The Christmas Journey. Winnie Griggs

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      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.

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