Winsor, Linda (31 page)

If
she weren't so scared that Victor Dusault would notice the weapon she packed in
her baggy trousers' pocket, she'd laugh at the picture they must present. Only
God gave her the presence of mind to slip the pistol from the radio desk and
into her pocket while the conscienceless man beat the exact whereabouts of the
money out of C. R. Majors.

Since
Dusault had just shot his own man with an indifferent, "He's been
incompetent one time too many," it hadn't taken too long to convince C. R.
to give up his blackmail story and admit where the money was. Then Dusault had
turned his attention to Deanna, as incredulous as C. R. had been when she'd
flushed the key down the john.

"So
what would you do if some jerk set you up and then had the nerve to ask you to
run away with him?" she'd retorted in indignation.

Instead,
he laughed. "Hell hath no fury," he quipped to no one in particular.
"Which is why," he added for C. R.'s benefit, "I don't let
females in my inner circle... can't separate emotion from reason."

Deanna
had the urge to shove her gun in the pig's face with a "Reason this,"
but she couldn't find the blooming safety with her finger. Besides, his gun was
bigger. As for C. R., much as she'd like to throttle him for what he'd done to
her, she'd cringed when Dusault struck his face with the butt of the pistol. It
would take stitches and plastic surgery before he'd charm another unsuspecting
heart.

"Mr.
Dusault," she asked, "do you have a handkerchief?"

"Why?"

"Because
if someone doesn't bandage that gash over C. R.'s eye, he's going to bleed all
over you and anyone else in that truck."

Victor
reached in his jacket and withdrew a handkerchief. "Women," he said
to C. R.

"Hey,
I hate to clean up messes. It's a woman thing," Deanna protested. "I
read in
Home Digest
how suicidal men will blow their brains out
anywhere—the recliner in the living room, wherever. But a woman will take pills
and lie down in the bedroom, no mess."

Not
the least interested in her chatty dissertation, Dusault looked at his watch.

"But
if she does use a gun, she does it in the bathtub where no one will have to
clean it up."

"I'll
keep that in mind."

Deanna
didn't know which was colder, his gaze or his voice. "You said you weren't
interested in me or the others," she reminded him. "We'd probably
slow you down anyway."

"Miss
Manetti, enough."

"Sorry,"
Deanna heaved her shoulders. "When I have a gun at my back, I get chatty.
Not that I've ever really
had
a gun at my—"

She
halted at a slight waver of her captor's attention. Looking ahead, she saw Shep
bring out some rifles and a couple of handguns, tossing them out into the
street at the far end.

"I'm
going back to help Voorhees," he called out, before focusing on Deanna.
"You okay?"

"For
having a gun at my back, sure." If she could somehow get the pistol to
Shep—

"Where's
Deerfield?" Agent Gretsky called from the door of the trailer.

Like
a creepy little mole, it was the first time Deanna had seen him come out since
the men arrived. He'd been too busy eavesdropping and feeding information to
his real boss.

"He's
not come out?" Shep appeared puzzled. "He left me to cover the house
from the livery."

Had
Ticker been shot? Catching up with the conversation, Deanna closed her eyes.
Lord,
no, please.

"Mr.
Deerfield," Dusault hollered, voice echoing through the channel of the
street. "If I so much as hear one shot, Miss Manetti will get the
second."

The
cold poke of the gun at her back hastened the end of her prayer.
God,
I'm
holding You to that never leave or forsake me bit. Amen.

'Toss
your weapon out first, then show yourself."

The
crime lord received no answer aside from the horses' nervous snorting and
pacing, stopping at one end of the stalls as though listening, then pacing
back.

As
though a heavenly finger had let the button up, a sense of reassurance released
her panic-seized breath and pulse.

"I'll
get Voorhees, then go look for him," Shep offered. "Ticker's an old
man... could have fallen or taken a stray bullet."

"Just
bring Voorhees out," Dusault ordered. "My men can look for your
pal."

On
cue, two gunmen left the cover of the general store, one helping the other. The
latter dragged his right foot, which had been wrapped up in a piece of burlap.

"Gretsky!"

Deanna
nearly jumped out of her skin at Dusault's outburst at her ear.

"Get
the truck. Hotwire it if you have to. This won't take long."

He
was going to kill them all. Deanna could see it in Dusault's eyes as he watched
Shep all but carry Jay Voorhees up the street. She had to do something. They
wouldn't have given in so easily if not for her. It was her fault Shep and
Ticker, wherever he was, were going to die. And all because they'd taken her in
and tried to protect her.

"Lean
him up against the barn door," Dusault instructed, halting them a few
yards away. He jerked his head toward the prisoners. "Gris, Berman, pat
them down, then slip around back and see if you can find the old man."

"I
can't walk on this foot. I need to wait for the truck," the wounded gunman
protested.

Dusault
exhaled his impatience. "Berman, there's not enough room on my team for a
whiner."

Although
she watched Dusault swing the gun toward his henchman and pull the trigger,
Deanna yelped in concert with the single shot he fired. The crippled man
covered the hole the bullet plowed into his chest with both hands, all the
while staring at his employer in disbelief... until he slumped over.

Then
the muzzle of the gun, warm with the kill, returned to Deanna's back.
"Hold it, Jones."

Shep
abandoned his charge in midlaunch. As he straightened, the other man shoved him
against the paint-roughened planks of the livery. Next to him, Voorhees
witnessed the progression of events, but his impassive stare suggested he
wasn't really seeing what happened. Pale as the chipped paint sprinkled in his
thinning hair, he was in shock from blood loss—unconscious with his eyes open.

"Look
at this pig sticker," the man searching Shep exclaimed as he removed the
hunting knife Shep had hidden in his boot. With a sling, he buried it in the
stump of an old hitching post a few yards away.

Neither
Deanna nor Shep bothered to look. Her eyes locked upon his, she mouthed,
I
love you.

Shep
answered, his eyes saying it all. Anger, frustration, and concern tossed on the
bottomless sea of his emotions, anchored by steadfast love.

This
couldn't be the last time she delved into their dark amber depths. I
have a
gun,
she mouthed, praying Dusault was too engrossed in watching the search
to pay any heed to an emotional, reasonless woman. She wriggled the hand she
wrapped around its rough, nonslip grip in her pocket.

If
Shep understood, he gave no indication.

"Clean
as a whistle," the gunman announced as he finished searching Jay.

Deanna
froze her attempt to manipulate the weapon that kept hanging in her pocket
lining. At the moment, she'd shoot off a toe.

"But
if you intend to kill him," the man added, "you'd best do it
quick." Wiping Jay's blood on his trousers, Gris reached for the handle of
the sliding barn door next to the men, but the sound of an anxious horse
huffing and pawing on the other side gave him pause to reconsider.

"I
wouldn't be surprised if all that shooting didn't cause them to kick down their
stalls," Shep drawled, mouth curling without humor. "That's the main
reason Tick split from me, to see to the horses before they hurt themselves.
They just go berserk."

"Maybe
I should try the back, huh?" Gris asked his employer.

From
the alley that housed Ticker's trailer, the truck engine gave a faint cough and
sputtered out, distracting the man.

Something
gave on the gun. The safety?
Dear heavenly Father,
help.

"That
could be just what the old man wants you to do." Dusault motioned the man
away, reaching around Deanna with the automatic. "But there's more than
one way to handle a horse." He aimed the gun at the closed door.

Realizing
what Dusault intended, Shep seized Gris by surprise and slung him into the line
of fire. His desperate no! was drowned by the thunderous rat-a-tat of the gun
beside her. In horror, she saw the spray of bullets cut across the barn door
and the two men in its path.

Time
moved into slow motion as Shep recoiled, losing his grasp on the crumbling
figure of the startled gunman. The bullets that tore into his shirt slammed him
against the door behind him. Desperation strengthened Deanna's grip on the
pistol. Wrenching it from her pocket, lining and all, she heard its thunderous
report and waited for the bullet to plunge somewhere in her flesh, but before
it could happen, she was body slammed by Victor Dusault.

As
his weight carried her to the ground, her pistol and his coughing automatic
took flight like a pair of deadly birds, lighting in the dirt a few feet away.
Deanna struck the ground much harder, the wind knocked from her by her captor.
Clawing her way out of the ensuing scramble of arms and legs, she crawled
without regard away from where C. R. and Dusault grunted and swore at each
other, toward the place where Shep lay, still as—

No,
she wouldn't think it.
God, it can't be. Please, it can't be.

"Shep!"
His name tore from her throat as she shook him with all her strength.
"Shep, darn your picture, I just blew a hole through a hundred dollar pair
of pants for you, so you better wake up now, do you hear me?"

A
gunshot drew her attention to where C. R. staggered away from a sprawling
Victor Dusault. It didn't matter to Deanna who shot whom, not when she was
losing her heart and soul.

With
both fists, she struck the unconscious Shep full in the chest—once, twice,
three times.

"Shoot,
Deanna, you're going to kill him," C. R. said. She could see his feet in
front of her but couldn't make out what he was saying, the sirens ringing in
her ears.

"What
do you know?" she shrieked at him. Tilting Shep's head back like she'd
seen on medical shows, she pinched his nose and inhaled.

"Look,
I gotta leave."

"So
go!" Deanna inhaled again. Beneath her knees the ground shook with rolling
thunder.
God, I hope that's You coming to help.

As
she started to share her breath with Shep, it was stolen by the bizarre Wild
West scenario unfolding domino fashion in the street. Either she was
hallucinating or maybe she had been shot after all and this was either a
neurological phenomenon or a parting glance at what she left behind.

By
magic, the red stallion of Shep's dreams materialized out of thin air with a
hair-raising whinny. It bolted, mane and tail unfurled, as it had been the
first time she'd seen it, toward a shock-riveted clown. His feet appeared to be
set into motion by the pistol that fell to the dirt from his hand. With an
abrupt pivot, the bozo ran over Dusault, who struggled to his feet, one hand
clutched to his abdomen. Both men sprawled before the magnificent horse.

Its
coppery coat glowing surreal in the fiery blaze of the setting sun, the
stallion leaped over them and raced before an Ozlike wind down the street and
out of the proverbial Dodge. The dust swirled and kicked up in its wake sounded
like the beating of a thousand pairs of angel wings. An aged figure emerged
from the open door of the barn in worn Levis and flannel, not a white robe. A
rifle rested over his arm instead of an avenging sword. Instead of taking over
with a powerful voice of omniscience, the slight figure cackled, shattering
Deanna's shell shock.

"If
that ain't a pair of wallerin' snakes, I'll quit. It took old Charlie long
enough," Ticker grunted, nodding at the line of police cars driving single
file up the street, sirens and lights flashing. Two ambulances rolled around
from the backside of the town, stopping in the yard. People in uniform
scattered with a purpose to the wounded.

It
wasn't a heavenly vision after all, but it was heaven sent.

"You
all right, Shep?"

Or
was it? Dreading to look and more afraid not to, Deanna glanced down to see
brown eyes, beautiful, beautiful brown eyes, looking up at her.

"You
pack quite a wallop, Slick."

And
those lips, now tugging in a grin that made her toenails curl. Just inches from
hers, they broke the chain of fear that held her body in a relentless grip. But
she'd seen him get hit. She saw the bullets plowing into his chest. His shirt
was ripped and...

Hard
and bloodless.

"Bulletproof
vest," Shep explained, hopping to his feet. "Knocked the wind out of
me, and I cracked my head on the wood, but I'll take bruises over bullets any
day."

Reluctant
to let Shep out of her sight, Deanna stuck to his side until the last of the
police cars and the ambulance with the body bags pulled away. Jay Voorhees was
on his way to a trauma center by helicopter. Much to Deanna's relief, Jon
Kessler, thanks to another bulletproof vest, accompanied him with bruises and a
nonfatal head injury where a bullet grazed his skull.

Dusault
and C. R. traveled by ambulance to Taylorville Medical Center in police custody,
where the crime boss was to have two slugs removed. Not only had C. R. shot him
in the stomach during the struggle, but the shot that went off when Deanna
yanked the gun free of her trousers came close to making the man a soprano. As
for Agent Gretsky, he was about to enjoy the hospitality of the Taylorville
jail.

In
his glory, Ticker Deerfield regaled Charlie Long and Sheriff Barrett with the
whole tale, starting with how he'd corralled the renegade Romeo that afternoon,
shutting the stallion up before he could get away. Then things started
happening so fast, he didn't have time to tell Shep about it.

"I
was runnin' around like a skunked hound suitin' up in this fancy vest and
gatherin' my guns. Like as not, I'll not sleep a wink for a month."

Deanna
thought the same thing as she rubbed liniment on Shep's ribs later. For her
sake, he insisted they stay over at Esther Lawson's bed-and-breakfast until the
house was cleaned up. After showing them to their respective rooms, Esther went
downstairs to call Maisy with the latest tidbits she'd gleaned from her guests.
Drifting up in the breaks of her conversation, a hall radio played oldies but
goodies.

When
Deanna finished, Shep picked up the discarded vest that had saved his life and
laid it on a chair.

"God
is enough, but," he stipulated with a wince, "the Good Book also said
there's no need to tempt Him."

God
couldn't get enough credit for what she felt, nor was she ashamed of the joy
and gratitude that had glazed her eyes and made her chin tremble all evening.
Shep caught one of the sparkling tears with a kiss, just as he had every chance
he'd gotten since they left Hopewell.

The
bits and pieces of the incident replayed in Deanna's mind. The bloodshed and
grim reality of a world she'd never seen except on TV, drove home again and
again just how close she had been to losing Shep.

"You
sure you're not hurt?" He'd asked her the same thing dozens of times, as
if to convince himself that it was all over, that she was safe, and to convince
her that she was the most important thing in his life.

Deanna
shook her head. "Nah, it's just a joy leak." In the arms of her
Shepard, she was light enough to float, ready to step out on the proverbial
water of life at his side, no matter the storms that lay ahead.

"I'm
not afraid anymore." She pressed her cheek to Shep's chest. "The bad
guys can tie me to a railroad track and I'd just laugh."

Shep
shook her with his chuckle. "What if they turned on the buzzsaw?" he
asked in a sinister tone.

"I'd
yawn."

"And
what if they light," he drew out the word in a dastardly laugh, "the
fuse to the
dyn...omite?"
He swung her around in his arms, almost
dropping her as his injuries reminded him of his condition.

Deanna
dropped instead onto an overstuffed ottoman done in the same material as the
drapes and chair, giggling, "I'd sing 'Happy Birthday to Me.'"

"That's
not what I want to hear." With a scowl, Shep reached for his hat.
"Guess again."

Enchanted
by his half-boy, all-man mischief, Deanna pretended to think. "'My Hope Is
Built on Nothing Less?'"

He
set the beat-up Stetson on his head. "Try again."

"'Rag
Time Cowboy Joe?'"

Growling,
Shep drew her to her feet and put his hands at her waist. "I'm only going
to teach you this once."

"Just
once?"

"Just
once." He cleared his throat and pressed his forehead to hers, knocking
his hat back. "And then.

Deanna
swayed to the left, following his lead.

"'And
then...'" he said, voice going up a few notches. He swung her to the right
and, moving up another octave, he squeaked out, "'And then.

The
space between them vanished. Pressed against him, Deanna felt his deep-throated
chuckle, the warmth of his breath upon her cheek. "'And then...'"
Shep dipped her backward. As he pulled her back up, he launched into a soulful
rendition of the chorus. "'Along came Jo-o-ones.'"

The
wacky lyrics were enough to make a grown woman swoon; Shep's clumsy dance
around the furniture-crowded room enough to shame the most romantic Viennese
waltz. And that hat... Well, what could a gal say? It was a crowning touch.