Now, her mind screamed. Shoot.
But her finger froze on the trigger. All she could see was the joyful swirl of Rose’s yellow skirts as the girl spun around to embrace the man she loved. Nausea surged in Miranda’s belly, clogging her throat. Her mind grew dizzy. Sounds roared in her ears, escalating into the boom of gunfire.
One shot. Two. Three.
And none of them from her gun.
Her hand shook so hard the barrel of her gun rattled against the top of the stone. She saw the big man fall. Saw the horses bolt across the clearing. Jamie remained on his feet, standing behind the small man who had spun around and lowered his upraised arms.
Then the small man toppled over and Miranda could see the hole that marked the front of Jamie’s tan buckskin coat. Around the black hole, a crimson rim was spreading in a circle, like petals around the center of a bloom.
Silence fell over the clearing.
Utter, deathly silence.
The two horses had halted by the big man’s fallen body, patiently waiting for someone to saddle them. Jamie, Miranda tried to shout, but her voice was trapped inside her head. She could not breathe. Could not breathe. Cold sweat covered her skin. Icy, icy cold.
Miranda pushed up to her feet, swayed on rubbery legs as she tried to run toward Jamie. Another surge of nausea swelled up inside her. She fell to her knees, doubled over and retched her breakfast onto the carpet of moss and pine needles. Empty and desolate and torn with remorse, she collapsed to the ground.
What had she done? In her hurry to secure their future, in her foolish pride over her own daring, she had endangered her own life and the life of the man she loved. Her courage had failed. Jamie had a bullet in his chest. And she was to blame.
* * *
Like always, when Jamie knew the wrong move might cost him his life, his mind was clear and sharp. Alert, focused, absolutely still, he had waited behind the woodpile, blending like a shadow against the wall of the building.
The right moment never seemed to come.
Finally, for a fraction of a second, everything aligned. Soundlessly, as invisible as the wind, Jamie detached himself from the timber wall, slid between the pair of buckskin geldings and grabbed the smaller man from behind, coiling his left arm around the man’s neck and squeezing tight. With his right hand, he rammed the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple.
“Put your hands up,” Jamie growled in the man’s ear.
For a moment the world stood poised between life and death. It seemed to take forever, but Jamie knew only a second had passed before the man slowly raised his arms. The instant the movement became obvious, Jamie bellowed out his threat.
“Drop your guns or your brother dies.” It was as much a signal for Miranda to get ready to pull the trigger as it was a demand for Alvin Hardin to unbuckle his gunbelt and let it fall to the ground.
The bigger outlaw stood frozen on the doorstep. Jamie held his breath. He could see the hesitation on the man’s face, could see the tension in his tall frame. With expertise born from a dozen similar standoffs, Jamie knew the man would refuse to surrender.
Even before the burly arms moved, even before the saddlebags tumbled to the ground, even before the outlaw’s hands fell to his hips, Jamie knew to expect a gunfight. The horses had shifted back, no longer covering him. His eyes darted toward the stone. The sun glinted on the nickel-plated barrel of Miranda’s gun.
Now, Jamie screamed in his mind.
No shot came from behind the stone.
The big man’s guns rose, the pair of them. The smaller man had reassessed the situation and flung himself backward, fighting Jamie’s hold. Jamie had no choice. He uncoiled his left arm from the outlaw’s neck, pulled out his left gun, aimed at the big man standing on the doorstep and fired.
A single shot, but it was enough. Alvin Hardin jerked, twitched, toppled backward through the open doorway. Jamie felt a burn in his chest. The air around him shimmered, like dark shadows dancing. His breathing grew labored. Hot and cold. Hot and cold. A burning pain in his side, an icy coat of fear on his skin.
By instinct, without a conscious command from his brain, his left arm snaked back to close around the smaller outlaw’s throat. Jamie squeezed, tightening his grip, but the motion made pain twist in his chest. His arm lacked strength and Alonzo Hardin could feel it. The outlaw broke free from Jamie’s hold and reached for his gun. The barrel flashed in the sunlight as it cleared the leather holster.
There was no choice.
Jamie took aim with his right hand and pulled the trigger, saying goodbye to four thousand dollars. It was a cheap price to pay for holding on to his life. A spasm shook Alonzo Hardin as the final spark of life rippled through him, and then he crumpled to the ground.
Even before the outlaw had fully fallen, Jamie leaped over his slumped body and ran toward the stone where Miranda had ducked out of sight. There had been no other gunshot, but images of potential disasters flickered through Jamie’s mind.
A snake, disturbed beneath the stone. The soil was too damp for scorpions, but what about a poisonous spider? God, let it only be a dead faint, Jamie prayed in his mind. Miranda had succumbed to a swooning fit and had been unable to fire her weapon.
As he rounded the stone, he found Miranda hunched over on her knees, heaving her guts out on the mossy ground. Jamie knelt beside her. The scarf covering her head was slipping and a tangle of golden hair had spilled forward, obscuring her face.
“All right, Princess?” Jamie said softly and swept her hair aside.
Miranda gave no response. It appeared as though she didn’t even hear him. Her face was ashen, the blue eyes staring blindly ahead. The pupils had contracted into small black dots, as if suddenly exposed to bright light. Her breathing was light and swift, her body rocking gently. With each breath she took she emitted a tiny wailing sound.
“It’s okay, Princess,” Jamie said and bundled her into his arms. At first, her body was rigid but gradually the tension melted away. Her head settled on his shoulder. Her rocking ceased and she stopped making that terrible wounded-animal sound that had been tearing him apart.
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let her take part in a gunfight? He recalled his first time killing a man, the surge of fear and guilt and self-loathing that came after. How could he have asked the same of her? How could he have expected Miranda to aim her gun at another human being and be prepared to pull the trigger to end a life?
“I’m sorry, Princess. I’m sorry.” It was him who was rocking now, kneeling together with her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other hand stroking the tangle of golden hair in a rhythmic, soothing motion.
Finally, Miranda spoke, in a small, fragile voice. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Of course you couldn’t do it, sweetheart. You’re no killer.”
“It’s not... It’s not that... I think I could have...killed the smaller man...but with the bigger outlaw... I aimed at him, but I kept seeing him with Rose...her arms around his neck, kissing him...in my mind... I saw her collapsed beside his dead body, weeping for him... I could almost feel her grief... I couldn’t do it...not because of him...but for her...”
Miranda lifted her head. To Jamie’s relief, her eyes had lost that glazed look. Her breathing seemed easier but he could feel her body trembling. Ignoring the throb in his side, he tightened his arms around her to pull her closer, into his warmth, but she resisted the gesture and leaned away. She settled her hands on his shoulders, pushed him back and met his gaze.
“I nearly got you killed.” Her tone was flat, emotionless.
“I’m fine, Princess. Just a scratch.”
In truth, it was a bit more. Jamie could feel the pain throbbing where the bullet had grazed his side. A flesh wound, perhaps a cracked rib, but his lungs were intact, and there was no severe blee
ding. Provided he got any bone fragments out and managed to keep the wound clean, it would leave no permanent damage.
“Let me see.” Miranda fingered the bullet hole in his tan buckskin coat. Puzzled, she inspected the tear. “I don’t understand. The hole is right over your heart.”
Jamie smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “You think I have one?”
She sent him a frown of irritation. Jamie breathed another sigh of relief. Good. His quick-tempered, stubborn little Eastern princess was coming back to him.
“Look,” he said. Wincing at the pain, he eased his arm from around her. “My coat is a loose fit. When I shot the man who stood on the cabin doorstep, I was holding my left arm out, like this.” He lifted his arm to demonstrate. The small hole in his coat shifted over to the left, no longer marking his heart but the side of his rib cage.
“Just a scratch,” he added, fighting the dizziness.
“I almost got you killed.”
“When you’re talking about dying, Princess, almost doesn’t count. I’m right here, very much alive. And now,” he said, pushing up to his feet, “we need to get going.”
“Shouldn’t we...?” She glanced toward the two slumped bodies.
“Take them in? No point. They’re not worth a plugged nickel dead.”
“I meant, should we not bury them, and take care of their horses?”
“The horses have grazing and water. They’ll be fine until someone comes. And we’ll leave the burial for Rose. She can decide if she wants to bury them out here, or in the cemetery in town. Then she’ll know for certain that her man is dead. If she comes here to find him gone and a burial mound in the ground, she’ll never know for sure unless she digs up the grave to inspect the bodies. She might spend years waiting and hoping.”
“I could write a letter, tell her what happened.”
“I don’t think you should do that, Princess,” Jamie said with a touch of irony. “The mining company won’t be too impressed with the fact that I shot the only two people who know where their gold is hidden.”
He held a hand out to Miranda. “Let’s go.”
She laced her fingers into his, but when he turned to lead her away, she tugged him back. Jamie paused, waited. She was frowning, as if puzzled over something. Her words were spoken awkwardly, with the gravity of some new idea she couldn’t shake out of her mind.
“While I was waiting behind the stone—”
“That’s what bounty hunting is mostly,” Jamie cut in. He wanted to prevent any ideas of another stakeout, in case Miranda was entertaining some foolhardy notion of showing him another wanted poster and going after more outlaws.
His tone sharp, he continued, “Bounty hunting is lots of time wasted drinking in saloons, trying to pick up bits of information and then patient trailing that culminates in a long, boring wait, and a few seconds of staring death in the face. It’s not exciting. It is ugly and bloody and wearing on the nerves.”
“I know.” Miranda stole another glance at the fallen Hardin brothers. “What I was going to say is, how did you know that the three of them wouldn’t leave at the same time? That the men would not ride out with Rose?”
Jamie hesitated. He owed Miranda an answer to her question, but it troubled him to tell her something that so plainly summed up his shortcomings as a protector.
“An outlaw, like these men, never relaxes. He is constantly aware of danger, prepared to defend his life. You saw how they opened a cabin door. Slowly, peering out to make sure everything was quiet outside before they emerged.”
He paused, then finished. “Alvin Hardin would not have left the safety of the cabin until Rose had ridden away. If he loved her, he would not have taken the risk of her getting caught in the cross fire if a bounty hunter or a lawman ambushed him.”
Jamie led Miranda up the slope, out of the clearing, through the pine forest to where the horses stood waiting. A crushing sense of failure settled over him. He had just explained to his wife that he had shown less concern for her welfare and safety than the outlaw had shown for the welfare and safety of his sweetheart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jamie sat on Sirius, one arm around Miranda, anchoring her to his chest. He had decided to ride double, for she seemed quiet and withdrawn, almost disoriented. Twilight was falling when they emerged from the cover of the forest to the grassy foothills. On the right, the river murmured with a steady ripple. Bats darted in the air, like black flashes that vanished before the eye had time to focus on them.
Jamie kept going at a slow walk until it became too dark to ride safely. He reined in on a flat stretch of riverbank bordered with big boulders. “We’ll camp here for the night.”
In silence, Miranda slid to the ground. Instead of tackling the chores with the brisk efficiency she’d worked so hard to develop, she stood aimlessly on the spot. Even in the darkness, Jamie could see the rigid set of her shoulders and her fraught expression.
What was she thinking? What images were flashing before her eyes? Would her mind ever be free of the bloody scenes of the afternoon?
“Could you unsaddle the horses?” he asked, hoping the familiar routine might snap her out of her withdrawn state.
Miranda gave no response, not even a nod. Jamie waited, was about to repeat his request when she moved. In odd, jerky steps, almost like a puppet controlled by some unseen force, she went to the horses, unsaddled them and led them down to the water to drink.
Jamie kept an eye on her while he fried beans and jerky for supper. He might have shot a turkey while they were in the forest, but he had not wanted to fire his gun, for the sound might have brought the terror of the killings back to Miranda.
Finished with the horses, Miranda resumed her aimless pose.
“Food’s ready,” Jamie called out to her. “Come and sit down.”
She shuffled over and sank down beside the fire, not pausing to inspect the ground or select the most comfortable spot. When he handed her a plate and fork, she took them without comment. Still and silent, she stared into the flames, the beans and jerky going cold on the tin plate balanced in her lap.
His own appetite was no better. Jamie scraped the food back into the pan, took Miranda’s plate and did the same, then clipped a lid on the pan. The food would serve for lunch tomorrow.
“Why don’t you set out the bedrolls?” he asked.
Miranda got up. Jamie went to rinse the dishes in the stream and took the opportunity to deal with his wound. He ought to have attended to the injury earlier, but he had wanted to keep the extent of damage to his body hidden from Miranda.
He took off his coat and stripped away his shirt. The fabric was stiff with blood but the bleeding had ceased. Lifting his arm, Jamie inspected his side. There was no entry or exit wound, merely a groove that ran along his side, like a furrow in a freshly plowed field.
Jamie hopped onto a flat stone by the edge of the water, leaned over the swirling current and bathed the wound, slowly washing away the dried blood. Pain hovered on the edge of his mind. Stoically, he kept it there, refusing to acknowledge the sensation.
A thought crossed his mind. There’s more of the Indian in me than I realized. He possessed the ability to endure greater pain and more hardship than most men did.
When the gash in his side was clean, Jamie went to his saddlebags, applied a coat of herbal salve to prevent infection and put on a dressing and a clean shirt. Miranda lay huddled on a bedroll next to a big boulder. At least her mind had not completely shut down. It may have been subconscious, but she had settled in the safest place, protected by the rocks. And she had spread his bedroll beside hers. Relief flooded through Jamie. She was not rejecting him, horrified by the visions of him as a ruthless killer.
He walked over and lay down beside her. He wanted to ask her to swap places with him, so he could lie on his good sid
e while he cradled her close to him, but she seemed asleep. He curled up beside her, the pain in his side aggravated by the pressure against the hard ground. Penance, he thought. But it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would ever be enough to gain absolution from having exposed Miranda to danger.
Carefully, he slipped his arm around her. Perhaps sleeping on his injured side was better after all. It hurt more, but his good arm could hold her tighter against him. Jamie pulled her into the shelter of his body. She was stiff, unresponsive. He could feel her shivering.
“Are you cold?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
So she was awake. Jamie tucked the blankets more snugly around her. For the rest of the night, he lay awake, accepting the bitter truth. He had acted rashly, without proper judgment, something a bounty hunter could never afford to do if he wished to remain alive.
He had followed the lure of the image he could see in his mind—a piece of land, with horses prancing in corrals. A house on the land—a proper house with papered walls and lace curtains in the windows—and Miranda in the house.
The dream had grown in his mind, like the desert came alive after a burst of rain. He had seen her belly rounded with his baby, a passel of children racing around the yard, their laughter and joyous voices ringing through the air.
A happy family. And he had wanted to be four thousand dollars nearer to that dream. He had succumbed to the idea that the gulf between him and Miranda was no more than a narrow ditch he could jump over with ease, when in truth it was a rift as wide as the great canyon of the Colorado River they had yet to cross.
He was a bounty hunter, a man who lived by his gun, a man whose survival depended on luck and a split-second advantage against an outlaw prepared to kill him. It was the only life he knew—just as he had once told Miranda.
Miranda had wanted to team up with him in his dangerous profession, to help him reach out for that dream. And what had he done? Instead of giving her the taste of adventure she had been seeking, instead of giving her the secure future he had promised, he had plunged her into his dark world of violence and death.
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