Gabriel's Law

by Pierson, Cheryl

  "Don't overdo it, Brandon," she murmured.

  "I'm not about to…I've got plans—" he said in a low voice, but stopped, his eyes narrowing at something over her shoulder.

  She turned to see Jimmy Smith running toward them, yelling breathlessly. He tripped, fell and rolled, then got up and continued running toward the group of boys that Owen was overseeing, terror etched in his expression.

  * * * * *

  Brandon and Allie started forward, followed by the other boys.

  Jimmy kept running until he fell at Brandon's feet, winded and panting.

  "What's wrong?" Brandon asked, kneeling beside him.

  "My pa! M-My pa!"

  Brandon put both hands on Jimmy's shoulders, his right hand closing around the boy's upper arm with less pain than he'd expected. "What about him?"

  "You gotta help him, Mr. Gabriel!"

  "Help him? How?" It would be a cold day in hell, Brandon thought, before he'd turn a hand to help Arnie Smith with anything – even staying alive. He was aware his voice was frosty. Some of the boys looked up at him, and Jimmy stopped blathering.

  "It's Tom Carver! He shot him an' – an' he's got him an' Doc!"

  "Got 'em where?"

  "Headed toward a line shack… Harry Ross' place," Jimmy panted. "My pa was bleedin'—"

  "What about Doc?" Owen asked quickly.

  "He's all right, but my pa—"

  "All right, calm down," Brandon said.

  "It could be a trap," Owen murmured, meeting Brandon's eyes.

  "How well I know."

  "It's not! I promise!" Jimmy licked his lips, his cheeks wet with tears of fear.

  A flicker of sympathy stirred inside Brandon. "Does Carver know you saw them?" he asked, coming to his feet.

  Jimmy nodded, misery in every line of his body. "He sent me out here, Mr. Gabriel. "I'm to tell you if you come to the line shack, he'll let Doc and my pa go free."

  Instantly, Brandon thought of the thousand dollars that rested inside his wallet in the false-bottomed drawer. "What does he want me to bring? Money?"

  Jimmy shook his head and looked down at the ground. "No. Just you. He said for you to come alone and—"

  "And what, Jimmy?"

  Jimmy slowly raised his head. "Be ready to die. He's going to finish what they started at the livery stable."

  * * * * *

  Allie gave a sharp gasp at his words. "Why, that pompous jackass!" She turned to Brandon, quickly grasping his arm. "What are we going to do?"

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Not we, Allie."

  "You can't be considering actually turning yourself over to him, Brandon," Owen said. "Surely, there's another way."

  "Where is this line shack?" Brandon asked.

  "It's—" Jimmy began, but Allie shushed him with a quick shake of her head.

  "No. Not unless you agree to accept some help," she said, meeting Brandon's eyes. He thought she was being unreasonable, by the look on his face. "I don't intend to lose you. Not now, after so long."

  "Allie, there's nothing you can do," he said flatly.

  "There may be something—" Desperation filled her voice, tension crackling through the air around them.

  "You've got other responsibilities now." The words were spoken quietly, but she understood exactly what he was saying. The boys. The cows. The fence-building. They were working against the clock. But what did any of it mean without him?

  A hot breeze lifted the dark strands of his hair. Bees buzzed around them as they settled on the clover spread throughout the field where the first fence posts had been set. The boys were quiet, as if frozen by this turn of events.

  "I have an idea," Owen said, stepping closer to Brandon. "Carver doesn't know me. He doesn't know the boys. What if I take Sam, here, and we create a little diversion?"

  "Give him some unexpected company, you mean?" A faint smile touched Brandon's lips, and for the first time, Allie felt a small bit of hope returning.

  "Just tell me what I need to do," Sam said, his voice edged with hard purpose.

  Owen squeezed his shoulder. "This won't be without danger, you know."

  "We can do it," Sam responded.

  "Confidence is half the game," Owen muttered, causing Brandon to give him an appraising glance.

  "What do you have in mind, Owen?"

  Allie could see Brandon was going to have to be convinced before he agreed. He'd never allow it to go forward if there was much chance of Sam or Owen being wounded. Tom Carver was desperate, if he'd turned on Arnie.

  Owen flashed a wide, devil-may-care grin. "Well, it seems my son, Sam, and I are traveling back East to visit an ailing relative. Sam, here, has suffered a stress fracture – too much walking. We got lost and stumbled on the line shack, hoped to rest for a day before we set out again. Give us a few minutes to get settled in with our host, and then you make your appearance. We'll do what we can." He nodded at Brandon's right hand, shooting him a searching look. "How does it feel?"

  Allie read the tense set of his shoulders, and knew how he'd respond before he ever spoke.

  "It's all right."

  The lines were grooved deep in his face, bracketing his mouth; the sensual lips drawn tight. His eyes were veiled, unreadable; pools of fathomless darkness with none of the teasing warmth she'd come to expect. He would not be argued with. Not now. He'd do what he had to do, and she could see there was nothing she could say or do to dissuade him.

  Owen gave him a grim smile. "Somehow, I doubt that. Will you be able to shoot?"

  Brandon nodded. "I'll get the job done – one way or another."

  "Guess we'd better get started then," Owen said. He looked at Sam. "Let's go back to the house. There's…something I want to get."

  "You want me to oversee the fence, Mr. Gabriel?"

  Brandon smiled at the redheaded, freckle-faced boy who had spoken. He glanced around at the other boys. "Ben's in charge," he said loudly. "I expect to see a lot of good progress on this fence line when I get back. You all do as he says, and work together."

  "Yes, sir," the boys chorused, turning back to their tasks with obvious disappointment.

  "Come with me," Brandon said, taking Allie's hand. He started toward the house.

  "Brandon—"

  "No, Allie." His tone was firm. "I've got some things that need sayin'. Things you need to hear."

  Chapter 22

  When they reached the cabin, Allie took the biscuits from the oven and while they cooled, she began to scramble the eggs.

  Brandon smiled to himself in the mirror as he cleaned up. He could hear Allie beating the eggs with a vengeance in the kitchen. She was angry, but not at him, he knew. At the circumstances. At Fate. They were finally together, with a chance at happiness, and the rug was going to be yanked from under them again.

  He flexed his hand. Sore as hell. But still not as bad as he'd anticipated. Not good enough to outdraw anyone either, right now. He sighed. He was going to be depending on luck. His future – and Allie's – was going to be decided today.

  He sponged the sweat from his face and upper body, then reached for a clean shirt and drew it on.

  Confidence is half the game, Owen had said earlier. A phrase often repeated among the gunmen Brandon knew. Though he supposed it was a saying anyone could've learned, the way Owen had said it gave him cause to wonder. What kind of man was Owen Morris, anyway? Who was he, really?

  Brandon shook himself out of his thoughts. A friend, right now – that's who Owen Morris was. And in a fight, that's all that mattered.

  He reached for his gun belt and buckled it on, opening the chamber, an automatic check for loading. It was full, as he'd known it would be. He snapped it shut and holstered it.

  He opened the door and met Owen just as he walked out. Owen smiled. "It'll be fine, Brandon. You just have to convince the missus to wait here. We don't want her getting hurt."

  "That's where I'm headed."

  "Good luck. I don't envy you." He clapped Brandon on the sho
ulder. "We'll head over to the line shack."

  "Take Jimmy to show you the way. Just have him veer off before you get too close."

  "What about you?"

  "I'll bring Jay with me a ways. Have him do the same thing." Brandon looked Owen up and down quickly. The pinstriped suit pants, white shirt, and dark suspenders marked him as a big city slicker like nothing else could have. "Owen…are you sure about this? There's gonna be shooting, and I don't like putting you and Sam in danger."

  "We won't be. I promise you." Owen gave a secret smile and studied the floor. "Things aren't always what they seem." He glanced up suddenly. "Better go talk to Allie. We've got to head on out. We don't want Carver getting suspicious."

  Brandon put out his left hand. "Thanks, Owen. I owe you."

  "It's not over yet," he said as they shook. "Let's end it. We've got cattle pens to build."

  "See you at the shack."

  As Owen turned to walk outside, Brandon headed for the kitchen.

  Allie stood in front of the stove, stirring a large skillet of scrambled eggs. She didn't look at him, though he knew she felt his presence behind her by the stiff way she held herself.

  "Allie."

  She paused in her cooking, then laid the spoon on the rest and turned to face him. She crossed her arms, her eyes spitting fire. He closed the distance between them and pulled her arms down gently. Her hands came around his waist, and she laid her head on his shoulder.

  He could feel the tension in her shoulders relax beneath his fingertips as he rubbed his hand slowly across the material of her dress. He held her that way for several seconds before he spoke.

  "I don't want you coming over there."

  To his surprise she didn't argue, or question. He decided to explain anyway. "Carver wants more than me, Allie."

  At that, she stood back away from him, uncertainty and disbelief clouding her expression. "What, Bran? He's not like Arnie. Don't tell me you think he wants my place too—"

  "Your place…you…whatever else he can get in the bargain. But not the boys. And not Jay." He sighed. "Carver's every bit as dangerous as Smith, if not more so."

  "But I don't – I never—"

  "I know." He gave a soft chuckle. "I know. But it doesn't keep him from wanting. From trying."

  "How do you know?"

  "Why do you think he turned on Arnie Smith? They both were after the same thing."

  "But I don't want either of them! Oh, this is all so foolish! I just want them to leave us alone."

  "After today, I think the odds of that happening will be very good. Considering at least one of them will be dead."

  Allie held his look. "Brandon – I'm so afraid." Though she held back her tears, her voice shook.

  "Allie." His mouth came over hers in a slow, hot kiss. Her lips opened under his, her tongue touching his, delving into his mouth, mating with his. She suckled his lower lip gently, and he groaned into her mouth.

  His hands roamed across her shoulders, framing her sides, then cupping her breasts. She moved closer into his touch, offering herself to him. He knew she wanted him to take her now, before he left, thinking this might be the last time.

  But it wouldn't be. He fully intended to settle all scores today. He was going to kick some ass, and when he returned, he'd put in the rest of a day's work alongside the boys. After that, a bath. He'd want to wash off the filth of having to deal with Tom Carver and Arnie Smith, along with the honest sweat of the day before he made love to Allie.

  He lifted his mouth and whispered, "Tonight, Allie. Tonight, when we make love, everything'll be settled. Tomorrow, we'll go into town for supplies," he added meaningfully. "I don't think there'll be any more trouble."

  "Brandon, please let me come with you. I can't bear to be here – waiting."

  It was almost on his lips to agree, but he knew the distraction would be too much. "I can't go into this knowing you could be hurt. Promise me you'll stay here, Allie. I can do what needs to be done with a clear mind if I know you're safe."

  She reached to brush his hair back, her touch lingering on his cheek, committing his face to her memory, in case the unthinkable became a reality. He smiled as her fingers tightened around his arms.

  "I'll be back, sweetheart."

  "You're so sure." It was a statement rather than a question.

  "I'm sure." He lifted her chin when she looked down. "I promise," he murmured. "I promise."

  She nodded. "I believe you, Bran. I believe in you. But I still worry—"

  He shook his head, lifting her hand to kiss her knuckles. "That's my job, Allison; not yours." She didn't reply, and he went on. "I'll take Jay with me to point me in the right direction, but I'll send him home before we get too close."

  She nodded. "I love you. Don't ever forget."

  He grinned and leaned toward her to give her another quick kiss. "I know it. You can show me tonight."

  "Count on it." She smiled reluctantly, worry still shadowing her eyes.

  He reached behind her for a couple of the warm biscuits. "For Jay and me—"

  She handed him two more. "You won't see a crumb if you only take two."

  He laughed, starting for the door. "I'll be back in a while." He opened the door and turned to her one last time. "It'll all be fine. I promised."

  * * * * *

  "Hello, the house!"

  Doc sat up from where he leaned over Arnie Smith's side. The sound of the voice from outside was young. A teenager. Not Brandon Gabriel. Doc looked at Arnie, and then turned to face Tom Carver.

  Tom was lounging against the wall with his rifle trained on Doc's head.

  "Will you put that thing down, for chrissakes?" Doc said. It aggravated the piss out of him to have a gun held on him. Made him nervous, and he was doing the best he could do under the circumstances, whether Tom had his gun trained on him or not.

  Tom gave him a surly look. "Don't try anything stupid. I'm goin' out to see what he wants, send him on his way – whoever he is. You just sit tight." He snickered. "Arnie ain't goin' anywhere for a while."

  He opened the door, still carrying the rifle. Doc stood up quickly and pulled the curtains back enough to see through the side of the window. His heart jumped. Sam Jennings! And Owen – what the hell? He didn't say anything, though he knew Arnie was waiting for him to comment.

  "Who is it, Doc? Anybody we know?"

  He couldn't risk telling Arnie Smith a damn thing. He shook his head. "No. A young man and his father, it looks like. Just passing by, most likely."

  "Kind of out of the way."

  "Probably lost."

  Arnie shook his head. "Never believed I'd end up like this." He grimaced, trying to lie back on the thin mattress. "Three bullet holes in me. I thought Tom was a friend. And I damn sure never believed for a minute Allie would do what she done."

  "Quiet, Arnie. Let's see if we can make out what they're sayin' out there."

  It wasn't hard, once Smith shut his yap, to hear the ongoing conversation.

  "…on our way back East," Owen was saying, extending his hand to Tom.

  But Tom was wary. He took a step back, not lowering the rifle. "Best be on your way. There's plenty of daylight left."

  "Trouble is, Mister, my boy, here, twisted his ankle. He's going to need a place to rest." Owen smiled. "We saw your cabin and knew the Lord had found favor."

  Owen and Sam started toward the cabin once more, and Tom cocked the rifle. "I'm not receiving today," he murmured. "Like I said, there's daylight left. You best make use of it."

  "Please, Mister," Sam said. "My ankle hurts somethin' fierce. We need to rest—"

  "There's someone else in there," Owen interrupted.

  Doc let the curtain drop. He knew Owen hadn't truly seen him. In the space of four strides, the die was cast. Owen threw open the door amid Carver's cursing. His gaze met Doc's for the briefest instant, with no hint of recognition. Then, he turned slowly to stare down the barrel of Carver's Winchester.

  "What's go
ing on here?"

  "Something you shouldn't've stumbled into, fancy dude," Carver sneered. He motioned with the gun. "Sit your asses down, right over there at the table, where I can keep an eye on you."

  "Now, hold on—" Owen began, raising his hands. "We'll just be on our way. No need for us to be here. Your foot feeling better, son?" He glanced quickly at Sam, who managed a quick nod.

  "Too late for that," Carver spat. "Sit! And do it now!"

  Owen pulled out two of the rickety arrow-back chairs and helped Sam lower himself into one, then sat down beside him. "At least tell us what's going on," he said in a somber voice.

  "Dyin', that's what." Carver turned to look out the open door. "All of y'all are dyin' here in the next few minutes." He gave them a caustic sneer. "Say your prayers."

  Owen started up out of his chair, and Carver turned quickly, the rifle at the ready. "I'll blow you to hell."

  "You'll do that, anyway."

  "You want it right here in front of your boy?"

  Their gazes locked, and finally, Owen looked down. "No."

  "Awright, then. Don't give me any trouble. It'll go a lot easier on you – and the boy. Understand?"

  Owen nodded, meeting his eyes again. He blew out a harsh breath. "Yes," he ground out. "I understand."

  "Take your shoes off, you and the kid."

  Owen bent to remove his dress shoes. "My son's ankle is swollen."

  Carver stepped forward and put the barrel of his gun under Owen's chin. "You have a hearing problem? I said, both of you, take off your footgear."

  "Why make the boy suffer, Carver?" Doc put in. There was a reason Owen didn't want Sam to pull off his boots.

  "Because I said so, dammit! Do it! Or else!"

  Owen sighed heavily, giving up the pretense. He nodded at Sam. "Do as he says."

  Sam's eyes narrowed mutinously, but he crossed his legs and reached for his left boot.

  Owen shot Doc a look of helpless frustration and he had the sinking feeling that whatever plan they'd engineered was about to be dispensed with – and not as they'd planned.