Texas Tough (The Tylers of Texas 2)

Belly down across the desktop, Lauren was at a disadvantage. But she fought him like a wildcat. He was as drunk with self-pity as he was with bourbon. She had to save him from this insane act that, once done, could never be undone. Mike’s death had taught her that lesson all too well.

His free hand smacked the side of her face. Pain shimmered down her jaw, but she didn’t let go. Lunging with her weight against his arm, she forced his gun hand downward, hoping to pin it to the desk. But he was too strong for her. His hand twisted, angling the pistol upward, aiming it toward his throat. His index finger tightened on the trigger.

In a surge of desperation, Lauren sank her teeth into his wrist, biting down with all her strength. She heard a yelp, a curse, and then, inches from her ear, the deafening bellow of the big revolver.

Head ringing, she collapsed acros

s the desk. For a moment she lay still, too dazed to stir. At last, knowing that whatever had happened was hers to face, she opened her eyes and raised her head.

Her father sprawled in his leather banker’s chair, his face ashen, his jaw clenched. Blood streamed from an ugly wound below his collarbone.

“Damn it all t’ hell, girl,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t you jus’ let me die?”

Lauren could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. Scrambling to her feet, she rushed around the desk, pulled the chair back, and slid him to the floor. So much blood. The den’s wet bar had a store of clean towels. After grabbing the stack of them off the shelf, she wadded them over the wound and pressed down hard. He groaned and swore.

“Hold this in place,” she said. “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”

“No!” His hand clamped her wrist. “With those buzzards out front, just waitin’ for somethin’ like this, I won’t have the medics come screamin’ in to haul me away.”

“But you’re losing so much blood.” Pulling her hand free, Lauren leaned her weight over the towels, which were already seeping red. “You’ll die if we don’t get you to a hospital.”

“Then I’ll die, dammit! Rather bleed to death than give those shit-eaters a feeding frenzy!”

And he would do just that if she let him, Lauren knew. But she wanted him to live. He was her father, and time was running out.

Her purse had fallen to the floor in the struggle. Finding it within reach under the desk, she opened the clasp. One bloodstained hand found her cell phone. Whether her father liked it or not, she had to get him to emergency care.

She was about to punch in 911 when she saw the message from Sky. Taking an extra second, she pressed the key.

Lauren, I’m here. Call me.

His voice was like clear water, calming her frantic mind. In that instant there was one thing she knew. Much as she wanted to be strong, she couldn’t do this alone. She needed help. She needed Sky.

He answered on the first ring. “Lauren, are you all right?”

She struggled to keep her emotions under tight rein. “My father’s shot himself. We’ve got to get him to the hospital. The reporters are out front. Can you come around the back in your truck?”

“I’m on my way.” No questions, just enough words to say he would be there. That was Sky.

Sky gunned the pickup, raising a plume of dust behind the wheels as he flew over the rough back road. Lauren hadn’t told him how badly her father was hurt, but if Garn Prescott was refusing to let paramedics come because of the press, how seriously wounded could he be?

Sky’s main concern was for Lauren—alone, scared, and innocent of any wrongdoing. How could Prescott have laid this mess in her lap?

Through the haze of dust he spotted the stately Lombardy poplars that bordered the Prescott home. Driving closer, he could see the small army of vans, equipment, and people from the news media out front. There was even a chopper from the TV station—a chopper capable of getting Garn Prescott to the hospital in a matter of minutes except that, even if asked, they probably wouldn’t do it because of liability.

Short of the house he swung onto the road that circled behind the residence, leading to the working part of the ranch. From there he cut back toward the pool and parked outside the kitchen door. Again he called Lauren’s cell phone.

“I’m out back. Tell me where you are.”

“We’re in the den.” She sounded badly shaken. “Go through the dining room and down the hall. You’ll pass a linen closet on your right. Bring whatever’s there.” Her breath caught in a little gasp. “Hurry!”

Alarmed by the urgency in her voice, Sky raced inside, cutting through the kitchen and dining room. As he passed the linen closet he grabbed an armful of sheets and towels and rushed on down the hallway.

The door to the den was open. Partly hidden by the desk, Lauren knelt beside her father, pressing a blood-soaked towel to the front of his shoulder. Her clothes and arms were streaked with crimson.

“Thank God you’re here,” she breathed.

Sky crouched beside her, his hand brushing her shoulder. “We’ll need to stabilize him before we move him. Have you got scissors?”