The Christmas Journey (4 page)

Dear Lord, please let me get there in time. And give that fool Samaritan the smarts to recognize the warning shot for what it is
.

By the time she neared the meadow her back and neck were stiff with tension, and her head pounded with the effort to stay alert to everything around her. So far she hadn’t seen any hint of a scuffle or heard any shots.

She slowed Licorice to a walk. The meadow was about a quarter mile ahead. Time to make her move if she was going to do it.

Jo pulled the horse to a full stop and lifted her rifle. The road ran nearly straight from here to the meadow. She stared hard, trying to make out what lay ahead. Otis and Clete weren’t the smartest curs in the pack—not by a long shot. Surely she’d see some sign if they were there.

Nothing seemed out of place. A crow cawed in the distance, some squirrels scurried in the nearby trees—just normal forest sounds.

Had she imagined bugaboos where none existed? Had her own yearning for adventure set her mind to creating one for her?

Or what if she’d guessed wrong about where they would spring the ambush? If she fired now, would she be tipping her hand?

A second later she spied the glint of sunshine reflecting off metal. A gun barrel!

Praying again that her plan would work, Jo quickly fired off a shot. Two other shots rang out before the echo died.

A high-pitched squeal of pain followed closely behind the blasts. Her heart in her throat, Jo abandoned her plan to duck for cover. Instead, she urged Licorice into a gallop, full tilt ahead. Sounded like the man needed reinforcements.

If her shilly-shallying had cost Mr. Lassiter serious injury
she’d never forgive herself. The least she could do was race in, fire a few shots to distract the bushwhackers, and then get out before they could react.

She refused to believe she might already be too late.

R
y grimly took stock of the situation from his position behind the fallen horse.

He thanked God for the hunter who’d fired that shot. If the sound hadn’t caught his attention it would likely be his blood staining the ground instead of Scout’s.

The horse jerked, making a feeble attempt to get up. Ry patted the animal’s back. “Easy boy.” Scout’s muscles quivered under his hand.

Ry’s jaw clenched at the animal’s struggle. Those gunmen had a lot to pay for.

But he couldn’t collect on that debt if he stayed belly to the ground with only the horse for cover. His pistol wouldn’t do him much good unless the highwaymen got a whole lot closer, something he’d rather they not do.

If he could just get to the rifle Miss Wylie had loaned him…

The scabbard was tantalizingly close, yet too far to reach without giving the unseen enemy a clear shot. Silently apologizing to Scout, Ry pulled against the saddle with one hand, tugging at the weapon with the other. The rifle slid a few inches, then stopped.

More shots rang out and a searing pain exploded through Ry’s shoulder. With an oath, he flattened himself to the ground again.

A quick check revealed that the bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his upper left arm. Lots of blood and it felt as if a hot poker were pressed against his skin, but the wound probably wasn’t serious. Leastways, not nearly as serious as things were going to get if he didn’t yank that rifle free.

“He ain’t firing back.”

That sounded like Scarcheek’s voice hissing across the clearing. So this wasn’t a random attack.

“You reckon he’s hit, or just playing possum?”

That had to be Mustache.

“Only one way to find out.”

The gunmen didn’t try to hide their approach. They’d be on him in a minute and he had no doubts about what would happen next.

He had to get hold of that rifle! If he could fire before they were on him, he might have time to get off two shots.

Keeping as flat as possible, Ry ignored the pain in his arm, grasped the rifle with both hands, and yanked for all he was worth.

But it was no good, not from this angle anyway. He pulled out his derringer and prepared for the worse. He wouldn’t make this easy for them.
Sorry Belle, seems I’m not going to be there for you after all.

A moment later, two man-sized shadows blocked the sun.

“Well, looky here. Pretty Boy done got all mussed up.”

Ry twisted his neck to see the two men looming over him, their ugly grins and rifles pointed at his back. He slowly raised himself to a crouch, carefully keeping his pistol hidden. He might not live to see nightfall but at least one of these cowards was going down with him.

“That’s right.” Scarcheek made a menacing motion with his rifle. “Up where I can see your face and hands.”

Tension coiled inside Ry. His muscles bunched, ready to spring. He had to make this move count.

It would be the only one he had.

“Ayyiiieeeeee!”

The shrill war cry shattered nerves already drawn taught. Scarcheek and Mustache whirled around as a wildman swooped into the clearing, riding at breakneck speed straight toward them.

Thank you, God.

Scout made another spasmodic attempt to rise and Ry dove for the rifle. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he jerked the weapon free an eyeblink before the horse collapsed again.

The mounted banshee fired two shots that missed their marks.

Mustache returned fire and the one-man cavalry charge leaned lower in the saddle. The rider’s hat went flying and a tawny braid flapped free, whipping in the wind like the tail of a kite.

Miss Wylie!

Was the woman insane? He’d wring her neck over this fool stunt.

If they lived long enough…

Seeing the men take aim at his rescuer, Ry gritted his teeth against the throbbing in his arm and tried to simultaneously fire his rifle and position himself between the gunmen and Miss Wylie. His first shot found its mark and Mustache went down with a grunt.

But a second shot echoed his own and Ry whirled in time to see Miss Wylie’s horse go down.

It was getting more difficult to hold the gun steady, but Ry pushed harder, moving between her and Scarcheek, firing again.

He swore when he took a misstep and his shot missed the mark. From the corner of his eye he saw the horse get up.

But not Miss Wylie.

At least he’d turned Scarcheek’s attention back toward him. If only it wasn’t too late…

Ry fired again. Or at least attempted to. Either the rifle chamber was empty or it had jammed.

Tossing the useless weapon aside, he dropped to one knee, barely dodging another bullet as he jerked out his derringer and fired.

This time there was a satisfying report.

Unfortunately, Scarcheek was a split second faster.

Jo shook her head, trying to clear it, as she pushed up from the ground with both hands. The fall had knocked the wind clear out of her. Her entire left side, from shoulder to hip, felt bruised and battered. Looking up, she spotted Licorice, tail high, galloping back toward home.

Bam! Bam!

She flattened again, twisting around to see where the shots had come from. She saw Mr. Lassiter’s back first and then Otis beyond him. How had the greenhorn got himself between her and that snake in the few seconds since Licorice had stumbled?

As she watched, Mr. Lassiter went down, hitting the ground with a jarring thud.

No!
Her heart stopped and then stuttered painfully back to life.

Dear God, please, let him still be alive.

It took her a moment to realize Otis had turned his attention back her way.

“Well, now,” he said nastily, “first I get to give Pretty Boy the comeuppance he deserves, and now you land in my lap too. Must be my lucky day.”

The words cleared the last of the wool from Jo’s head and she frantically looked around for her dropped rifle.

He snickered. “Don’t even try to go for it or I’ll shoot you where you sit.”

There! The rifle was just a few feet away. “Don’t know that it matters much,” she said, trying to give herself time to think. “You’re just going to shoot me anyway.”

“Maybe. Hadn’t decided yet.” He moved closer, keeping the gun pointed at her. She winced when he paused to give Mr. Lassiter’s leg a vicious kick. “I thought we might have a little fun first.” He licked his lip in a disgusting manner. “See if there’s really a woman under all those man’s clothes.”

His leering words made the decision for her. She’d rather chance getting shot than endure the fate he was planning.

She scrambled on all fours toward the weapon, hearing Otis laugh as if at a bawdy joke, knowing she’d never reach it in time, but driven to try anyway.

As she dove the last few feet to the rifle, Jo braced for the bullet, prayed he’d miss, or if not, that it would kill her clean.

She flinched when she heard the anticipated shot, but felt nothing, not even the bullet’s impact.

Had he missed?

Her hand closed reflexively on the rifle to the sound of Otis’s screams and vile oaths.

She flipped onto her back with the weapon aimed and ready, but instead of finding the brute still bearing down on her, he stood clutching his side, blood streaming through his fingers, his rifle lying useless on the ground.

She looked past him and saw Mr. Lassiter, pale and unsteady on his knees, but blessedly alive and strong enough to aim his pistol at Otis. He’d apparently managed to get a shot off, one that had saved her life.

Relief washed through her in giddy waves as she got to her knees. If Otis had been able to carry out his threat—

She fought down the sour bile rising in her throat.

Otis, still spitting out a stream of curses, reached down for his rifle.

“Don’t,” Mr. Lassiter rasped.

Otis froze, his hand less than a foot from the weapon.

“The way I see it,” her wounded hero continued, “is that no matter how good a shot you are, between Miss Wylie and me, one of us is bound to get you before you can get both of us.”

Otis looked from one to the other of them, then slowly straightened, one hand still clutching his side.

“Smart move.” Mr. Lassiter made a sideways motion with his weapon. “Now step away from the gun.”

Otis moved back several paces.

“Far enough.” Mr. Lassiter’s eyes flickered her way briefly before returning to the low-down skunk still moaning over his wound. “Are you all right, Miss Wylie?”

“I’m fine.” The way he insisted on addressing her so respectful-like after all her carryings on today struck her as oddly sweet.

Now why was she thinking on things like that at a time like this? That fall must have rattled her more than she reckoned.

She stood, trying not to wince at the pain from her bruised muscles. Nothing broken at least, but she’d be moving gingerly for a few days. “Just bruised up a bit,” she reassured him.

“Think you can find something to tie up our friend with?”

“Be my pleasure.” She started toward Scout, but kept a watchful eye on Mr. Lassiter. He held his gun pointed at Otis, but he didn’t attempt to stand. His shirt was soaked with blood, his forehead was beaded with sweat, and as she watched he swayed, then leaned heavily back on his haunches.

The man had to be keeping himself upright by sheer willpower.

She pushed herself to move faster, trying to ignore the fire
that licked at her ankle with each step. But she’d only covered half the distance when she saw his aim waver.

“Mr. Lassiter!” Changing course, she made a beeline toward him, but before she could reach him, his eyes fluttered closed. He swayed, then slowly crumpled to the ground.

Jo charged across the last few yards, her pulse pounding an urgent rhythm. This was her fault. She should have done more to warn him, should have intervened sooner.

He
had
to be okay. She would
not
have his death on her conscience.

An eternity of seconds later, Jo dropped to her knees beside him, braced for the worst. A part of her registered the sound of Otis’s retreat, but he’d left his rifle behind so she let him go. Right now Mr. Lassiter’s well-being was more important than getting vengeance on that bucket of pond scum.

Jo gently brushed the hair from his brow. The low moan that greeted her was the sweetest sound she’d heard in quite some time.

No time to savor her relief, though. He might be alive, but he was far from okay. He hadn’t opened his eyes and his breathing was thready. The red stain that drenched his shirt was getting darker by the minute. Even more worrisome was the blood that matted one side of his head.

Gorge rose in her throat but she sent up a prayer for strength. This wasn’t the time to act like some prim and proper twit—Mr. Lassiter needed help and right now she was all he had.

Jo gently probed his head where the blood seemed thickest. Yep, there was the wound. Nothing lodged there—best she could tell the bullet had grazed him, gouging a furrow as it went. No way to know how serious it was until Doc Whitman got a look at it.

Trying to remain alert in case Otis circled back, she turned her attention to Mr. Lassiter’s arm. Using her pocketknife, she
cut open his sleeve to get a better look. The source of all that blood was quickly found—a nasty hole in his upper arm, an ugly, gaping thing that oozed a sluggish stream of blood.

Tightening her jaw, she gingerly examined the wound.

When Jo found the exit hole on the other side of his arm, she swiped her sleeve across her forehead and got her breathing back under control. At least she wouldn’t have to try to dig the blamed bullet out.

Now that the initial gut-churning shock was behind her, Jo’s control snapped back into place.

First order of business—stop the bleeding. Between the two wounds, and pushing himself to defend the two of them, he’d lost entirely too much blood.

Had he really thrown his already-injured-body between her and Otis? The man was either the flea-brained fool she’d called him earlier or one of the most heroic men she’d ever met.

Maybe both.

If he hadn’t stopped Otis—

Her mind rebelled, refusing to finish that thought.

Setting her jaw, she cut his now useless sleeve completely off, then did the same with his other one and both of hers. Taking a few precious minutes to wet one of the strips in the stream, she used it to clean his injuries as best she could. Then she formed pads with the remaining cloths and bound them in place.

Sitting back, Jo stretched her leg to ease the throbbing. She watched her unconscious hero closely for a few minutes, then nodded in satisfaction. The blood seemed staunched, for now at least. It would be nice, though, if he’d open those gunpowder gray eyes again, even if it was just for a moment. Long enough to assure her he’d be all right.