Gabriel's Law

by Pierson, Cheryl

  With that repeater in her hands, she was holding all the cards, a fistful of aces.

  Chapter 2

  "You hit him again, Mr. Smith, and I'll blow your head clean off." Allie's voice was low, and she managed to keep it steady. Smith would call her bluff at some point, she knew.

  He turned to look at her fully, gradually lowering his arm. His heavy breathing labored. "Allie, girl – what're you doin'?" He turned on a wide smile, but Allie's rifle didn't waver.

  "Pick up his gun and put it in his holster," she directed calmly. Her insides flipped over.

  No one moved.

  "I said, pick up his gun." Dear God, Arnie, I mean it. I will shoot you. She moistened her lips, trying to keep her hands steady, afraid her too-quick breathing had betrayed her already.

  Smith froze, not taking his eyes off Allie. "Abrams, get Mr. Gabriel's gun and—"

  "No, Arnie," Allie cut him off. "You get it. You pick it up. And you put it in his holster." Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.

  Smith eyed her for a few seconds, testing her. After a moment, he ducked his head and peered up at her from under his hat brim. "Well, now, Allie, I don't think—"

  The shot whistled past his ear, nicking his hat, and knocking it to the ground.

  "I don't give one bloody damn what you think, Mr. Smith. Do as I say or I'll put the next one in your kneecap."

  The grin disappeared. He hesitated another moment, then strode to where the pistol lay and picked it up, breaking it open as if he meant to empty the chambers.

  "Leave it loaded."

  His head swiveled, his hazel eyes glaring with murderous intent. "He could kill us all if he'd a mind to!"

  "If he'd 'a mind to,' Arnie," she said mockingly, "he could've done that in the very beginning. But he had more honor than you did, it seems. You leave it loaded, like I told you." She chocked the next round into the firing chamber. "And put it in his holster. Now."

  The big man crossed the distance to where Brandon knelt in the street, and let the gun drop gently into his holster. He turned back to look at Allie. "Anything else, Miss Taylor?" he snarled.

  "Get him on his horse. Zach, you go into your store and bring me some bandaging and whiskey."

  "You – you got that rifle outta my place too, didn't you, Allie?"

  He tried to sound as if he was just curious, but Allie knew what he was really after. What this whole town thought about constantly. The almighty dollar.

  Idiot. Stupid idiot.

  She swung it to bear on him briefly. "Any objections?" The terror that flashed in his eyes brought a smile to her lips. "I'll be returning it within the week. You can put the supplies on my bill. But not the rifle. It'll be coming back no worse for wear."

  The nervous shopkeeper hurried past her, turning to call out, "How many bottles of whiskey?"

  "Two," she answered, her rifle steady on Arnold Smith as he and two of the others lifted Brandon none too gently toward his saddle.

  Allie could see Smith eyeing the bulging back pocket in Brandon's jeans where his wallet rested.

  "He's got something of mine," Smith said.

  "Are the Claytons gone?" Allie asked, her voice hard as glass. She took a step closer, hitching the rifle up a notch.

  "Well, yeah, but—"

  "Then he doesn't have anything of yours. Not anymore. Your bargain was sealed and met. Now, lead his horse over here."

  Smith's lips thinned.

  He was going to try for the wallet. Allie could see it in his oily features. When he made his move, she made hers. The rifle exploded as he tried to snag the top of the wallet. The bullet tore through Smith's pants imbedding in his right kneecap. He fell to the ground with a shriek.

  Allie trained the repeater on Tom Carver. She nodded at the whip in his hand. "Put that glorious weapon down and lead his horse over here, Tom."

  He hurried to comply, handing her the reins just as Zach Anderson reappeared from the store with her requested supplies in a burlap bag.

  "Tie that around my saddle horn, if you will, Zach," she said matter-of-factly. When it was done, she backed to her horse and mounted lithely. None of the men made a move in the three seconds it took her to swing into the saddle and train the rifle on them again.

  She tightened her grip on Brandon's reins, meaning to back his horse up alongside hers until they got clear enough to turn and ride out. Her palms were damp. Madness. They'd be caught in no time, if these men decided to follow, and she had Jay to think of. But first things first. She had to get Brandon to safety, and her place was far enough out of town that they'd be safe, for the time being. If they made it that far.

  Brandon moved to reach for the reins. She handed them to him, not taking her eyes off the group of men who stood in front of the livery stable.

  "Can you do it?" she asked in a quiet voice.

  "Yeah. I…think so."

  Allie had her doubts by the way he answered. He would damn well try, she knew, but he was in a bad way.

  Her scathing glare touched each of the men. Some of them hung their heads sheepishly, now that Arnold Smith lay at their feet crying. Some of them watched with open curiosity to see what she would do next. Tom Carver and his saddlery business partner, Abe Johnson, regarded her with open hostility.

  She looked them each in the eyes for a second. "Brave men. I wonder how you sleep at night."

  She could see now that their impetus was gone. When she'd brought Arnold Smith down, she'd effectively put an end to his leadership. They'd lay low a few days, maybe long enough for Brandon to heal enough to get away – go somewhere safe to make a full recovery. And then, she'd bet none of them would be sleeping. They'd spend the rest of their lives wondering when Brandon Gabriel would come back and exact his revenge for their scheming treachery.

  Allie turned the horses only after they backed down the street several yards. She held the gun steady all the while, feeling Brandon's precarious balance in the saddle. He rode beside her, holding the reins in an expert easy grip, despite the brutality of the beating he'd just endured. Allie's lips compressed. He was used to rough living. Had grown up with it. So he'd learned to deal with it better than most.

  She didn't risk looking at him; didn't need to. The tension in his leg as he brushed hers was tight, their mounts close together. He was not going to fall – that much, she knew. He sat a saddle as if he and the horse were one, with an inherent fluid grace that could never be taught or learned – it just was.

  Brandon bit back a groan as his mount turned in unison with Allie's and they rode for her place.

  He was managing, she thought, finally daring to glance his way, though this ride must seem interminable. Even though he slumped forward over the horse's neck, he was still in control.

  "Hold on," she said, above the pounding hooves. "We're almost home."

  He nodded his understanding, a brief jerk of his head.

  Slowing just a little, she slid the new rifle into the leather saddle scabbard, close to her own older Winchester. She would need both hands free to be able to grab for his reins if he dropped them. A faint smile curved her lips. Not likely.

  Two more miles, she thought, as they began to ride parallel to the small creek that ran behind her place. She slowed again as he leaned lower to the horse, his right hand going to his ribs as if to hold himself together. The bastards. She'd always known Arnold Smith was a snake, but she hadn't figured on so many of the others throwing in with him.

  The road curved ahead, and as they rounded the bend, the welcome sight of the cabin came into view.

  Jay stood framed in the barn door, a feed bucket in his hand. He set the bucket down and came on the run, taking the reins of both horses as they rode into the yard. He looped them quickly around the hitching post.

  Allie slid to the ground almost before the horse had come to a complete stop, hurrying to Brandon's side. She looked up into his face, appalled at the temporary disfigurement from the savage beating. Her stomach knotted as she took in his injur
ies. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, and blood streamed from his broken nose. His lips were split and puffy, and his cheek was laid open – probably by someone's ring finger. She drew a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves.

  She did her best to hide her dismay but knew she'd done a poor job of it when he tried to smile at her.

  Twin lights of glimmering brown shone at her from the pummeled slits of flesh that had been his eyelids.

  "That bad, huh?"

  She nodded, stretching her hand up to him. "Let me help—"

  He shook his head. "No. I can – make it. I think." He eased off the horse slowly, his legs barely supporting him as he came to the ground. He stood leaning against the big black's side, resting his forehead against the saddle leather for a moment. He gathered himself, taking raspy, shallow breaths.

  Lifting his head, he reluctantly let go of the horse as he made an unsteady turn for the porch, nearly going to his knees.

  Allie slipped his arm around her shoulders before he could protest, and Jay supported him as well as his eight-year-old frame could manage. Two wooden steps stood between them and the porch. Brandon took the first one easily, but his sharp intake of breath let Allie know it had been more than he'd bargained for. He stopped, letting the hurt slide over him as he waited for the next breath. When it came, he nodded, and they negotiated the next step.

  Allie released her own sigh of relief once they reached the broad, level expanse of the wood porch. Just a few more steps.

  "Ma'am?" Brandon's voice was low and husky with the pain, but it was just as she'd remembered it – only deeper and more mature. She would have recognized it anywhere; even after ten years of being away from it. Away from him.

  She brought her gaze to bear on his face as they slowly moved forward, while Jay held the door open.

  "Allie," she corrected softly. "Just Allie. No 'ma'am' to it."

  "Okay, 'Just Allie', I can't – stay here, you know." He leaned closer to her, his arm tightening around her. Worry threaded through his dark eyes. "And now, neither can you."

  Chapter 3

  Allie didn't answer. The truth of his statement was too much to bear right now. She'd had to fight for…everything. For so long. Her shoulders slumped under his weight. I'll think of it later. One thing at a time.

  The front room had never seemed as large as they crossed it, headed for her bedroom. His harsh breathing was the only sound as they made their way into her small bed chamber.

  Two more steps to the bed. He was leaning on her even more, his steps faltering. She concentrated on getting him closer to the bed. At least if he blacked out, he wouldn't hit the floor.

  A look of understanding flashed through his swollen eyes. "I'm gonna make it, Allie. You don't have to worry." He grasped the wooden bedpost in the next instant and eased down slowly to sit on the edge. His legs trembled, and he released his breath on a long, slow sigh.

  "Let's get your boots off." Allie bent to reach for his left ankle and he put a hand on her arm.

  "I can…do it."

  Allie knelt on the floor. "Don't be ridiculous. I think you have a couple of broken ribs."

  He gave her the remnant of a grin. "I think you're…probably right."

  She patted the leather boot. "Let me have it."

  He made no further protest, but Allie could tell it was all he could do to steady himself while she pulled. She turned to Jay who stood, wide-eyed, behind her.

  "Would you go see to the horses, Jay?"

  He nodded, disappearing through the bedroom door.

  "The rifles—" Brandon muttered.

  She stood up quickly and followed Jay into the front room. "Wait a minute, sweetie. I need to get my rifle first."

  They walked out of the house and Jay took her hand suddenly. "Why'd you bring him here?"

  Allie looked down into the boy's bronze face. "He's – a friend."

  "He's a gun hawk."

  She knelt to meet his gaze eye level. "How do you know that?"

  "Jimmy said it. Said his daddy was gonna get rid of him. Send the son of a bitch on his merry way."

  Allie bit her lip, her heart pounding. Jimmy Smith. Arnie's son. They must have planned Brandon's murder from the moment they hired him. She hid the thoughts whirling in her head, instead, seizing on the words Jay had spoken as she tried to collect herself. "Jay, I've asked you not to cuss like that."

  He shrugged defensively. "That's what he said; not me."

  "All right." She sighed heavily. "I wish you'd told me sooner."

  "So you could stop them?"

  Allie's brows slashed together in puzzlement. Jay seemed at odds by this whole chain of events, and she couldn't blame him. She couldn't help but wish he had confided in her earlier, even if there was nothing she could have done. Softly, she said, "I did stop them. Jay, it wasn't right what those men did – beating him like that. Do you think?"

  He didn't answer right away. Finally, he gave her a sullen, "No." He looked at the porch, not raising his eyes to hers until she lifted his chin with her finger.

  "We'll talk more later, but I have to see to him right now. You go take care of the horses, then wash up and come back inside. I might need your help." When he didn't answer she said, "Okay?"

  He nodded. "All right." He turned to jump from the porch, unraveling the horses' reins from the hitch. "I'll get your gun."

  "I'll get it," Allie said, following him off the porch. "It's a hard angle for you to reach, until you grow a few more inches." She ruffled his ebony hair, then took both rifles from the scabbard and started back inside as Jay headed for the barn, leading the horses.

  * * * * *

  Brandon slowly began to unbutton the ragged remains of his shirt. The fingers of his right hand – his gun hand – wouldn't work. That worried him, plenty. The doc wouldn't fix it, even if he could; wouldn't go against the good citizens of Spring Branch no matter what kind of oath he'd taken when he became a doc. No, the town elders here at Spring Branch had proven to wield formidable power.

  The room spun crazily as he started to stand up. He needed to take the gun belt off…hang it up somewhere nearby.

  How am I going to do that? Can't even manage the shirt buttons…how long will a buckle take? Maybe this time next year…

  Standing was a bad idea. Hell, who am I kidding? It was worse than a 'bad idea' – he flat out couldn't do it.

  He'd surprised himself by making it this far after the ride. He'd managed to dismount without falling flat, and he'd made it up the porch steps. Then, he'd gotten to the bed with only a little help. No…more than 'a little' help. Still, he couldn't do something as simple as unbuttoning a shirt. Unbuckling a belt. Standing up.

  His blurred gaze wandered. Blood, smeared on the yellow flowers of the counterpane that covered the bed.

  'Just Allie' wasn't going to appreciate that. He almost smiled when he thought of her, facing down the fine upstanding pillars of the community with her Henry repeater. He especially enjoyed the memory of Arnold Smith's kneecap disappearing in a blast of lead and fire, the smoke drifting away on the hot breath of the May afternoon. And, once here, the feel of Allie slipping beneath his shoulder to help him, her green eyes full of worry.

  Something about that particular expression nagged him. It was familiar. Need to lie down. Ought to turn the bed back, get off this counterpane before I ruin it.

  He slowly reached for the top edge of the covering, fumbling with the pillows. The graying darkness of unconsciousness began to creep into the borders of his sight, encroaching further as he tried to shake it off. He found the edge of the covers, but couldn't make his fingers close around them. The effort brought a harsh groan to his lips. His hand wasn't cooperating.

  It has to be broken. I'm a dead man. The one piece of lead they'd managed to deliver to his left side wasn't enough to kill, and not even well-placed. But destroying the use of that hand…that was a death sentence.

  He couldn't stay here. It was too dangerous for 'Just Allie'. Allie's
raven locks of hair had borne the most tantalizing scent of citrus when she'd come under his shoulder to help him to the house. She was something. The satisfied gleam in her green eyes as she'd pulled the trigger on Arnold Smith rose up in his mind. His lips curved slightly. And then, the blackness took him.

  * * * * *

  Allie re-entered the room a few seconds later. She wasn't surprised to find Brandon passed out across her bed. How had he made it as far as he had? Crossing the room to where he lay, she began to assess the damage she could see. The vicious battering of his face had been done by a band of cowards. They'd held him, open and bound, to their onslaught. Blood at his left side. She bent over him in alarm, taking note of the fact that he had unsuccessfully tried to unbutton his shirt. The gun belt looked as if he'd started to loosen it, as well.

  Gently, she pulled at what was left of the chambray shirt, taking up the task of unbuttoning it on the third button down where he'd left off. The bullet had tracked all the way through his side, and Allie closed her eyes briefly. What a thing to be thankful for – but she was. At least, she wouldn't have to put Brandon through the torture of removing a piece of lead from his flesh.

  He moved slightly, a soft groan escaping him as he slept. Allie's heart caught, and she bit her lip, her fingers reaching to touch his long, raven-dark hair. Her hand rested on his forehead a moment, and she told herself she was checking for fever.

  Then, her glance fell on his right hand, and what they had done to him. As she took in the brutal, deliberate damage they'd inflicted, hatred surged through her, strong and harsh. She'd forgotten how powerful that feeling could be. She moved her hand to his, but didn't touch it. Her fingers hovered over his mangled flesh and bone, but she was unable to bring herself to hurt him by picking it up to have a closer look.