Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860) by Jon Sharpe Page B

latch to go in.
    â€œWait,” Ginny said. “You can’t imagine how upset I am. Roselyn is everything to me.”
    â€œYou’re a good mother,” Fargo said, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
    â€œI had her late in life, as you well know. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. There were complications and for a while the doctor feared I might lose her.”
    Fargo didn’t want to hear this. “Ginny—”
    â€œThey had to cut me. I was near delirious from the pain and my life was in danger. They were afraid the ordeal of giving birth would kill me.”
    â€œGinny,” Fargo said again.
    â€œYou’re a man so you have no idea what it was like. My first and only ever child. The doctor said I can never have another. And after all those years of trying. Marion and I never did find out if it was him or me. That I finally became pregnant surprised him immensely.” Ginny stopped and seemed to be gazing into far distances. Then, smiling anxiously, she said, “What was I talking about?”
    â€œYou should go lie down,” Fargo suggested.
    â€œI can’t. I have my hostess duties.” Ginny wrung her hands. “I’m sorry to be such a bother. I don’t have many people I can talk to and you listen so well.” She turned to go but paused. “It’s not as if we always have a choice, is it? Life forces us against our will. Given our druthers, a lot of us would live differently than we do.”
    â€œI have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    Ginny smiled. “I’m sorry, again. I do tend to blather when I’m flustered. Chalk it up to an old woman’s eccentricities. Good night and sweet dreams.”
    Fargo watched her walk off. He shook his head in bemusement and opened the door. The bedroom was dark. He’d left the lamp lit and figured the maid had extinguished it when she tidied up. He left the door open and took a step toward the table—and an arm looped around his throat.

17
    Fargo got a hand up and grabbed the arm and glimpsed the glint of steel. He seized his attacker’s wrist and stopped the tip from slicing into his chest. Before he could throw the man off, a foot hooked him behind his leg and he was tripped and flung to the floor. His attacker held onto his throat. He rolled, or tried to.
    â€œGot you this time,” the man hissed in his ear.
    Fargo recognized the voice; it was Jules. He heaved upward but couldn’t break free. The knife inched closer. Twisting, he rammed his elbow into Jules’s ribs. It had no effect. He did it again, and a third time, and Jules grunted and his grip slackened. Not a lot but enough that Fargo sucked in a breath.
    Fargo knew that Jules’s face was right behind him; tucking his chin, he rammed his head straight back. Jules cried out and wet drops spattered Fargo’s neck. With both hands he grabbed Jules’s knife arm at the wrist and wrenched with all his strength. There was a crack . Again Jules cried out, and the knife fell to the floor. Jules’s other arm was still around Fargo’s throat but it didn’t stop Fargo from twisting and smashing his elbow against Jules’s jaw. Jules released him and scrambled to recover the knife.
    â€œNot this time,” Fargo said. He drew and fired as Jules gripped the hilt, fired as Jules spun toward him, fired as Jules raised the blade. The last slug caught Jules in the forehead.
    Jules’s sailor’s cap and a lot of hair and gore sprayed the quilt.
    The body pitched over with a thud.
    Fargo sat on the bed. If he hadn’t gotten his hand up in time he’d be the one lying there bleeding like a stuck pig.
    Shouts rose from all quarters. Feet pounded, and Senator Deerforth yelled, “Where did those shots come from?”
    Someone must have told him because Deerforth filled the doorway. “My word,” he blurted. “Are you all right?”
    â€œNever better,”