Gabriel's Law
Cheryl Pierson
Smashwords Edition
Gabriel's Law
Presented by Western Trail Blazer
Digital ISBN: 9781301124473
Copyright © 2013 Cheryl Pierson
Cover Art Copyright © 2013 Karen Michelle Nutt
Produced by Rebecca J. Vickery
Design Consultation by Laura Shinn
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Gabriel's Law is a work of fiction.
Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.
Gabriel's Law
When Brandon Gabriel is hired by the citizens of Spring Branch to hunt down the notorious Clayton Gang, he doesn't suspect a double-cross. When Allison Taylor rides into town for supplies, she doesn't expect to be sickened by the sight of a man being beaten to death by a mob. When Spring Branch's upstanding citizens gather round to see a murder, nobody expects to hear the click of a gun in the hands of an angel bent on justice. Life is full of surprises.
Brandon and Allie reconnect instantly, though it's been ten years since their last encounter. She's protected him before. As Brandon recovers at Allie's ranch, the memories flood back, and his heart is lost to her. He also knows staying with her will ruin everything. She's made a life for herself and her son. She's respectable. She has plans – plans that don't include him. But could they?
Trouble is never far away, and someone else wants Allison Taylor and her ranch. Danger looms large when a fire is set and a friend is abducted. Allie and Brandon discover they are battling someone they never suspected; someone who will stop at nothing to destroy anyone who stands in his way.
As Brandon faces down the man who threatens to steal everything from him, he realizes he is desperately in love with Allie and this new life they are making for themselves. Has Brandon finally found everything he's ever wanted only to lose it all? Can Brandon and Allie confront the past, face down their demons, and forge their dreams into a future?
Chapter 1
They're killing me.
The thought slammed through Brandon Gabriel's mind with certain realization as Arnold Smith's arm shot out like a piece of iron pipe. The well-placed blow split the skin just under Brandon's left eye.
From somewhere behind him, Brandon heard the slither and crack of a bullwhip. The whip sang through the air, separating his shirt as effectively as if a pair of scissors had been used to cut it. The blow left a raised welt in its fiery wake, oozing blood into the ragged edges of blue chambray.
He bit back the strangled gasp of pain, letting his breath out on a harsh curse instead.
"Get his gun!" the mercantile owner, Zach Anderson, yelled. He stood at the fringe of the crowd, wiping his hands on his blood-stained butcher's apron. "Get that damn half-breed's gun, Arnie!"
The others circled and moved in.
Bastards. Brandon's hand went to his holster, but they'd been quicker. The Colt was already gone. They'd relieved him of it while Arnold Smith and Harry Tavers took turns pounding his face. Even the knowledge that the gun was missing didn't keep his reflexes in check. He still reached for it.
Evidently, they'd decided killing him would solve everything quite handily. They wouldn't need to part with the money they owed him for ridding them of their 'problem' – the Clayton Gang. And now, he wouldn't be around to become a problem for them.
Dead men kept their own counsel. And they didn't need money.
So, they'd waylaid him in the livery stable. Only Brandon managed to drag the fight out into the blazing light of day.
Moments before, when they jumped him, his eyes had not adjusted to the dark interior of the livery. The owner, Hal Dawson, conveniently absent, hadn't taken part in the ambush, but he hadn't stopped it, either. A shot of fire streaked through Brandon's side, a growl of anger and pain escaping him in a rush.
In the beginning, they'd all been friendly enough, even seemed honest. Up to the point, a scant hour earlier, when they'd paid him for a "job well done." Getting rid of the Clayton Gang had not been easy. The Claytons had ridden in four weeks past and proceeded to take over the small community of Spring Branch, Indian Territory. They had appropriated anything – and anyone – they wanted, including the mayor's two daughters, and Arnold Smith's sister.
Smith had approached Brandon with an urgent plea for deliverance from the six thugs, and the promise of a lucrative reward upon satisfactory completion of the job. A thousand dollars had been Brandon's price; Smith's agreement had been smooth and easy at the time – anything, he'd said, to get rid of the vermin in their town.
When Brandon had dispensed with the Claytons – four buried, one locked up, and one not expected to live out the week – he thought Smith still seemed ready to pay the price, with no hint of reticence.
Now, Brandon understood why. They planned to take back their money and bury him alongside the gang members they had so recently given back to the earth. A tidy resolution.
Only, they'd been a bit too eager, creating some warning for him when they came after him. A shushed whisper, an uneasy movement in the loft overhead, a misplaced furtive step on the straw behind him. He'd turned and reached for his gun, but his hand had been knocked aside by Arnold Smith's beefy grip, Smith's shout alerting the others that now was the time they'd been waiting for.
Brandon stood against an entire town full of cowards who devised this from the beginning. But he had their money, and he had plans for it. They were going to have to kill him to take it back. From the looks of things, and the twelve-to-one odds, they intended to do exactly that.
The years of rough living, of growing up wild, fighting for every blessed thing he'd ever gotten, stood him in good stead, now. These men meant to make an end of him, then convince one another their act had been justified.
His fist connected solidly with Arnold Smith's flat nose, smashing it even flatter. Blood flew, and Smith grunted, coming for him again. "Hold him!"
Three of Brandon's assailants had slunk away, nursing broken jaws and missing teeth, but too many of them remained for him to take on alone. The whip whistled again, and his shoulders tensed in expectation. The leather coiled at his waist and ripped across his flesh like a branding iron.
It called up memories he wanted to keep buried forever.
The whip found its mark again, this time across his neck and shoulders. Smith roared in pain as the backlash caught him on the cheek – but Brandon made no sound. His harsh training had been equal in both worlds, Comanche and Anglo. He clenched his teeth and bit back the groan.
As they converged on him, he was almost thankful. At least, they were finished with the whip. Now, it would only be a matter of time. Still, he fought as they tried to grasp his arms. They struggled for several minutes before subduing him, four of them holding his arms pinned behind his back, forcing him to stand.
Arnold Smith's florid features swam into his view, and he realized the red glow around Smith came from looking through a haze of his own blood.
"You
understand, don't you, Gabriel?" Smith's voice was taut. "It's just business."
* * * * *
The sickening sounds of fists pounding flesh and bone drifted on the air as Allie Taylor rounded the corner of Main Street. She slowed Reya to a walk and rode past the church, noticing how deserted the town looked for this time of day.
She hadn't been to town for the past six weeks. The Claytons had made that impossible. But Eli Simmons, her nearest neighbor, stopped by yesterday crowing about the hired gun.
"He sure done what he got paid to do! Got rid of the Claytons! It's safe now, Miss Allie, for decent folk to go tend to their business again, thank the Good Lord!"
So now, here she was to tend to hers, too late in the day to bring the wagon for all the supplies she needed. If she hadn't needed the whiskey and bandages for Big Mack tonight, she'd have just waited until morning. But the large dog had tangled with a wild cat, and while not life-threatening, his wounds required more treatment than a mere cleaning.
Allie drew up the reins and dismounted. An uneasy tickle crawled up her spine. She looked around the street. Deserted. No matter. She'd just get what she'd come for, and get out of town quickly. She hurried up the steps of Anderson's Mercantile. The sounds of fighting became more distinct, the brutal connection of fists and flesh, accompanied now by the unmistakable crack of a whip.
Sounded like it came from Dawson's Livery. Allie paused at the door of the mercantile, then walked quickly on to the end of the boardwalk and turned the corner.
She was unprepared for the sight that greeted her. Several of the men of the town gathered around a dark-haired stranger – and they were methodically beating him to death. His gun lay in the street a few feet away from where he stood unsteadily. He staggered from the punishing blows he'd taken so far, his large frame held upright by four burly men.
What was going on? She took another involuntary step forward.
Arnold Smith seemed to be the instigator, the ramrod of the whole affair. Allie wrinkled her nose in disgust, unsurprised. Arnie was always at the heart of any unrest, and the first to turn tail and run at any inkling of trouble. He must feel safe, with so many of the town's founders joining in against the stranger.
Blood streamed down the man's face, soaking his shirt in places. He should've been face down in the street by now, and Allie could tell the others recognized it as well. He was standing, on the strength of his determination, his stubborn will stiffening his spine and keeping him on his feet.
He had guts. Arnie wasn't going to make him crawl.
Smith leaned close to him and said something that Allie couldn't hear. The stranger spat blood across Smith's polished boots.
Allie's breath caught at the full impact of the scene she had unwittingly come upon. The hired gunman. It had to be. But why were they all turning on him now? He'd done what they'd paid him to do – obviously. Eli Simmons had told her none of the townspeople would dare be seen on the street when the Claytons were in town.
Something about the gun hawk was familiar to her. Something about the defiant way he stood, his pummeled face swollen and bloody. His blue shirt hung in tattered pieces where it had been cut to ribbons by Tom Carver, who still stood with the bullwhip in his hand. Sweat and blood matted the hired gun's raven-dark hair, and his hard-sculpted muscles rippled beneath bronze skin where the ragged shirt was torn away.
She swallowed hard, a knot in her throat. Why didn't I grab the rifle? They meant to kill him – that much was evident. No. She couldn't stand by and let that happen. She quickly took stock of where each of them stood – and who they were. So many of them. Her hands clenched in determination. I have to try.
Allie took a step back, closer to the afternoon shadows of the side of the mercantile. Did she have time to go back to her horse for the rifle? No. She'd have to duck into the mercantile and borrow one of Zach Anderson's. And the one she took would have to be a repeater. Hurriedly backing away, she tried to keep her eyes on the man until she turned the corner. Only then did she rush into the nearby mercantile, behind the counter, where Zach kept his stock of guns for sale. Without hesitation, she closed her fist around the polished mid-section of a brand new Henry. Quickly, she scooped up a box of shells displayed on a shelf. She ripped the lid off, and jammed a handful of the shells into her jeans pocket. Reaching for another fistful, she began to feed the bullets into the side entry, pushing them snugly into the chamber as she ran back to the door.
* * * * *
Smith shook his head. "We didn't aim for it to end like this, but you're just as dangerous as the Clayton Gang. Probably more so, in some ways." Smith swiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. "See, we hired you 'cause you were the best. Can't none of us truly afford it, though. We need our money worse than you do – and we can't be worryin' about you ever comin' back here to collect."
"Get on with it," Brandon muttered.
"Arnie, maybe—" one of the men began.
Brandon didn't need to see the man with the anxious voice. The shopkeeper, Anderson, who'd been so eager to yell instructions about getting his gun earlier.
"Shut up, Zach. You were in on this. We all agreed. We'll keep to the pact."
Brandon's split lips twisted. "Yeah. You boys all got your honor to uphold. Keepin' the pact, an' all."
"You shut up, too, gun hawk. You ain't shit without that gun, are you, Breed?"
Smith drew back and slugged Brandon, and his insides felt as if they were going to deliver themselves at his feet. He couldn't hold back his sharp cry as Smith's knuckles connected solidly with his sore ribs. "I guess…maybe that's why you needed all these…brave men to help you—" he gasped, drawing a raw breath.
The right cross Smith delivered staggered Brandon and the four men who held him, cutting off the rest of his words.
* * * * *
Allie ran down the boardwalk toward the livery. As she rounded the corner, she brought the rifle up to her shoulder.
The injured man stood, glaring his hatred and defiance at Arnold Smith. Barely able to stand, even with the four men holding him, he wasn't giving an inch. Obviously, Smith had dealt him another punch in the time it had taken Allie to load the repeater and get back outside the store. Her throat tightened, emotion almost overcoming her. She pushed it back, letting the anger wash away every other emotion.
"I'll have that thousand dollars back now, if you please, Mr. Gabriel," Smith taunted.
"Screw you, asshole."
Smith gave a snarl of rage, his bloodied fist pulling back again, and the gunman visibly steeled himself for what was coming.
Allie's stomach churned and clenched, as if she'd been the one who'd taken that last blow, as if she waited for the next one, along with the man in the dusty street. Her breath stopped as her nostrils filled with the dry heat of a day ten years past, so much like this one it was as if she'd been flung back in time.
Brandon. My sweet Lord, it's Brandon!
* * * * *
Ten years earlier, she'd stood just this way in the middle of the orphanage compound, forced to watch as they'd made him strip off his shirt. The Reverend Tolliver had tied him, arms above his head, to the rough wooden pole that splintered down the center of his bronze skin, his bare back exposed to Tolliver's whip.
The leather seemed to have a wicked life of its own, slithering and coiling in the headmaster's hands. His weathered face twisted, almost pleasurably, as he'd laid Brandon Gabriel's flesh open in the hot summer sun. Ten strokes, he'd been sentenced to, for one piece of bread – a piece of bread he had never helped himself to in the first place. By the seventh lash, Allie could not stand the injustice another second.
She ran forward from the group of tense, sweating children and teachers, throwing her arms around Brandon's taut waist, laying her cheek against the bloody stripes across his back. The next lash scored her own back, destroying the material of her dress. She'd tried to be as brave as Brandon, but couldn't manage to stifle the cry that escaped her.
Today,
she stood alone, with nothing but the repeater to help her bring justice and order to the mindless mob in the street. In his swollen eyes, she could see the remnants of the fifteen-year-old boy he'd been ten years ago. He'd even spoken the same words to Arnold Smith that he'd said to The Reverend John Tolliver, who'd tried to make him see the error of his ways by cutting his flesh to bloody ribbons.
What was he doing here? The answer was obvious, but she couldn't quite believe that her Brandon was the hired gunman who’d so recently rid Spring Branch of the Clayton Gang. Ten years. After all the ways she had imagined they would someday meet again, it was unbelievable that this would be the outcome.
Arnold Smith pulled back his fist, his arm quivering with bloodlust and anger, just as Tolliver's had. But before he could deliver the blow, Allie cocked the repeater, notching the first shell into the chamber. The unmistakable sound arrested the attention of every man in the group.
* * * * *
Brandon's eyes were nearly swollen shut, and his jaw hurt so badly he could barely form the words. But by the look on Smith's fat face, he'd understood just fine.
Brandon prepared himself for the coming blow. Maybe this'll be the one that ends it. The men who held him suddenly tensed, and he heard one of them mutter that this wasn't what he'd 'signed up' for.
The sounds around him seemed suddenly to blur and fade, and the pressure on his arms released abruptly. No matter how he tried, Brandon couldn't stand on his own. He went to his knees in the street, but refused to go any farther. He breathed in as deeply as he could, the sharp pains in his sides stopping him.
Cracked ribs.
But what did it matter? He was dead, anyway. One thing he knew; he was not going to lie down for it.
I won't crawl.
He waited, unable to lift his hands to defend himself. But the blow never came. Instead, the sound of a woman's voice drifted to him, low and angry, and the cocking of a repeater that reverberated like righteous heavenly thunder. He tried to force his eyes open, to cooperate just a little, but when he did, he was still looking through a stream of blood… Looking at an angel in denim pants and boots, standing at the end of the boardwalk.
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