Movement in the rocks, off to the south. Glen pressed himself halfway-sitting and then took aim. The shot must not have hit, because a moment later a shot came back. A thankful miss.
There was no reason to waste his ammunition like this. Not when he was at such a disadvantage. Glen needed to find a way to get out from under this horse, and fast. Sooner or later they would find a way over to him, a way that didn't expose them too much to fire. At this distance, he couldn't be sure of a hit.
Once they were close, well… he was out in the open, and pinned there. It wouldn't be much of a fight, no matter how good he was.
"Give up, Riley! We got you outgunned! We won't hurt you, you just give up on this!"
They were closer now. He could hear it. Or perhaps they had him badly enough outgunned that they were all through the hills, hidden in different places.
Well, that was just about great. After all, things were going so well for him already. Why not make it a party?
Glen shoved the butt of his rifle under the horse's flank, lifted with all the strength he could muster. His leg moved a little, though the screaming pain that shot through him as he did it told him that he was in no shape for fighting.
He shouldn't have been doing this. Should've had more men, should've done something unexpected. Instead, he'd done what anyone could predict he would do. He took Bill into the Sheriff. That, or the morgue.
He let out a breath. What was he supposed to do, though? Kill the man, hide his body, and get ready for more trouble?
That they were working together was no question. Howell hadn't waited more than an instant to bolt, like they had planned the whole thing. Like he was waiting for the signal.
He levered up the horse again, screamed out in pain as he bent his leg out of the way. But he was free, and that was what counted for something—right?
The nearest cover was fifty yards. If he was lucky, then they were still too far to hit him. But with his leg… could he get there in time? He could tell that he would only barely be able to use it. Might be he couldn't do more than walk the distance, and just about anyone could hit him, moving that slow.
He had to risk it. He took a powerful stride with his good leg and caught the weight on his right side. Every fiber in his body was in agony. He grit his teeth harder, forced himself to stay standing, and took another step. If he kept the weight off that leg as much as possible, he could at least keep himself moving fast. But how he was going to get out of here alive, without being able to move, he couldn't say.
What's more, if they knew he was here, and the whole thing was a plan, what was happening with Catherine? She wasn't safe. He'd need to end this, and he'd need to end it quickly.
He leaned back against the steep slope of a rocky hill. He had to catch his breath, because he didn't have the luxury of wasting shots. He had to make this quick, because if he didn't, Catherine was dead.
Thirty Four
Catherine knew something was coming. She just didn't know what.
Glen had taken the rifle. At least he'd listened to her that much. She had Billy's pistol, still kicked off in the corner. On second thought Catherine picked it up, rubbed it against her apron, and put it in her apron pocket. It was heavy, but she would manage. Then she set a chair in front of the children's room and sat down.
Cole wouldn't like not being able to leave, but he would have to learn to deal with it. But the first goon to come through that door was going to get it. She settled in against the chair-back and pulled the gun free, checking and seeing that it was, indeed, loaded. Then she pulled the hammer back. It was a stretch with her thumb and hard to pull—she decided to just use two hands. She'd have to remember that when the time came. If the time came.
Then she waited. Ten minutes. Then twenty. Then an hour. Nothing. For a long, deliriously happy moment she almost believed that she was overestimating the danger. Still she forced herself to stay upright, to keep herself focused. She couldn't let that focus slip for even a second. Her children were at risk. Too much of a risk.
Jesus—the twins. She heard the noise an instant after the idea occurred to her, knocked the chair aside and yanked the door open. The giant red-head was already through the window, and he had Grace in his lap.
One arm was around her shoulder, keeping her from escaping easily. The other, though…
The knife gleamed from the lamplight in the front room. The damn lamps. She should have doused them, she knew. Anyone who wanted to could see her sitting there. Waiting. It would take a fool to come in through the front door seeing her there. It was her own fool fault that this had happened. But now she would have to deal with it. No time for crying.
"Don't hurt them!"
His deep voice was smooth and surprisingly calm for how excited the scene she came into was. "Of course not, Catherine. How's Billy doing?"
She gripped the gun. "I couldn't say."
"He told me he'd be coming by later, I thought I'd drop by and see him while he was in town."
"Let her go."
"You know I can't do that, Catherine. I need to make sure you won't shoot me, after all. A knife up against a gun? That's hardly fair."
She stared at him, trying to judge whether or not she could trust him to let the girl go if she were to put the gun down. She knew instinctively that she couldn't.