Patricia Potter by Lawless

had been doing so well…. Worrying about him, she went back to her bed.
    B RADY LIT THE oil lamp in the tack room. It took him several minutes, for his hands trembled.
    He’d heard about the gunfighter, and he knew he was the only one who could protect Willow and the children. For five days he had stood at the base of the mountains and practiced with his Colt. Once, he had been fast and accurate. Now he could barely get his gun from the holster, and three out of four shots went far wide of their mark.
    The gun, once his friend, was now like a rattlesnake in his hand. He hated it.
    He had not used his Colt in four years, not since he’d killed the last of the murderers of his wife and son, shot him in cold blood as the man pleaded for his life. He’d thought there would be some satisfaction, some peace then, but there was not. He’d discovered he was no better than the men he’d hunted.
    Thirst clawed at him as he continued to stare at the hands that betrayed him. He was useless. Worthless. Self-hatred gnawed at his guts.
    He opened the one window in the tack room, breathing deeply of the still air. But that didn’t help. Almost without thought he went to a box where he stored his few belongings and searched out the smooth form of a bottle. It had been there, untouched, for months now. He hesitated, then drew it out. Why not? He was no good for anything, anyway. He put the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow, and then another.
    A cigarette. He needed a cigarette. He never smoked in the barn, but…why not. He was careful. He rolled a smoke, and by God, his hands had stopped shaking. He brushed tobacco off his lap and took another pull from the bottle.
    He took the glass from the top of the oil lamp and used the flame to light the cigarette. He didn’t put the glass back. He finished the cigarette and very carefully put it out, taking one swallow after another from the bottle, regretfully setting it on the table next to the lamp when there was no more.
    That’s all he’d needed. Just a small drink. His eyes closed, and soft snores filled the room, still alight with the unprotected flame.
    Hours later a breeze ruffled the plain cotton curtains of the tack room, pushing them toward the lamp. The flickering flame caught the edge of a curtain and started inching upward, reaching out for additional fuel and finding it in the old dry wood of the barn.

4
     
     
    L obo rose before dawn. It was Saturday, and he had every intention of facing her before she got away again.
    He purposely didn’t shave. The more intimidating he looked, the better his chance at success. And he knew exactly how intimidating he could look. There had been more than one occasion when potential opponents ran rather than fought after seeing him.
    Lobo had spent the night concentrating. He was good at that. He had concentrated himself out of a hell of a lot of bad spots. Now he concentrated on forgetting that damn laugh and red-gold hair.…
    Goddammit, he was doing it again.
    Without fixing coffee or eating, he saddled his pinto, which nudged him for attention. He glared at the horse. Even the animal was going soft. He mounted, and with his temper close to exploding although he couldn’t explain why, he spurred the pinto into a gallop.
    He reached the small hill, which was becoming altogether too familiar, and he looked once more toward the ranch house. The morning was still gray, the sun just tipping over the horizon, and a hot wind had come with first light.
    Lobo felt a sense of satisfaction as he saw smoke. They were awake.
    But as he studied the peaceful scene, he saw that the smoke wasn’t coming from the house, but the barn. His knees tightened against the pinto’s side, and he raced toward the house, shouting.
    “F IRE! ”
    Willow heard the warning as she was dressing. Leaving the top buttons of her dress undone, she ran to the window and looked out.
    She could see the barn, see the wisps of smoke coming from it, and she sped to the