style="font-size:15px;"> Milo stepped forward and grabbed her, slamming her up against him. She was immediately aware that there was something very odd about the man. He felt … cold, his flesh where it touched her like icy stone. She struggled, trying to wrench her arm away, but she was certain she would wrench it from its socket before she would break the man’s hold on her. She looked up and met his eyes, strange eyes, and pitch-black.
More shots, cries and taunting came from the street. Alex didn’t even fight or scream as Milo dragged her out. Where would be the sense in it? she thought.
There were eight men in all, she saw once she was outside: three who had remained out on the street with the horses and were the source of the most recent ruckus, the two who had Jewell and Tess, and the three, including Milo, who had accosted her.
“Round ‘em up!” chortled one of the men with the horses.
Jewell let out a terrified cry as she was sent flying out the door and into the arms of another man.
Where the hell was the sheriff?
Where were any of the men?
“Get them across the street, into the saloon. We’ve got some more business in town before we leave with our spoils,” Milo said to the others.
They were herded into the saloon, where several of the song-and-dance girls were huddled together by the piano.
The only man in the room was Jigs, the piano player.
Milo let go of Alex at last, so he could go behind the bar and open the cash register. Several of his men joined him, breaking open bottles of alcohol and shouting raucously.
Suddenly they heard the sound of clicking spurs.
Someone was coming at last. Alex let herself breathe an almost silent sigh of relief.
The slatted saloon doors were thrown open, crashing back against the walls loudly enough to arrest the attention even of the men behind the bar.
For a moment he was framed there in silhouette, a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat, wearing a railroad duster and cowboy boots, a rifle carried easily at his side.
He hadn’t come alone. Behind him stood another man, a shade shorter but otherwise a twin of the dark silhouette in appearance.
The first man stepped closer and nudged his hat up, revealing eyes that seemed to glow with a golden light. He looked around the room and sized up the situation.
His gaze lit upon Milo, who still had his hand in the till. He seemed to be amazed that anyone had had the nerve to enter the saloon. Alex saw his hand inching toward the gun holstered at his waist.
The newcomer with the golden eyes fixed his stare on Milo.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I really wouldn’t do that.”
Milo ignored him.
And suddenly, gunfire blazed.
IN SECONDS THE AIR filled with a fog of gunpowder so thick that it obscured the action. Finally the roar of bullets died, replaced by coughing, followed by … a hard thud.
The smoke began to clear, and Alex saw the man with the shaggy blond hair lying on the floor, dead, blood pooling around his head. The others—outlaws and hostages alike—slowly began to emerge from hiding places behind tables, chairs, the bar and the piano. The sight was surreal, the settling gun smoke wrapping everything in an air of otherworldliness.
Milo was still standing.
And so was the newcomer with the eerie golden eyes.
The two men stared at each other.
Neither one had moved, Alex realized. In the hail of bullets, neither one had moved.
And neither one had been touched.
Milo smiled slowly. “Well, well, what do we have here?”
“That’s not really the question, is it?” the newcomer asked quietly. “The real question is, what are you doing here? And the answer is ‘running’—because that’s the only way you’ll leave here alive.”
Milo guffawed, but to Alex’s surprise, there was something missing now. The absolute confidence the man had emitted before was gone. Even so, he stood dead still—apparently not in the least disturbed by the death of his friend—and continued to stare at the newcomer speculatively.
“I can take you down,” Milo assured the man.
“Maybe, maybe not. You just don’t know for certain, do you?”
“I can have my men slit the throats of a half-dozen women before you can move … friend,” Milo countered smoothly.
“Can you?” the newcomer asked.
Alex never actually saw him move. There was simply a blur in the air, and then the golden-eyed man was behind Milo, holding a glittering bowie knife at the outlaw’s throat. “Don’t doubt me, friend. I know just how deep I have to slide this blade. Now, tell your men to release the women and step outside.”
“Get that knife away from my neck first,” Milo said.
“No. When your men are on their way to the door, then I let you go. And then you get the hell out of this town.”
“Even with your handy-dandy sidekick over there,” Milo said, indicating the older man who had entered behind the newcomer, “you’re outnumbered.”
“Doesn’t matter. If you don’t let those women go and get the hell out of here, I’ll show you what two men can do.”
“The girls will die.”
“So will you.”
Milo’s eyes gleamed with a fury that seemed to glow red, but he was clearly aware of the blade at his throat. He growled a command.
His gang began releasing the women and heading for the door. “Not outside!” Milo bellowed. “Not until I’m with you.”
If not for the deadliness of the situation, it might have been amusing to see the way they collided with one another in an effort to stop and turn around. Finally the tall newcomer removed the blade from Milo’s throat and pushed him toward his comrades. “Get out now, and leave this town be,” he said quietly.
At the door, Milo turned back. “No one tells me what to do.”
“No one can stop a man bent on sheer stupidity,” the newcomer returned. “But I’m warning you—stay the hell away from here—or else.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats, friend,” Milo said.
But apparently he’d wanted only to get in the last word, because he turned and left, his gang of outlaws following quickly.
For a moment there was dead silence in the saloon. It was as if everyone were waiting, listening for hoofbeats, the assurance that the outlaws
