Wildstar

That was how Devlin found her five minutes later— holding a half dozen men at bay with the last of her am­munition. He'd heard the gunfire from two ridges away, and rammed his heels into his horse's sides, reaching the scene a dozen yards ahead of the rest of the posse.

Yanking his galloping horse to an abrupt halt, Devlin shucked his Winchester from the scabbard and leaped down from the saddle, just as a bullet whistled past him. He got off a return shot before he threw himself down be­side Jess.

"Damn fool woman," Devlin growled through his teeth. "Riley is worried sick about you."

Infinitely grateful for his presence, even despite the de­spicable, scandalous things he had done to her last night, Jess drank in the sight of him. He was still wearing the same elegantly tailored suit he'd had on the night before, but with his beautiful face stubbled by a night's growth, he looked a lot like an outlaw himself. His gaze was diamond-hard in the sunlight as he gave her a fierce scru­tiny.

She lifted her chin stubbornly. "If you'd come with me in the first place, Riley wouldn't have had to worry. We would already have taken Purcell. With your dawdling, he almost got away."

Just then, more than twenty men came galloping up be­hind them. Jess's eyes narrowed in surprise when she rec­ognized Virgil Lockwood, but she was completely astonished to see Ashton Burke among the marshal's posse. Burke, like Devlin, was dressed for an evening on the town, but he carried a Springfield rifle that had a long range and deadly accuracy. His blue eyes, however, were not searching the canyon for danger; they were riveted on Jess.

Her jaw hardened. "What is he doing here?"

"He's here to save your stubborn hide," Devlin retorted grimly. "Now tell me what's happening. How many are down there?"

"Purcell and six others—" Before she could say more, a volley of gunfire erupted from below.

"Find cover!" the marshal shouted, and immediately ev­eryone scrambled for positions.

Jess went rigid when she realized the man who'd stretched out beside her on her right was Ashton Burke, but there was no time to protest. A hail of bullets struck the rocky slope directly in front of them.

"Dammit, Jess, get the hell out of here!" Devlin yelled as he took aim and fired.

Ignoring his order entirely, she began reloading her shotgun, slipping the last cartridges from her box of shells into the empty chamber to replace those fired.

The ensuing gunfight would likely go down in Colorado history, Jess suspected with no amusement. The crack of rifle fire echoed through the rugged canyon as the desper­ate men below began a fight for their lives. Those above began picking their targets.

Jess finished reloading and put her weapon to good use, finding it hard to breathe as the burning stench of gunpow­der filled the air.

Moments later, a bullet ricocheted off the boulder in front of her while another shot kicked up gravel a few feet away.

"Dammit, Jess!" Devlin seethed. "I told you to get back!"

"Quit cussing at me! And quit telling me what to do! You aren't my keeper!"

Devlin muttered something that she didn't quite catch but that sounded like "I will be."

She might have retorted, but a bullet whizzed through the air a fraction of an inch from her face. A harsh cry sounded beside her.

Burke had taken some lead, sh

e saw with chagrin; he had dropped his rifle and was clutching his left arm.

"Get him out of here," Devlin ordered as he got another shot off.

Jessica would rather have let him bleed to death . . . al­most. "Don't you dare let Purcell get away," she warned as she flung her shotgun into the grass behind her to free her hands.

"I won't."

Recognizing but not appreciating the irony of helping Ashton Burke, Jess grasped his uninjured arm and helped him slide-scrape backwards over the ground. Burke gritted his teeth at the pain.

By the time they had taken refuge behind a pine tree, out of range, he had lost his fancy hat and sweat dripped down his pale brow. Jess had never seen him at such a dis­advantage. She found it really hard to feel much sympathy for this coldhearted, ruthless magnate, though. Burke hadn't shown the least compassion for her father when he'd been shot in the back.

Carefully pushing Burke's elegant coat off his injured shoulder, she ripped open his ruffled shirt and rapidly as­sessed the severity of the wound. A deep gash scored the outside of his upper arm, and blood was pouring freely from it, but it could have been far worse. He was incred­ibly lucky the bullet had only pierced the skin and muscle instead of shattering the bones in his shoulder or arm.

Jessica tugged off her bandanna and pressed it hard against the torn flesh of his arm, trying to stop the bleed­ing. "You'll live," she murmured.

Burke winced, whether from the painful pressure or her unfeeling remark it wasn't clear.