Cole Kincaid’s brother was here to kill him.
Hunter had known this was a possibility. Though he hadn’t seen Rico in years, deep down, he’d sensed the man following him, waiting around the corner, gunning for him. Yet, he’d let his guard down, had allowed himself to grow complacent, convincing himself he’d outrun his past.
“I’m the one you want,” he repeated, smoothing all emotion out of the words. Spreading his hands out wide, palms facing forward, he offered up himself. “Come and get me.”
“All in good time. First, I’m going to kill your woman.” Rico pulled Annabeth tighter against him. “And you’ll have the pleasure of watching her die.”
The woman he loved was not going to suffer for his mistakes. Not this time.
Not.
This.
Time.
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
A moment of peace whispered across his soul. Hunter knew what he had to do.
Regulating his breathing, he edged another step closer and continued goading Rico. “What happened to your little senorita? She kick you out like your wife did?”
Rico growled.
Hunter set his jaw and edged another inch closer. He wanted to rush the outlaw, to end this standoff in a single move.
But that would endanger Annabeth’s life.
“Hunter, please.” Annabeth’s voice sounded desperate. “Stop taunting him.”
He ignored the plea and focused on Rico, only Rico.
The eyes that met his were cold and mean. Frantic. The man had nothing to lose. Wanted in six states, Rico had always been more reckless than his brother, more unpredictable. It was a trait that made him especially dangerous in a fight.
Hunter took another step forward.
“No, Hunter, don’t.” Annabeth’s voice lowered to a soothing octave, as if understanding the best way to get through to him was through calmness not panic. “Don’t let him turn you into someone you’re not.”
“You’re kidding yourself, little lady.” Rico pressed his lips to Annabeth’s ear. “He’s an outlaw at heart, just like me.”
Rico was partially right. Hunter had an ugly past. A past he had to put to rest once and for all.
“I won’t let him hurt you, Annabeth,” he vowed, eyes locked with Rico’s. He could hear his own breathing scratching in and out of his lungs.
“I’m not going to die on you,” she said in a plain, steady voice. “I know how to fall.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rico demanded as his finger shook over the trigger. “You speaking in some sort of fancy code?”
“Hunter, hear me, I know how to fall,” she repeated.
What was she trying to tell him?
A split second later, he knew what she meant. His thoughts turned very cool and clear, very precise.
“All right, Annabeth.” He adjusted his weight evenly on his feet, gave her one solid nod, and then said, “Fall.”
She instantly dropped to her knees and rolled.
The sudden movement caught Rico by surprise. He lost his balance and stumbled backward. The pistol slipped from his hand, landing at his feet. The impact released a bullet from the chamber. It whizzed past Annabeth, digging into the wall above her head.
Hunter flung himself at Rico even as he was aware, brutally aware, that the man was reaching for the fallen weapon, a look of twisted resolve on his face.
“Run, Annabeth.”
She scrambled to her feet and dashed toward the street. She moved quickly. But not fast enough. Rico had the gun pointed straight at the back of her head.
Hunter vaulted into the line of fire.
His fingers closed over the gun.
Eyes wild with fury, Rico pulled the trigger.
Hunter weaved to his left. The bullet caught the top of his ear, nothing more than a nick. He continued his pursuit, rounding on Rico with unleashed fury.
This time, the outlaw pointed the weapon at his heart.
Hunter grabbed for the gun, caught hold of the barrel and wrestled the outlaw for control.
Rico’s smile turned cold, ice-cold, and he pulled the trigger again. Hunter swerved right.
The bullet hit the ground behind him.
He caught Rico’s wrist, wrenched the gun free.
Another shot. Pain exploded in Hunter’s chest, but he finally had control of the weapon.
He tossed the pistol to the ground, kicked it out of reach. His vision blurred. Then cleared. Then blurred again.
Working through a cold sweat, he closed his hands over Rico’s throat.
The outlaw kicked out, catching one of Hunter’s legs.
They went down together.
Rico rolled out from under Hunter, crawling on his hands and knees. He glanced frantically around him, caught sight of his gun and reached out.
Before the outlaw could close his fingers over the weapon, Hunter hauled him to his feet. “Fight me like a man.”
Rico sputtered. His face was red from exertion and turning redder by the minute.
Anger morphed into a need to draw blood. It would be so easy to wrap his hands around the man’s worthless throat, Hunter thought, to squeeze until he took his last breath.
But that was the old Hunter. The man he was now left vengeance to the Lord, and justice to the system.
Taking Rico by the shoulders, Hunter slammed him against the wall, subduing him with a forearm pressed to his neck.
Slowly, as if coming out of a dream, he became aware of footsteps pounding in the distance, growing closer by the second.
Letting the last shreds of anger slip out of him, Hunter glanced briefly to the street beyond. His vision tinged gray and, for an instant, the world shifted under his feet. A dizzying wave of nausea crashed over him and his mouth went dry.
His grip slipped.
Rico shifted.
But Hunter recovered quick enough to send the outlaw back against the wall.
More footsteps joined the others, several pairs of feet sounded, coming faster, louder, closer.
The world shifted beneath Hunter’s feet again. He swallowed, even as he heard his name being called from behind him.
In the next moment, Trey Scott appeared in his peripheral vision. He pried Hunter’s arm free. “You can let him go. I’ve got it from here.”
One more shove and then Hunter stepped back.
He watched as Trey cuffed Rico. The seasoned lawman used as little sensitivity as possible without actually inflicting injury. It was a fine art honed through years of practice, and far more consideration than the outlaw deserved, considering he’d tried to hurt Annabeth.
Desperate to find her, needing to assure himself she was indeed safe, Hunter waited until Trey dragged Rico off then swung around and searched for her.
He came face-to-face with a gathering crowd. But no Annabeth. He pushed forward, but moved too fast and lost his balance. He stumbled a few steps to the right, then to his left, knocking into a few bystanders.
Since when did a simple shift in position throw him into a full stagger? And why did his head hurt? Why was his vision turning black?
Pulling in a deep breath, he set out again.
This time the crowd parted and Annabeth came into view.
Seeing him, she quickened her pace. “You’re all right. Oh, Hunter, I was so worried. I didn’t want to leave you, but I had to get help. Sheriff Scott sped ahead of me and—”
She cut herself off and gasped.
“You’ve been shot,” she rasped out.
In the next instant, her eyes filled with tears, eyes that were no longer locked on his face but his chest.
Baffled, he followed the direction of her gaze, and noted the blood on his shirt. A large, red stain spread across the white linen from his shoulder to his ribs.
He slowly became aware of the pain that burned a path from his shoulder to his brain.
“Hunter. You’re swaying. Here, hang on to me.” Annabeth
reached to him, caught him by the arm, shifted beneath to support his weight.
He hissed in pain, then pushed the sensation to a back corner of his mind. All that mattered was that Annabeth was safe. She was alive.
“Annabeth, my darling.” He lifted his hand to her face. “I...”
That’s all he got out before he slipped to the ground and then...
Nothing.
* * *
“Hunter!” Annabeth dropped to her knees, uncaring that people were gathering around them, pressing in from all sides, stealing their air. “Can you hear me?” Panic threaded through her words. “Say something.”
His face was draining of color, turning a sickly shade of green. Putting pressure on his chest wound, she desperately tried to staunch the bleeding. She swung her gaze into the crowd. “Somebody get a doctor.”
Nobody moved, except to draw in for a closer look at the man in her arms.
Just then, Mattie appeared at the edge of the crowd. She shoved and pushed and ordered people to step aside. When the command didn’t move them fast enough, she shouted, “Get out of my way!”
At last, she made it through the bulk of the crowd. Leaning over Annabeth, she eyed Hunter, her gaze resting on his bloody shirt. “Don’t let up on the pressure.”
“I know. He’s been shot,” Annabeth said unnecessarily, her voice thick with rising hysteria.
“Yes, darling, I can see that.” Mattie brushed her fingertips across her forehead. “Come, let’s get him inside.”
She motioned Jack forward.
“No.” Annabeth refused to let go of Hunter. “We can’t move him. Not until the doctor arrives.”
“I’ve already sent for Shane.”
Shane, as in Shane Bartlett, the doctor connected to Charity House, the one who also treated Mattie’s soiled doves. Yes, Shane would fix Hunter.
Squeezing back tears, Annabeth dropped a kiss to his lips. “I love you,” she whispered.
His eyes fluttered open. “It’s going to be all right, my love,” he assured her. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Those were supposed to be her words. She was supposed to comfort him. Instead, he—the noble, decent, good-hearted hero—was attempting to soothe her.
For his sake, she forced herself to remain calm. “I love you,” she said again.
“Love you, too.” He unleashed a smile, then his eyes closed again.
“Annabeth, darling, move aside so Jack can get Hunter off the ground.”
She leaned over him one last time. His face had gone paler still, completely gray, and his breathing had turned shallow.
“Don’t you die on me,” she whispered then moved back so Jack and another man could lift Hunter off the ground.
Dr. Shane Bartlett arrived less than five minutes after they got Hunter settled on a large settee in Mattie’s private parlor. When it was deemed the bullet had to be removed at once, Shane tried to banish Annabeth from the room.
She refused to go. “What can I do to help?”
“You can get me clean linens and fresh water.”
With efficient, capable hands Shane got to work. So did Annabeth. While Shane removed the bullet she provided him with an unending supply of linens and water. There seemed to be a lot of blood. Thankfully, Hunter remained unconscious throughout the surgery, which was probably for the best: the pain had to have been excruciating.
Annabeth prayed for his life, lowering to her knees when her legs gave way. Lord, please, guide Shane’s hands.
After nearly an hour, Shane stepped back, and began washing the blood from his hands in a basin of fresh water.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s all I can do. The rest is in God’s hands.”
Annabeth climbed hastily to her feet. “Is he all right? Will he live?”
Shane rolled his tired gaze to meet hers. “He’s young and strong, Miss Annabeth. He should heal just fine, providing he doesn’t get an infection, or fever.”
She heard what he wasn’t saying. “And if he gets either of those?”
“Now, Annabeth, let’s not create problems before they even occur.” Mattie moved to stand beside her. “Isn’t that right, Shane?”
“It’s always wise to remain positive,” he agreed, then went on to explain how best to care for Hunter in the coming days. “Keep a close eye on him. Change the dressing on his wound every four hours. If you see any redness, or it becomes discolored and warm to the touch, send someone to get me at once. The same goes if the bleeding starts up again.”
“I’ll not leave his side,” Annabeth pledged.
“That’s up to you.” Shane began gathering his things and placing them in a large leather bag. “Just make sure he isn’t left alone for any considerable length of time.”
“Annabeth, you cannot stay in this brothel overnight,” Mattie said. “Your reputation—”
“Is already ruined,” Annabeth finished, wondering why such a thing had ever mattered to her. “Hunter’s well-being is more important than what small-minded people say about me.”
“If you remain here through the night, won’t the people at Charity House wonder where you are? And what about Hunter’s little girl?”
Annabeth’s hand flew to her throat. How could she have forgotten about Sarah? She’d all but promised the girl that Hunter would come to Charity House later tonight.
How would Sarah take the news of her father’s injury? For a brief moment, Annabeth considered withholding the information from her. But she discarded the notion in the next breath.
They couldn’t start life as a family keeping secrets from one another, even secrets that hurt.
“Shane, may I ask one last favor of you?”
With a snap, he closed the medical bag. “Of course.”
“Would you be so kind as to stop by Charity House and let them know where I am, and why, then ask if someone would be willing to escort Sarah—”
“I’ll fetch the girl,” Mattie offered.
“You—” Annabeth’s mouth fell open “—you...will?”
“Hunter will want her here when he awakens.”
Annabeth stared into her mother’s eyes, eyes that had gone soft with emotion. “You care about him.”
“If you love the man—” Mattie lifted a shoulder in a careless gesture “—then I love him, too.”
Annabeth hugged her mother with fierce abandon. There were no words of affection exchanged. That wasn’t Mattie’s way. She did allow Annabeth to cling to her for ten full seconds before wiggling free.
“Yes, well.” Turning her back, Mattie swiped at her cheeks once, twice, then lifted her chin. “The sooner I leave the sooner I can return. Come, Shane, we’ll walk out together.”
At the door, Mattie looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll tell Jack to check on you shortly.”
“That’ll be fine.”
Alone with Hunter, Annabeth hurried to his side. She lowered to her knees and took his hand in hers. Pressing her forehead against his knuckles, she lifted up a prayer of gratitude to the Lord. Hunter was alive. Everything else paled in comparison.
She let loose the yearning and the ache and the hope she’d been barely reining in since he’d been shot. She’d come so close to losing him, all because he’d been willing to sacrifice his life for hers.
“Oh, Lord, bring him complete and enduring healing and a speedy recovery.” She placed a kiss on his hand, and then lifted her head.
Hunter was watching her, his eyes full of tenderness. “Don’t look so tragic, Annabeth.” He touched her wet cheeks. “I’m not dead yet.”
She gave him a soggy smile. “You’re awake.”
He attempted a smile in return, but only managed what looked like a wince. Tiny lines of pain rimmed his mouth. “My throat’s on fire.”
“Here, drink this.” She poured him a glass of water and helped him take a sip. And another. After the third he placed his head back on the pillow and shut his eyes.
He was fast asleep before she’d
set the glass back on the table.
As she watched him slumber, perched on a chair beside the settee, she felt a new kind of peace, an assurance that they were not only going to be good for each other, but good to each other.
A half hour later, his eyes opened again. “You realize you have to marry me now that I took a bullet for you.”
She laughed, bolstered by the realization that he was finding humor in the situation already. “When you make a grand gesture you go all out.” She combed her fingers through his hair, then cupped his cheek. “I like it.”
“I can give you words, too.” He turned his head into her palm, pressed a kiss to the tender flesh. “I love you, Annabeth.”
She sighed. Fighting for his life, the man was still charming. “Hunter Mitchell, you don’t play fair.”
“No, I don’t.” His eyes fluttered shut again. “You should remember that.”
He was asleep before she could respond, a convenient trick of his. But at least the smile still played across his lips and his color was returning.
Everything was going to be all right between them. Better than all right, nearly perfect.
About an hour after Mattie left for Charity House, the door flew open with a bang and Sarah rushed into the room. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks. “Where is he?” She looked frantically around the room, her gaze darting around without focus. “Where’s my pa?”
Annabeth rose from her perch beside Hunter and was halfway across the room when he answered the question himself.
“Over here.” He lifted his head slightly.
Sarah sped to his side, but halted several feet back. She clasped her hands behind her back, as if afraid to get too near. “Pa? You don’t look so good.”
He beckoned her to him with a half wave.
Sucking in a huge gulp of air, Sarah glanced to Annabeth for confirmation.
“Go on, darling,” she urged, her hands gently guiding the girl toward the chair she herself had just vacated. “Sit here and talk to your father.”
Eyes wide, her gaze narrowed in on the bandage covering most of his chest and half of his shoulder. “What happened?”
He gave her a sanitized version of the afternoon’s events.
“You mean...” Sarah’s eyes grew wider. “The bad guy shot you while you were trying to save Aunt Annabeth?”
Renee Ryan Page 23
