its wounds and wait out the crucial hours that will determine its fate.
Stroud and Hunsaker returned sometime later, and the smell of cooking rabbit drew Jacob from his private mental sanctuary. Though his wounds had healed over, they were still raw inside. His skin was badly burned from the sun’s constant assault, and his mouth was far too dry to water in vain anticipation of food.
He began to realize that he had less time than he’d estimated. Presuming Leroy didn’t decide to shoot him first, he would have to get out of the ropes before another night had passed.
It wasn’t long before he realized he most likely wouldn’t even make it to sunset. Silas came twice to stand over him and mutter about things that weren’t quite human. Even Stroud came to look him over, and despite Jacob’s efforts, he knew they weren’t deceived.
“He ain’t dyin’,” Silas whined as the sun began its steady descent into the west. “We could be here for days, waitin’ him out.”
“I hate to say it, but I think he’s right,” Stroud said. “Constantine looks bad, but he’s not near dead. We didn’t come after him just to see him walk away.”
Ben and Hunsaker muttered agreement.
Leroy, who had been sulking in the only patch of shade for half a mile, hawked and spat loudly. He didn’t like to admit to anyone that he’d been wrong, let alone that his own captive might have played him for a fool.
He got up, and Jacob heard the sound of a gun sliding from its holster. “We ain’t gonna stick around,” he said. “A belly shot will see to him, and he’ll still suffer enough to wish I’d shot him in the head.”
“But what if he—” Silas began.
“Shut up.” Leroy’s boots stomped in the dirt as he marched across the dozen yards of parched ground to where Jacob lay. Jacob tested the ropes around his wrists. With a final burst of effort he might get his hands free, but his feet would still be bound. Even so, a carefully aimed kick would relieve Leroy of his weapon—if Jacob could find some last reserve of strength.
Leroy stopped inches from Jacob’s body. He lashed out with his foot, kicking Jacob and sending a fresh wave of agony through Jacob’s ribs.
“So long, Constantine,” Leroy said with a twisted grin. “Hope the buzzards don’t start into you before you’re dead.”
He aimed his pistol. Jacob gathered his muscles for a single, straight kick.
The gun went off, but Jacob felt no shock of impact, no pain. Leroy howled, dancing like a man who’d just stepped on a red ants’ nest.
Jacob didn’t give himself time to wonder what had happened. He ripped his hands free of the ropes and threw himself on top of the gun Leroy had dropped. Someone shouted a warning. Stroud came running, and another shot from nowhere took his hat right off his head. He grabbed Leroy and fell flat on his belly.
Clutching Leroy’s pistol, Jacob felt his muscles turn to water. He couldn’t so much as raise the weapon above his head, let alone get to his knees. He rolled onto his back and concentrated on keeping his hand on the gun. Whoever came for him next would get a bullet between the eyes.
“Stay where you are!”
Jacob laughed. He couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to. But after a dazed moment he realized the voice he’d heard didn’t belong to Leroy or any of his men. It was higher-pitched, though it carried strongly enough.
A woman?
Blackness rolled like thunderclouds behind Jacob’s eyes. He fought it, fought the helplessness that was coming. If there was a woman here, she didn’t stand a chance against Leroy’s gang. God knew what they would do to her once they…
The pistol fell from his hands. His senses dimmed. He heard hoofbeats…. One horse, three, six. The gang’s mounts, plus his own. More gunshots, and a cry of surprise and pain. Seconds or minutes or hours passed before he heard a different set of horses—three of them—approaching from the west.
Jacob struggled to keep his eyes open as the riders drew up a few yards away. They dismounted, feet striking the ground more lightly than any man’s would have done.
A silhouetted figure appeared, slighter and shorter than any of the outlaws, smelling faintly of perspiration, soap and chamisa. He could see nothing of her face. She stood over him, rifle in hand and at the ready. She prodded his hip with her booted toe.
“Is he alive?” she asked in the same voice that had rung with command so short a time before.
Another woman knelt beside him, and slender fingers touched his throat. It was the first soft, cool thing he’d felt in days.
“He is alive,” the second woman said, speaking with a slight Chinese accent. “But he may not remain so for long.” The fingers withdrew. “We must take him back with us.”
“No man comes to Avalon,” she said.
“But, Serenity,” a third, younger, voice said, “he’ll never survive out here! We have to bring him in.”
Serenity. Jacob tried to remember what serenity felt like. He tried to imagine what kind of woman would have such a name. It didn’t go with her hard, merciless voice.
“Very well,” she said. “But only if we can tie him to one of the horses. I won’t have him loose for a moment.”
“He may not survive the ride,” the woman with the cool fingers said.
“It’s the only way,” Serenity said. “If he makes one hostile move, we drop him.”
Smart, Jacob thought dreamily. Smart—and tough. Tough enough to beat Leroy at his own game. But were the men dead? He’d heard those six horses running away, sure enough, but he doubted the outlaws would have fled if they hadn’t been caught by surprise. If Leroy and his men were alive, they might come back at any time.
He had to warn these women somehow. He opened his mouth. His lips cracked. His tongue was like a chunk of stiff rawhide, but somehow he managed to move it.
“G…go,” he rasped. “Get a—”
Lightning flashed inside his skull, and the blackness engulfed him.
SHE HATED HIM.
Serenity didn’t have to know a single thing about the man slung over the back of Changying’s horse. One good look at him was enough. It wasn’t just the way he was dressed, not much different from his tormentors, or the fact that he had been so quick and graceful and handled the gun like an expert in spite of the severity of his injuries. She wasn’t deceived the way Frances had been, assuming this was a helpless victim in need of succor.
No. Helpless he might be—for now—but he wasn’t some innocent passerby set on by outlaws. Killers like those other men didn’t bother to torture a captive for no reason, and this man had been shot and beaten and put out in the sun to fry like bacon on a griddle.
More than likely he was one of them, or someone just like them. His face told the tale. It was young enough. It might even be handsome under the grime and sunburn.
But
