The Gunslinger's Vow

by Amy Sandas

Because he wasn’t content with the thought that if he died, at least it would be in the pursuit of vengeance for his brother. This time, he wanted to make damn sure he lived. More than anything, he wanted to be free of the chains vengeance had wound around him. And he wanted to explore that freedom with Alex. For the rest of their lives if he had his choice.

  Returning to where he’d left Deuce to graze, he double-checked his Colt and his rifle. He had to get some of those men away from the house. Riding around to an open pasture extending from the rear of the estate, he found a good spot to gather up some dry brush and prairie grass. Then he waited for the angle of the sun to come around to where he wouldn’t be riding up to the house at a disadvantage.

  The fire would burn swift and fierce, creating a lot of smoke and hopefully drawing the attention of Dunstan’s men. But he’d only have so much time.

  Just as the first licks of flame started to dance against the brush, he heard a footstep behind him.

  “What the hell do ya think yer doin’? This here’s private property.”

  Without pause, Malcolm drew his gun and whirled to face a young man who stared back at him with wide-eyed shock. Malcolm could see right away that the kid wasn’t experienced. He hadn’t even had his gun drawn, for God’s sake, though the idiot went for it now.

  “Don’t,” Malcolm said.

  The kid blinked at him a few times, then dropped his horse’s reins and lifted his hands into the air.

  Well, his approach to the house just got a little easier.

  Malcolm made the kid dismount and discard his weapons. Then he tied the hired gun’s hands behind his back and stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth. Back on horseback, Malcolm forced the kid to walk in front of him as they skirted back around to the main road and the drive that led up to the front of Dunstan’s grand estate.

  One way or another, this would all be over soon.

  He heard the shout go up around the bunkhouses as someone noticed the fire. Though he couldn’t see how many rode out to deal with it, he hoped it would be enough to better his odds a little bit.

  Keeping his gaze sharp and his mental focus even sharper, Malcolm rode up to Dunstan’s front door. His Colt was trained on the kid’s back as he walked out in front of him. Before they got to within twenty yards of the house, a man came out onto the porch.

  “That’s far enough,” he said with his gun already in hand. As far as threats go, it wasn’t a subtle one.

  Malcolm came to a leisurely stop. Another gunman stepped out from around the western corner of the house, and yet another came out of the bunkhouse to the east to stand beside the door.

  Well, that was three. Not too bad yet.

  “I am here for Walter Dunstan,” Malcolm said to the hired gun on the porch.

  “And who might you be?”

  “You know who I am.”

  The hired gun laughed. “I woulda thought you’d be smarter than to ride up to the front door like this. You make my job easy, mister.”

  Malcolm smiled. “Happy to oblige. Now, from what I understand, Dunstan wants to kill me himself. I’m not saying he’ll get the chance, but it sure as hell ain’t likely to happen if he stays holed up in that house. Why don’t you call him out here?”

  “Do you think I’m a goddamn idiot, Mr. Kincaid?” This was spoken by a tall, slim-built man with silver-white hair and a long-grown mustache loaded with enough pomade to make it curl at the corners. He’d stepped from the house wearing a fancy, brown-and-red plaid-patterned suit with one thumb linked in the watch pocket of his vest, and in his other hand, a thick cigar.

  Malcolm’s hostage tugged at the rope as he shifted position. The appearance of his boss seemed to make the boy nervous.

  “You must be the old man,” Malcolm said with no surprise.

  The old man’s small, dark eyes narrowed. “I am Cal Dunstan, if that is what you mean.”

  “You know why I’m here, Dunstan?”

  Dunstan waved his cigar in a half-dismissive gesture. “Feel free to explain, if you wish.”

  “Eight years ago, Walter Dunstan sat down to a card game with four other men in Sacramento. When the game didn’t go his way, he and three others followed the winner into an alley and killed him in cold blood for the hundred-dollar pot. The man they killed was my brother.”

  “Seems your bother was in over his head,” Cal replied callously.

  Malcolm smiled as icy fury spread through his veins. His fingers flexed on the reins, making his horse sidestep. “Your son’s wanted for murder. The papers in my bag and my certification as a bounty hunter say I can take him dead or alive. How do you suppose I’d prefer it?”

  “You want revenge,” Dunstan sneered. “Such a petty motivator.”

  “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

  That comment made the older man’s gaze flicker, but only for a moment before he gave a sweeping gesture at the three hired guns currently eyeing Malcolm. All they needed was one word from Dunstan, and they’d happily open fire.

  “Look around you, Kincaid. This isn’t a low-budget operation you walked into.”

  Malcolm flicked a dismissive glance at the hired guns, then swept his gaze around to see if any other gunmen had decided to show themselves. If there were more about who hadn’t run to put out the fire, they remained out of sight, but Malcolm suspected their guns were at the ready.

  Curving his lips in a half smile, he said, “I noticed you’ve got a few men strolling around the place. Worried about something?”

  Malcolm swept his gaze over the windows in the house, wondering if the Belt Buckle Kid was watching them right now. He would have liked to draw him out into the open, to look into the man’s eyes until the bastard realized Malcolm held his life in his hands.

  With a snort of disappointment, Malcolm dropped his attention back on the older Dunstan. “It must be Walter’s lucky day, because I’ve come to negotiate an agreement with you, Mr. Dunstan.”

  The old man laughed. “Negotiate? Boy, are you stupid? You have no leverage to negotiate. Your hostage is useless. I’ve got a dozen other guns to do what he can’t.” The young gunman in question made a muffled sound of distress or protest, but Dunstan paid him no mind. “You’ve got nothing, Kincaid. You’re going to die today. End of story.”

  Malcolm smiled. A slow grin that held no humor. “Maybe so, but I bet I can put a bullet between your eyes before I do.”

  Dunstan’s expression didn’t change as he calmly held his hands out to the side. “I am an unarmed man, Mr. Kincaid. That would be outright murder.”

  “You’d still be dead.”

  “I do believe I will rely on the skills of my men here. You cannot defend against them and kill me at the same time.”

  “Try me.”

  Dunstan stared him down. Malcolm was taking a risk not knowing where the other men were or how many there might be, but he was tired of the talking. Action was his leverage.

  “Dammit. Might as well,” Dunstan muttered after a minute. Then he gave a small nod to the man standing beside him. “Kill him.”

  The hired gun cocked back the hammer of his pistol.

  Malcolm immediately shifted his aim from his hostage to the gunman and fired, sending a bullet into the man’s chest. Though his shoulder was well on the mend, his movements still weren’t as fast or smooth as he needed them to be. As the first gunman fell, the other two went for their weapons.

  Malcolm swung to the one on the left, taking him out just as the man’s gun cleared its holster. Continuing his momentum, Malcolm leapt from Deuce’s back and dropped to the ground as a bullet whizzed past him from the one on the right. In a crouch, Malcolm took aim below Deuce’s belly, hitting the third man before that one could get off a second shot.

  At the same time, another shot came from somewhere behind him, followed by shattering glass as one of Dun
stan’s men fell forward through a window in the bunkhouse. His cold gun landed in the dirt beside him.

  Malcolm had no idea who’d shot the fourth man, but he had no time to be grateful as the sound of more breaking glass drew his attention to an upper-floor window in the house where the barrel of a rifle appeared.

  Unable to see the rifleman, Malcolm took blind shots at the window as he ran and dove to the ground behind a water trough.

  Malcolm had released his hostage when he’d leapt from his saddle and he saw the boy running in a crouch for the tree line, the tail end of the rope trailing in the dirt behind him. He had just a second to hope the kid made it.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  There were more men in hiding around the house than he’d thought as bullets rained down, sending dirt and rocks flying in all directions. The explosion of gunfire was sure to draw the attention of those who’d gone to fight the fire, but Malcolm had every intention of being outta there before then.

  Swiftly reloading his Colt, he noticed that whoever had shot the man in the bunkhouse was continuing to provide cover for Malcolm. The scene felt sickeningly familiar to when Alex had kept a bird’s-eye view over the ambush in the ravine.

  The woman better not have followed him.

  Even as his gut churned at the thought, he knew it was a likely possibility. She wasn’t exactly the type to sit back at her father’s house and just wait for Malcolm to return. All he could do was pray he was wrong and finish what he came here to do. His focus needed to be on taking out the rest of Dunstan’s men.

  Scooting to one end of the trough, he took a swift glance out toward the house. Cal Dunstan was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Walter, though Malcolm expected such cowardice from that one. The rifleman in the upper window hung limp over the sill, while two more bodies lay in the dirt near the bunkhouse. But three other gunmen had joined the scene and were still standing. They continued to send fire in Malcolm’s direction while scanning the area for the location of the second shooter.

  If it was Alex out there, Malcolm couldn’t let them take any shots at her.

  Two more well-aimed rounds from his Colt took out a gunman hunkered down by the porch.

  Malcolm sent a couple more shots toward the other two, hoping his ally might have time to get repositioned for a better shot at them. While he slunk down behind the trough to reload yet again, he heard a shout of pain. They were down to one, but the last of Dunstan’s men stood around the corner of the house and was hard to get an angle on. It was Malcolm’s turn to get into a better position. Trusting the rifle fire would keep the man pinned down, Malcolm dashed from behind the water trough, running full-out toward a pile of barrels near the bunkhouse. From there he had a clear shot at the last man. Standing, he took aim over the top of the barrels and pulled the trigger.

  He knew he’d hit his target but didn’t have a chance to see the man fall as another shot hit too damn close to where he stood. He spun around to see someone had managed to sneak up behind him.

  Before Malcolm could re-aim his Colt, a rifle shot sounded. A look of shock crossed the man’s face, and he fell forward into the dirt.

  Then all became eerily quiet.

  Malcolm continued to scan for activity around the house, but nothing moved.

  After a while, he heard the sound of a horse riding in from the western tree line. It was risky to take his eyes off the enemy, but he couldn’t stop himself from a quick glance as Alex rode up beside him—unharmed, thank God!—with her rifle raised and ready and a modified Colt strapped to her hip.

  He fought against the fierce urge to sweep her from her horse and plant a hard kiss to her mouth and the desire to grab her shoulders and shake her for putting herself in the middle of this. The feelings rushing through him were such a jumbled mix he couldn’t figure out which reaction should take precedence.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Helping,” she replied easily without interrupting her steady scan of the area. “Or didn’t you notice?”

  Her sassy reply nearly had him smiling, but just then Cal Dunstan shouted from inside the house. “I’m coming out. Unarmed, so don’t shoot.”

  Malcolm leveled his gaze and his gun on the old man as he stepped onto the porch.

  Just because the hired guns had been taken care of didn’t mean the danger was over. Malcolm was not about to underestimate the old man, and Walter still hadn’t made an appearance. It was time to end this. “Ready to hear my offer?”

  “Goddammit, spit it out then,” Dunstan growled, clearly not pleased by the swift and complete shift in power.

  Malcolm kept his gun and his gaze on Dunstan as he reached into his vest to pull out a set of papers.

  “These are the documents ordering the capture or killing of the Belt Buckle Kid under sanction of law. I’m willing to leave these with you and forget I ever heard the name Walter Dunstan.”

  Alex drew a swift breath that caught on a tight sound in her throat. Malcolm wished he could tell her to trust him—assure her he knew what he was doing. Then he realized he didn’t have to. She might not know his plan, but she trusted him, just as he should have trusted her when he took off from her pa’s without a word.

  “I’ll discontinue my pursuit of justice regarding your son’s past crimes if, and only if, you both give up your vendetta against Alexandra Brighton.”

  Malcolm watched Dunstan’s face. It went from surprise to seething wrath.

  But before he could reply, the front door of the house swung wide-open. Walter Dunstan wheeled himself onto the porch with a roar of fury. “It’s you! You little bitch!” He lifted a rifle from his lap and took aim at Alex.

  The pure terror that shot through Malcolm nearly made him blind.

  But it didn’t slow his reaction time as he adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger.

  With a strangled cry, Walter dropped the gun.

  His father muttered in disgust, “You damn idiot,” while Walter cradled his injured arm against his chest.

  “I repeat my offer one last time,” Malcolm shouted. “Drop your vendetta against Miss Brighton, or Walter dies.”

  “I’ll never give up on wanting that bitch dead,” Walter snapped. Though his body’s weakness was evident, and the fresh gunshot wound was still bleeding, the man looked as though he wanted to fly out of his chair and wrap his hands around Alex’s throat.

  Malcolm cocked back the hammer on his gun. His trigger finger was itching to squeeze.

  “Shut up,” Dunstan growled. “We accept. Now, get the hell off my property.”

  Malcolm stared at the older man, noting the murderous fury in his eyes. Dunstan was not one to easily concede defeat, and he clearly loathed having to do so now.

  The old man was everything Malcolm had expected him to be. Dunstan hadn’t amassed the kind of power he maintained by keeping his word when it didn’t suit him.

  Malcolm was counting on that.

  Without shifting his gaze, Malcolm gave a shrill whistle. A moment later, Deuce came running from somewhere behind the bunkhouse. Keeping his gun at the ready and knowing Alex did the same, Malcolm mounted his horse.

  “You make any move against the Brightons, I’ll hear about it,” he said in a final warning. “And I won’t need any damn papers to see justice done.”

  Dropping the documents he held to the dirt, he drew on his reins to turn Deuce toward the trees, putting himself squarely between Alex and the two men on the porch. Malcolm was supposed to be the only one at risk today. With Alex beside him, the whole situation was that much more perilous.

  He hated turning away from the Dunstans, but it was the only way to play this thing out to the end. Instead of heading down the long drive, he directed Deuce westward, keeping the Dunstans in his peripheral vision.

  They didn’t get far before he saw what he was waiting for.


  Walter proved himself to be the idiot he was and couldn’t wait more than a minute before making a move toward his rifle. Malcolm spun around just as a gunshot rang out. But it wasn’t from Walter, who was still in the act of raising the rifle. It was the old man. He’d been carrying a gun the whole time.

  Malcolm fired his Colt, hitting the old man square in the chest. Dunstan’s body stiffened in shock before going limp as he dropped to the ground. By then, Walter had the rifle in hand. Two shots rang out in quick succession. Walter’s went wide, hitting the dirt to their left.

  Alex’s shot was deadly accurate.

  Forty-Three

  Alexandra took a gulp of air, trying to ease the fiery pain searing her side. She twisted to look down and pushed her coat aside to see a small patch of red soaking into her shirt. Reaching with her hand, she pressed her fingers against the sticky warmth of her blood.

  Just a graze.

  She scanned what she could see of Malcolm and saw no injuries.

  “Alex. You all right?” His voice was hard as he looked back at her.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, tucking her coat over the wound in her side as she met his glinting gray gaze. Damn, but she loved that fierce scowl of his.

  “We gotta ride. And hard.”

  “Let’s go,” she answered, kicking Sibyl straight into a gallop.

  Once under cover in the forest, they slowed their pace, but only a little. Alex understood that Malcolm wanted to get them as far from Dunstan’s place as possible. She’d seen the fire he’d started and knew there were likely to be more men swarming the place in minutes, though she had to wonder what they’d do once they saw their boss dead on the porch.

  Her stomach rebelled at the memory of how much death littered the ground behind them, and much of it by her hand. Though her body shook in the aftermath of what she’d done, she felt no regret. Malcolm had given the Dunstans a chance. They’d opted for violence.

  The sun was getting low by the time Malcolm slowed and started scouting for a place to make camp. He found a nice spot tucked in between some rocky hills where a narrow river cut a deep path. “We should be safe here,” he said, swinging down from his horse. “At least until we can figure out what comes next.”