Montan a Wildfire

The hard, cold earth crashed into her front just as Henry Rafferty's body slammed onto her back. The air was shoved from her lungs. Amanda reeled from both blows. Her only conscious thought was to keep a tight hold on the gun.

Henry grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. His weight eased only long enough for him to toss her onto her back. Her hips felt like they were being crushed when he settled his weight atop them.

"It's over, honey. Might as well give up." A sinister grin curled over Henry's lips as he lunged for the gun.

Over? Amanda was damned if that was true. She hadn't come this far to give up now. Nor would she until she'd weakened herself so much she no longer had the energy to struggle. She hadn't reached that point yet. Close, but not yet.

Henry's fingers wrapped around her wrist, squeezing tight. She felt her fingers go cold, felt them loosen around the gun.

"No!" With the last of her strength, she shoved at Henry, trying to dislodge him. He didn't budge, but the move did surprise him enough for his grip to loosen. It was only a fleeting weakness, but she took full advantage of it. She yanked the gun up between them and leveled the barrel at Henry's chest. Her fingers felt icy and numb, but she retained enough feeling in them to keep her index finger coiled around the trigger.

"I'm going to enjoy making you suffer for that," Henry snarled. "I'm going to enjoy hearing you beg me to—"

His fingers tightened around her wrist. Her fingers reflexively curled inward. A flex was all it took to slam the trigger home and to halt Henry Rafferty's words forever.

Surprise glinted Henry's eyes, then pain, then nothing at all. The brown orbs glazed over. His big body went limp and fell to the side. He hit the ground with a resounding thud.

"Amanda!" The shot had barely rung out when the name tore from Jake's throat. Tom Rafferty's hands were wrapped around his wrists, tightly, trying to squeeze Jake's fingers from around the hilt of the knife. With his free hand, Jake delivered a blow to Rafferty's shoulder. The result was double-edged; while Rafferty let go of Jake's wrist, Jake's fingers were too numb to retain hold of the knife. The weapon tumbled to the ground, far enough away to be no threat to either of them.

The air still rang with the repeating echo of the gunshot. Jake's heart constricted, and a stab of pain unlike anything he'd ever felt sliced through him. Dear God, he was shaking. The reaction had nothing to do with his wounded arm, or the exertion of struggling with Tom Rafferty. It had everything to do with thinking for one heart-stopping, gut-wrenching minute that Amanda Lennox was dead. And that he, by not getting to her soon enough, had inadvertently killed her.

Amanda heard Jake's voice, but it came from a distance. Her gaze, wide-eyed and horrified, was fixed on Henry Rafferty's lifeless body. Blinking hard, she forced her gaze away from the gaping hole in the big man's chest, a hole that continued to pump blood onto his shirtfront and the ground. Suppressing the shivers that racked her body wasn't possible. She didn't try.

"J-Jake?" she whispered hoarsely. Amanda glanced to the side, and winced when she saw Tom Rafferty's fist make solid contact with Jake's already swollen jaw.

Jake grunted as his head snapped to the side. Alarm coursed through Amanda when she saw how weak his struggles were.

Tom Rafferty landed another stinging blow. Then another. Jake tried to deliver a punch of his own, but missed. Rafferty's aim was more accurate.

A fist connected with Jake's temple hard enough to make stars dance behind his eyes. He blinked them away. Only sheer force of will—and raw fear for Amanda life—kept him conscious. He was panting, and his brow and upper lip were coated in the same sweat that pasted his hair to his scalp and face. His efforts to dislodge his attacker were becoming slow and clumsy. Gritting his teeth against the pain that tore through his arm, he aimed a punch at Tom Rafferty's temple. And missed again.

Tom waited until the fist whizzed past his face, completing an arc that would have knocked free quite a few of his crooked yellow teeth, had it connected. Chuckling evilly, his hands snaked out. Long, thin fingers wrapped around a thick copper throat. And squeezed. Hard.

"You don't look so dangerous now, do you, breed?"

Jake croaked, but didn't—couldn't—respond. He tried clawing at Tom Rafferty's arms, but the pain in his body, combined with lack of air, made his efforts ineffectual.

Tom laughed harder. "That's right," he sneered, "you go ahead and fight. Won't do you any good. Nothing's going to stop me from strangling the life out of your miserable red hide. Or, better yet, maybe I'll let Henry finish skinning you. He'll like that."

Jake's vision was going black and fuzzy around the edges. His lungs burned, and his head and arm throbbed unbearably. It was only a matter of time before he died—dammit, this was not the way he'd intended to go!—but he continued to fight.

His bleary gaze fixed on a spot just behind Tom Rafferty's lanky shoulder. He decided he must be in more dire need of air than he thought, because now he was seeing things. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and squinted, but... damned if the image would go away. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he saw Amanda

Lennox standing a few short feet away, that blasted pistol of hers aimed at Tom Rafferty's back.

Jake told himself it was an illusion, a product of wishful thinking. But he didn't believe it. A part of him needed to believe Amanda was there, needed to believe that the prissy white princess—his prissy white princess, dammit!—was ready and willing to kill for him. It took effort to look past the irony of that thought!

"You hear that, Henry?" Tom Rafferty said, and his grin was pure evil. He scowled, his fingers loosening just a bit when his brother made no reply.

"Henry?"

"Henry's d-dead, Mr. Rafferty. I k-killed him."

Tom's head came up. His gaze narrowed, snapping over his shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw Amanda Lennox. Amanda Lennox? Now wait just a second! He'd heard a shot, and he'd naturally presumed that Henry had... But if Henry hadn't... His attention shifted to the fire lit spot where he'd last seen his brother struggling with the woman. What he saw now snapped his tenuous hold on sanity.

She'd killed him! That bitch had killed Henry!

And now... dammit, now he was going to kill the only person he figured meant anything to her. He was going to kill the breed. Then he was going to kill her. Slowly. Painfully. Until she begged him to end her life. Just the way Henry would do it. Tom was going to have some fun.