Cherish

by Catherine Anderson

  One nice thing about being slight in stature was that she could lean against the horse and fire the rifle under its head, using the animal’s front shoulders as a barricade to protect her from being hit by return bullets.

  Bracing herself against the horse’s sturdy body, she worked the lever action of the rifle to jack a cartridge into the barrel. She could do this. Leaning forward, she brought the rifle to her shoulder and sighted in on her mother’s murderer. Her heart froze when she saw the flash of his knife in the sunlight. She stared, caught in the clutches of horror. That monster had grabbed Race by the hair of the head, and he was about to cut his throat.

  Oh, God. Please, God. Give me strength. Keep my aim steady. Rebecca got a bead on the ruffian. He stood in front of Race, who was still held half-erect by the other two men. A head shot was her only safe recourse. If she aimed lower and missed, she’d hit her husband.

  Breathe in. Now breathe out. Slowly squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull your shot.

  The blast of the rifle jolted through Rebecca, forcing her back a step. For a nightmarish instant that seemed to last an eternity, the huge, curved blade of the knife hung there under Race’s chin. She had missed! The ruffian was still going to kill him.

  Then, as if time had missed a gear and suddenly grabbed hold again, the knife fell to the ground, followed an instant later by the ruffian, who collapsed in a huddle at Race’s feet.

  From that moment on, everything went crazy. The two men holding Race let go of his arms and dove for the dirt. She heard cursing. Rebecca jacked another cartridge into the chamber, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the horse. Keeping her gaze fixed on the men who’d been behind her and out of her range of sight while the ruffian held the knife to her throat, she yelled at the top of her voice, “Hess!”

  At her shout, all the men stopped searching for the sniper who’d just shot one of them and whipped their heads toward her, their movements almost simultaneous. Almost, but not quite. One large, gray-haired man in a buckskin jacket turned at her shout just a beat faster than all the others. Rebecca aimed her gun directly at him.

  “Call them off, Hess!” she screamed. “Or you’re a dead man!”

  All the men froze, their startled gazes fixed on her. She knew what they were thinking. A cheek-turning Bible thumper?

  Their first reaction was incredulity. The dead ruffian had tossed her aside, and none of them had given her another thought. A cheek turner, shooting at them? Even now that they saw her standing there with the rifle, they couldn’t quite believe it had been she who’d shot one of them.

  When they could no longer deny the evidence of their own eyes, they all got smug, half-amused looks on their faces. She knew exactly what was going through their minds. Driven by desperation to save her husband, she’d gotten off one lucky shot. But they didn’t believe for an instant that she was good enough with a gun to be that lucky twice, especially not against such stiff odds.

  And God help her, they were right. Five of them? Oh, merciful angels. They were going to fill her so full of holes, she’d look like a colander.

  “I mean it, Hess! Twitch a muscle, and I’ll blow your goddamned balls off!” In her side vision, Rebecca saw the men who had dived for cover near Race beginning to stir. “You men, over by my husband! Move another hair, and Hess is dead!” Rebecca snugged her finger over the trigger. “Your men can take me, Hess! But not before I kill you, you bastard! Call them off, now! Or come dance with me in the fires of hell! Your choice!”

  Hess’s face lost color. “Calm down, little lady. I’m just gonna lift my hands. Lay down your guns, boys.”

  “Slowly!” she shouted. “One sudden move, by anyone, and I’ll kill you, Mr. Hess. Don’t test me! You other men! Don’t make the mistake of pointing a gun barrel toward me as you’re laying down your weapons. I’m a real nervous Bible thumper right now, and if I see the nose of a gun, I’m gonna kill your boss!”

  Hess went a shade whiter in the face. “Easy, boys. Do what the lady says. There’s always another day.”

  “Another day? Don’t count on it. Has he already paid you for this day’s work? I thought not. If I kill your boss, you’ll receive no pay! It’s a very simple thing! You want to die for nothing? I’m fast. I’ll kill Hess and one more of you before you get me. While you’re taking those guns out of your holsters, you’d better be asking yourselves if you want my bullet to find you as a target!”

  A raspy, slightly shaky voice called out, “I got these two covered, darlin’.”

  Tears stung Rebecca’s eyes. Race. He had evidently regained his senses enough to grab a gun from the dead man’s holster. She had him to back her up now. A tremor of weakness ran through her, and she wanted to lower the gun and sob in relief. But, no. Race was hurt. Badly hurt, possibly. She couldn’t count on him. Not this time.

  She had to fight this battle all by herself.

  Rebecca could scarcely believe it when all of Hess’s men slowly drew their guns from their holsters, grabbed the revolvers by their barrels, and bent to lay them on the ground.

  “Back up! Five paces, hands in the air.” She stepped farther out from the horse, moving the rifle barrel back and forth. “I’ll shoot the first man who holds his mouth wrong! Keep backing up. That’s it. Away from your weapons!”

  When the men had put a safe distance between themselves and the dropped revolvers, Rebecca thought her legs were going to buckle.

  “John! Matthew!” Race yelled. “Get out here and collect these weapons!”

  Pain lanced across Race’s belly as he pushed to his feet. “You other men! Get some rope to tie the bastards up!”

  Black figures began to rush in all directions, the men leaping to do as Race asked. John and Matthew Patterson came running from the house and began scrambling to pick up the guns. Many of the other brethren were heading for their barns to get rope. Race kept the gun he’d confiscated from the dead man’s holster trained on the two ruffians who had held him up while he received one of the worst beatings of his life. But even as he kept the bastards covered, most of his attention was focused on one person—a fragilely built blond in a wind-tossed white nightgown whose eyes had turned a fiery blue.

  Race had never been so proud of anyone in his life, and he doubted he would ever be again. He couldn’t get enough of looking at her. Pale as wax. Swaying with weakness and looking as if she might lose her grip on the rifle at any second. How she had found the strength to do what she’d just done, he would never in a hundred years know. But somehow she had.

  When the brethren returned with rope and began binding Hess and his men’s hands behind their backs, Race made his way toward his wife. He felt none too steady on his feet himself, but she looked as if she might collapse.

  When he reached her, he had to pry the rifle from her clenched hands. Tears formed at the backs of his eyes. A lump the size of a goose egg lodged in his throat. He wanted to weep, tell her how much he loved her, and drop to his knees, right then and there, to thank God for bringing her back to him. Instead, he just stood there, so weak his legs threatened to fold as he bent to let the rifle fall to the dirt.

  As he straightened, instead of telling her how very much he loved her, he said, “Rebecca Ann Spencer, I can’t believe I heard you tell George Hess you were going to blow his balls off.”

  Her mouth twisted and her narrow shoulders started to jerk. Race couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or cry. Then a sob tore up from her, answering his question. He hooked an arm around her and pulled her against him.

  “Oh, Race, I love you.”

  His voice throbbing with tenderness, he cupped a hand over her beautiful hair and whispered, “I love you, too, darlin’. You’ll never know how much. And I’ve never been so proud of anybody in all my born days.”

  “Be careful,” she cried. “Don’t hug me too close. You’re h-hurt!”

  That he was. He couldn’t remember when he’d last ached in so many places all at once. And judging by the way she
trembled, he doubted she was feeling any too good herself. As soon as it truly sank in that she’d just killed a man, she would probably feel even worse. Most people spent a goodly long while on their hands and knees in the bushes after their first gun battle, and she would be no exception. In fact, given her upbringing, it might hit her even harder.

  All of that aside though, Race had a sense of certainty and rightness. He’d told her once that they needed to find a happy meeting ground, and today he believed with all his heart that they’d finally found it, not in each other’s arms as he’d once thought they might, but standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Somehow, by loving her with all his heart, he’d helped her to heal and had taught her to stand on her own two feet. In turn, she’d taught him how to do the one thing that came hardest for him—how to surrender and get on his knees.

  As he rocked her in his arms, Race couldn’t help but think that on his knees was exactly where he should be. It wasn’t every day a hopeless, hard-bitten, played-out gunslinger was sent his very own angel. This girl truly was heaven-sent, a precious gift to cherish. He meant to do just that, with every beat of his heart and with every breath he drew, for the rest of his life.

  Epilogue

  Cutter Gulch, Colorado

  1876—nearly eight years later

  Folding the letter into its envelope and stowing it in the reticule that dangled from her wrist, Rebecca Ann Spencer smiled over the news she’d just received from the church farm in Santa Fe. All was well with the Brothers in Christ, according to Nessa Patterson. George Hess and his ruthless hired guns were still in prison. The farm had shown a profit again this last year, which was good, and Samuel Stevens, one of Rebecca’s dearest lifelong friends, had finally gotten married last June to Molly Parker, a lovely girl who Rebecca felt sure would make him a wonderful life partner. Nessa had also sent word that Henry Rusk’s wife, Arlene, had recently presented him with a third child, a beautiful baby girl. Rebecca would always feel a special fondness for Henry, who might have become her husband if things had gone differently. It was so good to know that he was as happy with his life as she was and that all the people who had once made up her world were doing so well.

  Firmly taking each of her sons by the hand, Rebecca walked briskly along, the hem of her specially made, doeskin riding skirt snapping saucily with each tap of her boot heels on the boardwalk. She was running late for a luncheon date with a very handsome and extremely important man, her husband of exactly eight years. To mark the occasion, they would celebrate with Pete and the children over lunch, and then tonight they would have a private candlelight supper for just the two of them.

  “Ma, what’s an annie versey?” seven-year-old Zachariah Spencer asked. “Am I gonna have one when I grow up?”

  Rebecca was about to answer when five-year-old Abe piped in and said, “You get ever’ darned thing, Zachariah. I’m gonna get the annie versey. Pa said!”

  “Huh-uh! He never!”

  Smiling, Rebecca glanced down at each of her long-legged, sable-haired sons. By some odd quirk of Mother Nature, they had inherited only one physical trait from their mother, her sky-blue eyes, which were almost startling in contrast to their dark skin. Otherwise, they greatly resembled their father, both possessing his strong, chiseled features, sturdy build, and lazy, loose-hipped stride. The little stinkers even had Race Spencer’s crooked grin, which still made Rebecca’s pulse quicken when he flashed it in her direction. They were both going to be devastatingly attractive men, just like their pa.

  “I have a feeling you will both celebrate many an anniversary,” she said with a chuckle. “If you don’t grow up so wild and ornery that you scare all the girls off, that is. Keep on as you are, and to find a wife, you’ll both have to hogtie a girl and pack her back to the ranch across the rump of your horse!”

  “A girl?” Zachariah pretended to retch. “Havin’ Rachel and Sarah underfoot is bad enough! I ain’t packin’ home no wife! I’ll let you have the annie versey, Abe. If there’s a female attached, I’m runnin’ the other way.” Zachariah glanced up. “Except for you, Ma. For a female, you aren’t too bad.”

  “Well, thank you. I think.” Rebecca laughed as she stepped down off the boardwalk to cross the alley. “I’ll remind you of your present sentiment about females in about twenty years, young man. We’ll see how you feel—”

  A muffled scream from somewhere in the alley brought Rebecca reeling to a halt. Releasing the boys’ hands, she cupped a palm over her eyes to peer into the gloom between the buildings. What she saw made her heart stutter in her chest. Two very rough-looking men had an Indian woman on the ground, and though Rebecca couldn’t see clearly, it appeared to her that they were trying to rape her. Her chest went cold. She threw a frightened glance up the street, then glanced back over her shoulder. It being Sunday, the shops were closed, and there wasn’t another soul on the boardwalk in either direction.

  “Zachariah, listen to me,” she said in a low, no-nonsense voice. “I want you to take Abe by the hand and run like the very devil to the hotel restaurant. Tell your pa and grandpa Pete where I am and that I’m in trouble. Can you do that?”

  Zachariah stared, wide-eyed, into the gloom. “Ma, what’re those men doin’?”

  “A very bad thing.” She caught her elder son’s face between her hands. “Zachariah, go! Tell your pa I need him, faster than fast! Hurry, sweetie.”

  Zachariah jutted his chin, looking very like his father when he turned stubborn about something. “No! I ain’t leavin’ you!” He leaned around to look at his smaller brother. “Abe, you run for Pa! He’s at the restaurant! You tell him to come quick. I’m stayin’ here to watch after Ma!”

  Rebecca grabbed her son’s arm and gave him a shake. “You’ll do as I say, young man!” Even as she spoke, she heard Abe’s small feet beating a rapid tattoo down the boardwalk toward the hotel. “Oh, lands! Zachariah, I swow, you’re Spencer stubborn and twice as ornery!” She pointed at the ground. “Don’t you move from this spot. Do you hear me? Not one inch. If I holler out, you start yelling at the top of your lungs for help. But you stay put!”

  “All right, Ma.”

  Rebecca straightened, wiping her suddenly damp palms on her riding skirt. Oh, God. As she started into the alley, the sudden lack of sunlight made her blood run cold. She wanted nothing more than to turn and run to get Race herself. Going down there, empty-handed, to confront two possibly drunk, mean-natured men wasn’t very smart. But just as her footsteps faltered, Rebecca heard a child crying. Her heart caught, and she broke into a run.

  She’d covered only a few feet when she saw several two-by-fours of varying lengths leaning against the building, scrap wood, she guessed, from recent repairs that had been done to the boardwalk. She paused just long enough to grab one of the boards, then proceeded down the alley.

  Stopping about six feet shy of the struggling trio, Rebecca straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, hid the two-by-four behind her back, and cried, “Gentlemen, desist this instant!”

  The two would-be rapists whirled in startlement to stare at her. Rebecca could smell the whiskey on them even at a distance. The terrified squaw tried to jerk down her skirt and wriggle away, but one of the men had a firm grip on her ankles and was holding her legs spread wide. The sight made Rebecca want to vomit. Standing a few feet farther down the alley, just beyond the adults, was a tiny Indian girl whom Rebecca guessed to be about four, her daughter Sarah’s age. The child was so terrified, she had lost control of her bladder and drenched her little moccasins. Rivulets of urine had made tracks in the dust that filmed her skinny brown legs.

  “Who’n hell are you?” one of the drunks demanded to know.

  Rebecca stared at his unshaven face. Tobacco juice had run from the corners of his mouth and dried in the creases of his whiskery chin. She’d seen him trying to kiss the poor Indian woman. Rebecca wondered how the poor thing was keeping her gorge down. These two were filthy, vile excuses for men, if ever she had seen any.
>
  “I, sir, am Mrs. Race Spencer! And I demand that you release that woman. Now!”

  “Go away and mind your own business, lady. We just bought this here squaw, and we’ll do what we damned well want with her!”

  Over my dead body, Rebecca thought. She kept her vow to herself, however. If Race had stressed anything while teaching her to defend herself, it had been to employ the element of surprise to best advantage when she pitted her strength against men.

  She tightened her grip on the two-by-four. If these no-accounts persisted in their activities, they were about to get a surprise, all right. Possibly the biggest surprise of their lives.

  “Gentlemen, I shall ask you one more time. Do, please, desist!”

  The men ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. Rebecca remembered Race once assuring her that he wasn’t planning to tear into her like two dogs fighting over a bone. That was exactly how these two men were going after the poor Indian woman, as if she were a morsel to be fought over and devoured. They cared not a whit about the terrified little girl who watched them mistreating her mother. Knowing that Race had once witnessed a similar atrocity being inflicted upon his Indian mother, Rebecca grew more furious by the second, determined that this situation was going to end much more happily for both child and mother.

  Rebecca drew the two-by-four from behind her, positioned her hands at one end for good swinging power, and waded in. Never back off. Give no quarter. Go for blood, darlin’. Rebecca’s first swing, which she executed with all her strength and every ounce of her weight, caught the man nearest her alongside his head. He sprawled sideways, bawling like a castrated calf. On her backward swing, Rebecca caught the other man squarely on the chin. His eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled, finally granting her request and desisting, as she had so politely asked him to do, not just once, but twice.

  Before Rebecca could execute another swing with the two-by-four, the first man regained his senses and dove at her legs, catching her around the knees. The board flew from her hands, she fell backward on the ground, and he crawled up her sprawled body, nearly suffocating her with his fetid breath.