip. So she had huddled in the bushes, and soon, all her mother had screamed was her name. Over and over and over.
Rebecca
!

“Run!” came Race’s broken cry again. “Get out of here, damn it! Run!”

Rebecca lay there, frozen, her gaze darting from the brethren to the sisters to their weeping children, then back to Race—her husband, her life, her very heart. He was going to die. He could have stayed in the house and battled his way out of this. But to save her, he’d thrown down his guns and walked out here, knowing with every step he took that they would kill him.

In her mind’s eye, she saw herself, clasped to that monster’s chest with his knife at her throat, her gaze clinging to the window.
Please, Race. Save me. Please, don’t let
me die
. And he’d loved her so much that he’d come out to trade his own life to save hers. Now, here she lay—a quivering, sniveling coward.

I should have done something! I should have fought them—bit them, kicked them, hit them with all my strength! She screamed my name, and I covered my ears
!

Rebecca pushed to a sitting position. Not again. She wasn’t hiding, not ever again. She’d rather die.

If you won’t fight for yourself, love me enough to fight for me
. She staggered to her feet.
Dizzy. Legs like rubber
. She couldn’t help Race, she thought frantically. God help her, she could barely stand up.
Shock
. The horrible trembling assailed her body. A marionette, controlled by a prankster. She was too weak. Horribly weak. Her bones seemed to have no substance.

She grabbed hold of the horse’s saddle to hold herself up.
Don’t ask God to fight your battles. Ask Him to give you the strength to fight them yourself
. Strength. She needed strength.
Love me enough to fight for me
. She couldn’t remember when Race had said that to her, she only knew that he had. And she did love him. If she couldn’t save him, then she would die beside him. Better that than to crawl away like a whipped dog. Never again. Never. She couldn’t live with it.

Please, God. Give me strength. Just for a few minutes. Help me to think. To stop shaking. Help me, please. So I can help him
!

Still clinging to the saddle to hold herself erect, Rebecca found herself staring at a rifle. Seconds ticked past as she gaped at it. A rifle? An insane urge to giggle came over her. There was a rifle in the saddle boot, just inches from her nose. A
rifle
! Pictures flashed in her mind—of Race, of the barn, of the haystacks.
Take a steady bead, sweetheart. Now breathe in and breathe completely out. That’s it. Now, squeeze slowly on the trigger. Don’t pull your shot. Good girl, Rebecca Ann! That’s a bull’s-eye, darlin’
!

Rebecca glanced at the horse’s dangling reins. With a trembling hand, she reached to grab them. Going up on her tiptoes, she brought them back over the horse’s head
and wrapped them around the pommel to maintain tension on the bridle bit. She hoped the horse would feel the constant tension and stand still, just as it might if a rider drew back on its reins. Her hands seemed to become less shaky as she secured the strips of leather.
Thud. Thud. Thud
. She blocked out the sound. To help Race, she had to stay focused.

With any luck, this horse had been conditioned not to panic at the sound of gunfire, just as Dusty, Race’s stallion, had. If the animal would only stand fast while she was shooting, she could use its massive body as a shield so she wouldn’t be felled immediately by return fire. Knowing these men and their ignoble traits, imperviousness to gunshots would be an important trait in one of their mounts.
Please, God
. She would fight this battle by herself. She just needed a little luck and the strength to do it.

She unfastened the strap on the saddle boot and withdrew the rifle. It was a lever-action, rapid-fire weapon, similar to Race’s Henry. After shoving hard against the horse’s haunch to bring it around broadside to the killers, she brought the rifle to her shoulder and sighted in, just to see if she would be able to hold the weapon steady enough to shoot it. A sense of calm settled over her as she recalled Race’s telling her there was no such word as “can’t.” She could do this.
All you have to do is believe in yourself as much as I do
.

One nice thing about being slight in stature was that she could lean against the horse and fire the rifle under its head, using the animal’s front shoulders as a barricade to protect her from being hit by return bullets.

Bracing herself against the horse’s sturdy body, she worked the lever action of the rifle to jack a cartridge into the barrel. She could do this. Leaning forward, she brought the rifle to her shoulder and sighted in on her mother’s murderer. Her heart froze when she saw the flash of his knife in the sunlight. She stared, caught in the clutches of horror. That monster had grabbed Race by the hair of the head, and he was about to cut his throat.

Oh, God. Please, God. Give me strength. Keep my aim
steady
. Rebecca got a bead on the ruffian. He stood in front of Race, who was still held half-erect by the other two men. A head shot was her only safe recourse. If she aimed lower and missed, she’d hit her husband.

Breathe in. Now breathe out. Slowly squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull your shot
.

The blast of the rifle jolted through Rebecca, forcing her back a step. For a nightmarish instant that seemed to last an eternity, the huge, curved blade of the knife hung there under Race’s chin. She had missed! The ruffian was still going to kill him.

Then, as if time had missed a gear and suddenly grabbed hold again, the knife fell to the ground, followed an instant later by the ruffian, who collapsed in a huddle at Race’s feet.

From that moment on, everything went crazy. The two men holding Race let go of his arms and dove for the dirt. She heard cursing. Rebecca jacked another cartridge into the chamber, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the horse. Keeping her gaze fixed on the men who’d been behind her and out of her range of sight while the ruffian held the knife to her throat, she yelled at the top of her voice, “Hess!”

At her shout, all the men stopped searching for the sniper who’d just shot one of them and whipped their heads toward her, their movements almost simultaneous. Almost, but not quite. One large, gray-haired man in a buckskin jacket turned at her shout just a beat faster than all the others. Rebecca aimed her gun directly at him.

“Call them off, Hess!” she screamed. “Or you’re a dead man!”

All the men froze, their startled gazes fixed on her. She knew what they were thinking. A cheek-turning Bible thumper?

Their first reaction was incredulity. The dead ruffian had tossed her aside, and none of them had given her another thought. A cheek turner, shooting at them? Even now that they saw her standing there with the rifle, they couldn’t quite believe it had been she who’d shot one of them.

When they could no longer deny the evidence of their own eyes, they all got smug, half-amused looks on their faces. She knew exactly what was going through their minds. Driven by desperation to save her husband, she’d gotten off one lucky shot. But they didn’t believe for an instant that she was good enough with a gun to be that lucky twice, especially not against such stiff odds.

And God help her, they were right. Five of them? Oh, merciful angels. They were going to fill her so full of holes, she’d look like a colander.

“I mean it, Hess! Twitch a muscle, and I’ll blow your goddamned balls off!” In her side vision, Rebecca saw the men who had dived for cover near Race beginning to stir. “You men, over by my husband! Move another hair, and Hess is dead!” Rebecca snugged her finger over the trigger. “Your men can take me, Hess! But not before I kill you, you bastard! Call them off, now! Or come dance with me in the fires of hell! Your choice!”

Hess’s face lost color. “Calm down, little lady. I’m just gonna lift my hands. Lay down your guns, boys.”

“Slowly!” she shouted. “One sudden move, by anyone, and I’ll kill you, Mr. Hess. Don’t test me! You other men! Don’t make the mistake of pointing a gun barrel toward me as you’re laying down your weapons. I’m a real nervous Bible thumper right now, and if I see the nose of a gun, I’m gonna kill your boss!”

Hess went a shade whiter in the face. “Easy, boys. Do what the lady says. There’s always another day.”

“Another day? Don’t count on it. Has he already paid you for this day’s work? I thought not. If I kill your boss, you’ll receive no pay! It’s a very simple thing! You want to die for nothing? I’m fast. I’ll kill Hess and one more of you before you get me. While you’re taking those guns out of your holsters, you’d better be asking yourselves if you want my bullet to find you as a target!”

A raspy, slightly shaky voice called out, “I got these two covered, darlin’.”

Tears stung Rebecca’s eyes. Race. He had evidently regained his senses enough to grab a gun from the dead man’s holster. She had him to back her up now. A tremor
of weakness ran through her, and she wanted to lower the gun and sob in relief. But, no. Race was hurt. Badly hurt, possibly. She couldn’t count on him. Not this time.

She had to fight this battle all by herself.

Rebecca could scarcely believe it when all of Hess’s men slowly drew their guns from their holsters, grabbed the revolvers by their barrels, and bent to lay them on the ground.

“Back up! Five paces, hands in the air.” She stepped farther out from the horse, moving the rifle barrel back and forth. “I’ll shoot the first man who holds his mouth wrong! Keep backing up. That’s it. Away from your weapons!”

When the men had put a safe distance between themselves and the dropped revolvers, Rebecca thought her legs were going to buckle.

“John! Matthew!” Race yelled. “Get out here and collect these weapons!”

Pain lanced across Race’s belly as he pushed to his feet. “You other men! Get some rope to tie the bastards up!”

Black figures began to rush in all directions, the men leaping to do as Race asked. John and Matthew Patterson came running from the house and began scrambling to pick up the guns. Many of the other brethren were heading for their barns to get rope. Race kept the gun he’d confiscated from the dead man’s holster trained on the two ruffians who had held him up while he received one of the worst beatings of his life. But even as he kept the bastards covered, most of his attention was focused on one person—a fragilely built blond in a wind-tossed white nightgown whose eyes had turned a fiery blue.

Race had never been so proud of anyone in his life, and he doubted he would ever be again. He couldn’t get enough of looking at her. Pale as wax. Swaying with weakness and looking as if she might lose her grip on the rifle at any second. How she had found the strength to do what she’d just done, he would never in a hundred years know. But somehow she had.

When the brethren returned with rope and began binding Hess and his men’s hands behind their backs, Race
made his way toward his wife. He felt none too steady on his feet himself, but she looked as if she might collapse.

When he reached her, he had to pry the rifle from her clenched hands. Tears formed at the backs of his eyes. A lump the size of a goose egg lodged in his throat. He wanted to weep, tell her how much he loved her, and drop to his knees, right then and there, to thank God for bringing her back to him. Instead, he just stood there, so weak his legs threatened to fold as he bent to let the rifle fall to the dirt.

As he straightened, instead of telling her how very much he loved her, he said, “Rebecca Ann Spencer, I can’t believe I heard you tell George Hess you were going to blow his balls off.”

Her mouth twisted and her narrow shoulders started to jerk. Race couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or cry. Then a sob tore up from her, answering his question. He hooked an arm around her and pulled her against him.

“Oh, Race, I love you.”

His voice throbbing with tenderness, he cupped a hand over her beautiful hair and whispered, “I love you, too, darlin’. You’ll never know how much. And I’ve never been so proud of anybody in all my born days.”

“Be careful,” she cried. “Don’t hug me too close. You’re h-hurt!”

That he was. He couldn’t remember when he’d last ached in so many places all at once. And judging by the way she trembled, he doubted she was feeling any too good herself. As soon as it truly sank in that she’d just killed a man, she would probably feel even worse. Most people spent a goodly long while on their hands and knees in the bushes after their first gun battle, and she would be no exception. In fact, given her upbringing, it might hit her even harder.

All of that aside though, Race had a sense of certainty and rightness. He’d told her once that they needed to find a happy meeting ground, and today he believed with all his heart that they’d finally found it, not in each other’s arms as he’d once thought they might, but standing side
by side, shoulder to shoulder. Somehow, by loving her with all his heart, he’d helped her to heal and had taught her to stand on her own two feet. In turn, she’d taught him how to do the one thing that came hardest for him—how to surrender and get on his knees.

As he rocked her in his arms, Race couldn’t help but think that on his knees was exactly where he should be. It wasn’t every day a hopeless, hard-bitten, played-out gunslinger was sent his very own angel. This girl truly was heaven-sent, a precious gift to cherish. He meant to do just that, with every beat of his heart and with every breath he drew, for the rest of his life.