by Amy Faye
Someone said something. It might have been that he’d been shot. And then someone else pushed themselves up, twisted the pistol out of his holster, and started toward the door. A moment before he made it all the way, the doorway swung open again, the other way this time. Someone filled the doorway.
He had a pistol in one hand, and a scattergun in the other. His eyes fell on me.
“Marion.”
“Baron?”
“We’re leaving,” he said. Someone moved. The pistol turned halfway in his hand and barked out another shot. “Stay where you are, and nobody has to get hurt.”
“What happened to you?”
“I’m taking you home,” he said again. “We can talk on the road.”
I felt something swell in my chest. I looked over at the rest of the room. “But what about—”
“Get up.” I got up automatically. “Over here.”
I moved. I could feel eyes watching me.
“They ain’t hurt me,” I said, my voice low as I came close. His arm wrapped around my shoulder and pulled me in tight.
“We’ll talk on the road,” he said again. “I’m going to get you safe, first. And then we can talk.”
We didn’t talk on the road. I was tired. He was tired. We didn’t talk until later. We didn’t talk until we arrived at a cabin, and he stopped his horse out front. And then we didn’t stop talking until we were both a little too old to do much more than hold each other’s hands.
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