The Devil's Own Desperado

by Lynda J. Cox

  A choked sob broke from Amelia. She spun away from Rachel’s compelling gaze. “He shouldn’t have left us,” she managed on a choking breath. Angrily, she dashed welling tears away. “We could have managed to do something to hide his past. His past shouldn’t have mattered. I should have told him that the night he left. I should have told him…I should have told him anything so he wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t even tell him that I love him.”

  “His past mattered to him, Amy.” Rachel’s voice was softer, filled with a gentleness that drew more tears from Amelia’s eyes. “It mattered greatly to him because it could hurt you. It did hurt you.”

  Amelia stared at the low ceiling, rapidly blinking in a fruitless attempt to keep her tears in check. “What if he’s dead? What if he’s been killed? I’ll never know, and I will just keep on waiting for him to come back to me. Those animals didn’t change the fact I love him. What if he can never come back to me? I will wait the rest of my life for him, because I know there will never be any other man for me.”

  Rachel drew Amelia into her arms. That simple gesture of concern and caring broke the dam in Amelia and she sobbed in earnest against Rachel’s shoulder. “Even if he never comes back to me, I know the last thing in this life I will listen for will be the sound of his voice.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Colt Evans learned at an early age never to sit with his back to a door. Any door. He sat at a poker table in the corner of the room, his back protected, and turned a card up in a losing hand of solitaire. He stared at the queen of hearts, shook his head, and glared at the queen of spades, the only black card facing him.

  He had come to the conclusion that any luck he’d had at cards left when he rode away from Amy. Since that day, he could count on one hand the number of times he had won at any card game.

  A commotion near the door drew his attention. Colt glanced to the doorway where a burly figure stood silhouetted by the harsh, mid-afternoon sun. The man walked into the saloon and scanned the room. He had a badge pinned to his shirtfront. Colt dropped his gaze to the cards, secure in the knowledge he wasn’t the object of the tin star’s search.

  “Keep your hands on the table, Evans, and stand up real slow.”

  Colt looked up into the barrel of a Navy Colt, less than a foot from his face. His gaze slid slowly along the barrel, to the badge, and up to the wearer’s face. “George Matthews?” A chill traced up Colt’s spine. “When did you take to wearing a badge? A better question would be what fool town hired you?”

  “Shut up.” Matthews grabbed Colt’s shirt. “Stand up and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Colt allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Where are we going, George?”

  “I’m taking you to the town jail until I can make arrangements to take you back to Red Deer.” He shoved Colt out the door. “Keep your hands well away from your sides, Evans. If I even think you’re dropping your gun hand, I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

  “In the back?” Colt’s boot heels echoed with a dry, hollow thudding on the boardwalk of the curiously empty main street. “Where the hell is everyone?”

  “I warned the locals that I was going to be taking a very dangerous man out of the saloon and it would be better for everyone to stay indoors.”

  “That was thoughtful of you, George,” Colt said. “Convenient too, so there won’t be any witnesses.”

  “Just keep walking, Evans, and keep your gun hand away from your side.” George shoved him again.

  Colt stumbled and forced himself to regain his balance. “Wouldn’t it be easier if I just took off my gun belt? That way you don’t have to worry about me reaching for my gun.”

  The sound of George’s boot heels seemed to fall farther behind him. Colt’s instincts thrummed, and the hair lifted on the back of his neck. Judging by the sound, George had fallen at least five feet behind. Why?

  George barked, “Step out into the street, Evans.”

  An icy calm settled over Colt. He stopped, keeping his gun hand several inches away from his revolver. “Why? So you can shoot me in the back, claiming I tried to escape?”

  “Step out into the street, Evans.”

  Without moving his head, Colt scanned the empty street. Sunlight threw a brief, but telltale glint off the barrel of a gun perched on top of the building across the street. A shadow moved behind the plate-glass window in the mercantile.

  Two other guns. Hell. The odds weren’t getting any better.

  A third man rounded the corner of the building, a rifle pointed casually into Colt’s belly. “Do as he says, Evans. Step out into the street.”

  For a second, Colt closed his eyes. A deep regret filled him. I’m sorry, Amy. He could probably take George and the rifle out, but the other two across the street would finish him.

  Well, if they were going to kill him, he was not going to hell’s gates alone. He was taking some company with him. Two out of four, hopefully, before they got him.

  He stepped off the boardwalk. George and the other gun closed ranks. Colt wanted to shout, “Hallelujah!”

  They had just bettered his odds.

  Another step and he’d be in the middle of the street. Colt knew with his next step, the gunfire would start. He didn’t dare lift his gaze to the gun on the roof. If he looked up, the gunman on the roof would know he’d been spotted.

  The first shot rang out and Colt went down onto one knee in the dusty street. The bullet had grazed his thigh, burning more than anything. He whipped his revolver out, and fired two rapid shots, one at the roof, the other into the mercantile. Shooting at a shadow in the mercantile had been an act of desperation, but one Colt knew he had to take. The gunman on the roof dropped to the street and didn’t move. The mercantile window shattered and another bullet grazed Colt’s arm.

  A chill settled over him. They weren’t trying to kill him instantly. Neither shot had been fatal, nor apparently was intended to be. They were going to take him apart with gunfire. But why hadn’t George or the other gun fired?

  He was pinned down in the street, forced to his knees, and shot twice. What the hell were they waiting for? Sunlight glinted on the barrel of the rifle emerging from the storefront’s shattered glass. Colt gritted his teeth, turned to his side, and fired.

  Another gunman fell, sagging out the storefront window.

  Colt faced George and the other gun. A badge glinted in the sunlight on the chest of George’s other gun. The third gunman brought his rifle up. Colt fired, but not soon enough. Another bullet grazed his thigh. Colt spared one second to aim and dropped the rifleman. “You need to hire better guns, George. They’re shooting from point-blank range and so far, I’ve only been grazed. You’re down three hired killers.”

  From behind the protection of a large barrel, George shouted, “And you’ve only got one shot left, Evans. Think you can get me before I get you? I’ve still got all six shots left.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Cole muttered. He shook his head to clear the sweat from his eyes. He didn’t dare lower his revolver. “Step out from behind that barrel and give me a clean shot. I only need one.”

  With a laugh, George fired. The bullet tore into Colt’s shoulder and spun him partially around. He crumbled to the ground with a groan. Small rocks dug into his skin. Pain rolled over him in nauseating waves. He had it figured out now. The hired guns were only meant to wound him so that George could finish him off without being killed himself.

  “I want you to beg me, Evans, like my brother begged you. Beg me, so I can kill you like you killed him.”

  The silence was deafening. He was not going to die like a dog in the street and he sure as hell wasn’t going to beg. He was going to die shooting, at least. Colt forced himself to rise to his knees. George slowly rose from behind the barrel.

  One chance. Colt whipped the revolver up, dropping his left hand to the ground to steady his last shot, ignoring the agony of his injured arm and shoulder. He knew he was fading fast. He squeezed th
e trigger and completely missed George.

  With another groan, Colt collapsed face first to the ground, his gun hand pinned under him. George’s boot heels thudded hollowly on the dry ground. Colt slipped his hand into his shirt, fingers curling around the single-shot Deringer hidden in the waistband of his trousers.

  George stood over Colt. “I should shoot you in the back, Evans. Gun you down like a dog, just like you killed Mitch.”

  Keeping his face in the dirt, Colt growled, “I didn’t shoot him in the street. He drew on me first, in the saloon. I at least had the guts to look him in the eye when I shot him.”

  George shoved the toe of his boot into Colt’s ribs and flipped him over. Colt fired the Deringer and hit the man directly in the heart. George dropped to his knees, struggling to bring his revolver up one last time before he collapsed into the street next to Colt.

  Colt shut his eyes. The heat of the summer sun bathed him and took away some of the numbing chill creeping through him. Bear had been right. Dying wasn’t much of a living. And this time, he had stepped over the line.

  ****

  Amelia paused on the porch, shaded her eyes, and glanced up at the sun. Only noon, and already her dress was clinging to her. The blistering, withering heat was too hot for late September, especially considering the killing frost of a week ago. Saul’s angry voice carried to her.

  “You blasted mule! Pull in a straight line!”

  Amelia sighed. She could only guess how much Saul was struggling with the mule. Drake Adams had warned Saul the beast was stubborn, but Saul had insisted on renting it to plow the garden under for the winter.

  “Whoa!” Saul yelled. A moment later, he shouted again, his voice breaking, “Amy, come here, quick!”

  Amelia ran around the corner of the house. Jenny followed with Michael in her arms.

  A white horse was slowly walking toward the house. The rider slumped lifelessly over the horse’s neck as it trampled the frost-killed herbs. Blood had dried on the gelding’s shoulder in a garish pattern. Baby ran toward the strange horse, barking and growling a challenge.

  “Colt!” Amy rushed to Angel’s side and grabbed his reins. She dragged the horse through the barren garden patch in the straightest path to the door. “Saul, help me get him into the house.”

  Saul’s new height and build made the task easier than the last time they had carried Colt Evans into the house. Amelia’s heart wrenched. He was so pale and barely breathing. Carefully, they lowered him into her bed.

  “I’m going for Dr. Archer.” Saul’s voice broke.

  “Tell him to hurry, Saul.” Amelia set about pulling the blood-caked shirt from Colt. Jenny set Michael down and joined Amelia in the bedroom. Together, they pulled his boots from him.

  Jenny grimaced as she set his left boot down. “It’s full of blood.”

  “Go get me some hot water and washrags. Hurry, Jenny. We’ve got to get this bleeding stopped. And start ripping a sheet into bandages.”

  Jenny ran from the room. Amelia tugged off Colt’s trousers. He had a bullet in his shoulder, one had deeply grazed his upper arm, and two more had scored his thigh. How had he managed to survive?

  Her eyes filled with scalding tears. He couldn’t die…not when he had just come back to her. “Please, God,” she breathed, “don’t take him. Please don’t take him. Not now.”

  Jenny returned with a pot of heated water and several clean towels. Tears streamed down her face. “Amy, he’s gray.”

  “I know, Jenny. Go on and take care of things while I tend to Colt.” Amelia forced a thin smile to her face. “It’s going to be okay.”

  As gently as she could, Amelia washed the dried and caked blood from Colt’s ravaged body. At least this time there was no raging infection. The water in the wash basin rapidly grew bright red.

  “Amy.” His voice was little more than a breath.

  She dropped to her knees at his side, and brushed her hand over his face. “I’m right here, Colt. You’re safe, now.”

  “Had to come back…see you one more time.” He twisted his head on the pillow. Pain scored deep lines into his face and darkened those gray eyes to nearly black. “One more…”

  “Don’t you dare die, Colt Evans!”

  A watery smile lifted his mouth. “…love you always…” His eyes slid slowly shut.

  “Colt!”

  His chest barely rose and fell, and he was icy cold. Frantic, she pulled the blanket over him. Cleaning his wounds suddenly wasn’t as important as keeping him warm.

  “…will always love…”

  She collapsed next to him, her arm draped over his chest, and sobbed silently.

  Dr. Archer pulled Amy to her feet. “Go. I’ll take care of him.”

  Startled, Amelia stared at the doctor. She had never heard him ride up. Archer gently pushed her to the door. “Go on. I’ll take care of him.”

  Blinded by searing tears, Amelia staggered from the room. She fell into Saul’s arms.

  “It’s going to be okay, Amy.” Saul wrapped his arms around her. “He came back. Everything is going to be okay now.”

  She had no idea how long it was before Archer emerged from her bedroom. Amelia ceased her frantic pacing. Jenny slipped her hand into hers and Saul froze near the doorway.

  Exhaustion etched Dr. Archer’s face and shaded his eyes. “Don’t know how that man made it this far.” He sank into a chair at the table. “He was damn lucky again. The bullet in his chest missed vital organs.”

  Afraid to hope, Amelia stared at Archer. “He’s still alive?” Her hands crept to her throat and her body quivered.

  “For the moment. He’s lost quite a lot of blood, and when I tried to dig the bullet in his shoulder out, he lost even more. I had to leave it because I couldn’t get it out. Amy, if he makes it through the night, it will be a miracle. If he does make it, he’s going to walk with a limp for the rest of his life. There was a lot of damage done by one of the bullets he took in his leg.” Archer sighed. “Have you got any coffee?”

  Amelia shook her head. “I haven’t had any in a year. Colt was the only one who drank it.”

  “How about a whiskey?”

  “There’s a bottle in the cabinet. I’ll get it for you.” Her hands shook while she poured out a glass for Archer.

  Unable to stand the waiting, Amelia handed Dr. Archer his whiskey and let herself into her bedroom. Colt was as pale as the white pillow under his head. Silver liberally shot through his black hair and the hard lines to his face had deepened in the last year. He had aged ten years in one.

  What had his life been like, never being able to let down his guard, always wondering when and where the bullets would come at him?

  She sank to her knees next to him. Gently, she smoothed the silvered hair from his brow. “Oh, Colt…”

  Even unconscious, he responded to her touch. Ever so slightly, he turned his head into her caress. Tears burned her eyes. “Don’t leave me again,” she whispered. “Not when you’ve just come back to me.”

  She dropped her head onto the bed next to his and slipped her arm over his chest. “Don’t leave me again.”

  A loud knock on the door of the cabin jolted her to her feet. She left the room, to find Dr. Archer ushering Marshal Taylor into the house.

  Taylor’s face was set in granite, his expression inscrutable. “Where is Colt, Amy?”

  Amelia tilted her head over her shoulder in the direction of her room. “He’s in there.”

  “I have to take him into Federal. I have to arrest him for shooting and killing two law enforcement officials over near Rawlins Springs.”

  “No.” She backed against the bedroom door. “You’ll take him from here over my dead body.”

  “You’re not moving that man anywhere, Harrison,” Archer said at the same time. He moved to stand with her to guard the doorway.

  “Doc, move. I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Harrison, I think my oath to do no harm trumps your oath to uphold the laws of this t
erritory. You’re not moving that man.”

  “If he can’t ride, he can go to Federal in the back of a wagon.” Taylor pushed the doctor out of the way.

  Amelia braced her arms in the doorjamb. “You’re not taking him.”

  “Amy, any other time, I wouldn’t be here. Not after I stopped at the Archers and Becky told me Colt had been all shot to hell. I would figure it could wait. But not this time. Those deputies said they shot him up while he was riding out of town after killing Marshal Matthews.”

  Archer bristled, reminding Amelia of an angry terrier. “They’re lying, Harrison. He wasn’t shot while riding out of town.”

  Marshal Taylor raised his brow. “How the hell can you know that? Were you there?”

  “I didn’t need to be. I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt they’re lying about when and where they shot him.”

  Taylor looked from Amelia to the doctor. “Want to tell me that again?”

  “I said they’re lying. When did you get hard of hearing? Unless they shot at him while they were riding into town at the same time he was riding out, they’re lying. Not a single one of those bullet wounds was caused by a shot from behind.” Archer advanced a step on the marshal. “I just spent the better part of four hours in there, taking lead out of that man and sewing him back together. You are not going to kill him by moving him.”

  “You’re certain he wasn’t shot from behind?” Taylor’s expression lost some of its granite quality.

  “As sure as I’m standing here. He wasn’t shot from behind. If I had to guess, I’d say he was led into an ambush.”

  “Then why would those deputies say he shot and killed some marshal and a deputy?”