blur.
Gunshots rent the air, dust and smoke
billowed, blood erupted. Annabel, face down in the dust, heard
herself screaming.
She stopped at last, jamming a dirty fist
into her mouth and lifting her head to stare in disbelief at the
bloody tableau.
The Hart brothers sprawled dead in the
alley. At least one was dead, she amended, gulping down the sick
nausea that rose in her throat. The other still twitched in a
grotesquely horrible little dance. After what seemed like endless
seconds, his elbows and knees went still and the gurgling in his
throat stopped.
Roy Steele stood calmly, feet planted apart,
surveying the scene. He looked as cool and remote as a glacier. His
gaze flickered to her, his black eyes gleaming above the wisp of
blue smoke that curled upward from his Colt .45.
“I
told
you to run.”
Dear God. Annabel shuddered and felt a
dizzying weakness shoot through her. She fought it off with an
effort and struggled to her knees. But as she gazed in horror at
Steele’s harsh face and saw the utter coldness there, a coldness
that was bleaker than death, dread pierced her.
This man, this cold-blooded gunslinger who
had killed two men with blinding efficiency and now stood calmly
looking over their bodies without a trace of emotion, this man was
after Brett.
He would kill Brett as surely as he had
killed the Hart brothers. Unless she stopped him.
A crowd appeared out of nowhere. Men ran
toward them, one of them wearing a badge that glinted out beneath
his vest. And then the crowd surrounded all three men and Roy
Steele was swallowed up in their midst.
“It’s the Hart brothers!” someone gasped. “I
saw them, Joe, they were going to shoot this fellow and the woman
in cold blood!”
Annabel felt strong arms helping her to her
feet. “You all right, ma’am?” the light-haired man with the badge
asked.
She nodded, mumbled something, and he turned
his attention away from her. “Seems like a clear-cut case of
self-defense, Mr. Steele, according to what Seth just said,” she
heard the sheriff intone as he let her go and strode toward the
bodies. He hunkered down and studied first Mustache and then Les.
Steele waited impassively, his black eyes flickering without
interest over the whispering crowd.
Annabel didn’t wait for more. She turned and
staggered away, escaping around the corner of the building. There
she paused, clutching the rough wood wall with both hands to stay
upright. Thankfully, no one had noticed her leave amidst the hubbub
in the alley.
At the hotel, she tried to appear more
tranquil than she felt as she asked for a room. Once upstairs, with
the door locked and her carpetbag resting on the white-and-green
quilted bed, she paced back and forth reliving in her mind all that
had happened.
An image of the Hart brothers—filthy and
cruel—swam before her mind’s eye. She pushed it away. She couldn’t
bear to think about them, or about the gunfight, or the blood in
the street ...
When she was younger and would scamper
unnoticed about the McCallum house, Annabel would now and again
hear Ross McCallum bellow that he needed a drink when he was
particularly upset or angry about something, and at the time she
hadn’t understood why, but now as she paced around her room she
felt the urge for the first time in her life to consume strong
spirits. Turmoil roiled through her. She’d nearly been killed. If
not for Roy Steele, she
would
have been killed.
Don’t think about it anymore
, she
instructed herself as the memories churned through her like flashes
of nightmare.
Think about Brett. Think about your assignment.
Think about what you’re going to do next.
She wished she could calm down, that her
feet could stop this endless pacing over the creaking floorboards
of the dingy little room, that her heart would stop racing.
Think about Brett
.
Her performance so far had been dismal, she
decided, her fingers knotted together before her as she walked back
and forth. Roy Steele had spotted her
Gunshots rent the air, dust and smoke
billowed, blood erupted. Annabel, face down in the dust, heard
herself screaming.
She stopped at last, jamming a dirty fist
into her mouth and lifting her head to stare in disbelief at the
bloody tableau.
The Hart brothers sprawled dead in the
alley. At least one was dead, she amended, gulping down the sick
nausea that rose in her throat. The other still twitched in a
grotesquely horrible little dance. After what seemed like endless
seconds, his elbows and knees went still and the gurgling in his
throat stopped.
Roy Steele stood calmly, feet planted apart,
surveying the scene. He looked as cool and remote as a glacier. His
gaze flickered to her, his black eyes gleaming above the wisp of
blue smoke that curled upward from his Colt .45.
“I
told
you to run.”
Dear God. Annabel shuddered and felt a
dizzying weakness shoot through her. She fought it off with an
effort and struggled to her knees. But as she gazed in horror at
Steele’s harsh face and saw the utter coldness there, a coldness
that was bleaker than death, dread pierced her.
This man, this cold-blooded gunslinger who
had killed two men with blinding efficiency and now stood calmly
looking over their bodies without a trace of emotion, this man was
after Brett.
He would kill Brett as surely as he had
killed the Hart brothers. Unless she stopped him.
A crowd appeared out of nowhere. Men ran
toward them, one of them wearing a badge that glinted out beneath
his vest. And then the crowd surrounded all three men and Roy
Steele was swallowed up in their midst.
“It’s the Hart brothers!” someone gasped. “I
saw them, Joe, they were going to shoot this fellow and the woman
in cold blood!”
Annabel felt strong arms helping her to her
feet. “You all right, ma’am?” the light-haired man with the badge
asked.
She nodded, mumbled something, and he turned
his attention away from her. “Seems like a clear-cut case of
self-defense, Mr. Steele, according to what Seth just said,” she
heard the sheriff intone as he let her go and strode toward the
bodies. He hunkered down and studied first Mustache and then Les.
Steele waited impassively, his black eyes flickering without
interest over the whispering crowd.
Annabel didn’t wait for more. She turned and
staggered away, escaping around the corner of the building. There
she paused, clutching the rough wood wall with both hands to stay
upright. Thankfully, no one had noticed her leave amidst the hubbub
in the alley.
At the hotel, she tried to appear more
tranquil than she felt as she asked for a room. Once upstairs, with
the door locked and her carpetbag resting on the white-and-green
quilted bed, she paced back and forth reliving in her mind all that
had happened.
An image of the Hart brothers—filthy and
cruel—swam before her mind’s eye. She pushed it away. She couldn’t
bear to think about them, or about the gunfight, or the blood in
the street ...
When she was younger and would scamper
unnoticed about the McCallum house, Annabel would now and again
hear Ross McCallum bellow that he needed a drink when he was
particularly upset or angry about something, and at the time she
hadn’t understood why, but now as she paced around her room she
felt the urge for the first time in her life to consume strong
spirits. Turmoil roiled through her. She’d nearly been killed. If
not for Roy Steele, she
would
have been killed.
Don’t think about it anymore
, she
instructed herself as the memories churned through her like flashes
of nightmare.
Think about Brett. Think about your assignment.
Think about what you’re going to do next.
She wished she could calm down, that her
feet could stop this endless pacing over the creaking floorboards
of the dingy little room, that her heart would stop racing.
Think about Brett
.
Her performance so far had been dismal, she
decided, her fingers knotted together before her as she walked back
and forth. Roy Steele had spotted her
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