the sheriff interjected. “James is the girl’s legal guardian. If you have a problem with that, you’ll need to take it up with the circuit judge next time he comes through.”
The saddle creaked as Caine shifted his weight. “I’m thinking maybe I will.”
“I assure you, Ranger, we’ve only had her best interests in mind.”
“Can’t help it if it strikes my suspicious bone funny when the territories’ crookedest judge gives a pretty young girl to a gambler for caretaking.”
“Can’t argue with the results,” the sheriff pointed out.
“I guess that would depend on which angle you were viewing the results from,” Caine countered.
To her surprise, Caine slid the rifle under her hands, pushing it forward until the smooth stock pressed against the heels of her hands and the hammer caught on her gloves. “You want to weigh in on James’s caretaking, Desi?”
She looked up at him only to find him staring down at her, green eyes serious. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. “I can shoot him?”
He nodded. “Anywhere you want.”
He had to be joking. She fumbled through the gloves to get her finger around the trigger. However, if there was a chance he was serious, she wasn’t missing out. Hate welled up, spreading outward in a cold, dark wave. Could she do it? Did she have it in her to kill him and to hell with the consequences?
She tilted the gun. It wobbled. Caine steadied it for her as she lifted it and sighted down the barrel at James’s face, savoring the terror in his expression, remembering how it felt that night he’d begun “working wonders” with her. Remembering how helpless she’d felt. So damn sick and afraid. So betrayed.
The sight at the end of the muzzle dropped over his torso. She followed the line of buttons on his vest until she came to the waistband of his fancy black broadcloth pants. From there it was only a matter of two more inches before she reached her destination. There. Right there was where she wanted the first shot to go.
James swore and backed up, stumbling over his own feet. With Caine’s help, she kept the rifle trained as he landed on his butt in the mud. The sheriff grabbed for his revolver, but before he got it clear of his holster, she squeezed the trigger, keeping her eyes on the target, wanting to see the bullet hit. Wanting the satisfaction.
At the last second, the gun tilted down and there was an explosion of mud that sprayed between James’s feet. While she stared, not understanding, Caine removed the gun from her hands.
“Guess that answers my question.”
But it didn’t answer hers. She wanted the gun back in her hands. She wanted one second more. She wanted James dead. She stared at the gloves overwhelming her hands and felt Caine all around her. Another man using her to get what he wanted. “Why did you stop me?”
The quaver in her voice was barely perceptible but Caine heard it. Desi had a belly full of anger and no outlet. He tipped her face up. The pain and rage in her eyes ate at his gut. “I figure you’ve got enough scars, you don’t need the kind killing a man can bring.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
He released her chin and moved the rifle out of her reach, aiming it at the men rushing up from the edge of town. “I would.”
He squeezed with his right knee and Chaser turned into the oncoming crowd. “You best be telling those men to holster their guns, Sheriff, or this town’s going to be short some of its important citizens.”
“You can’t just come in here and start shooting people, Allen.”
“Unless you’re going to stop me,” he told the older man, “I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want.”
And what he wanted right now was justice.
“He’s got a point,” Tracker drawled, a revolver in each hand, his horse tossing its head as the tension built. “We just start shooting up towns whenever we get the urge, eventually someone’s going to slap up a wanted poster with our pictures on it.”
“Not that I particularly mind,” Sam added, his new revolver in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “Hell, we’ve skirted the wrong side of legal all our lives, but you know damn well they aren’t going to do our handsome faces justice on those damn posters and that would pain me.”
“What would you suggest?”
“We should just take the girl and leave.”
Caine pretended to consider the suggestion as the sheriff—as crooked a son of a bitch as Caine had ever seen—settled his weight into his boots with misplaced confidence. “There are ten of us here and only three of you, son. I think you’d better settle down.”
Caine had no intention of settling down. A short, stocky figure in brown robes pushed through the crowd. Caine bumped Desi’s butt with his thigh to get her attention. “Desi, I want you to slide on down now and go stand with Father Gerard.”
He didn’t want her anywhere near him if shooting commenced. He held her wrists as her feet touched the ground, stretching her back, forcing her to look at him. At the base of her throat, where the coat parted, he could see her pulse pounding. She was afraid but game. A woman a man could depend on.
“No running. Not this time.” He held her gaze, trusting Tracker and Sam to guard his back. She finally nodded. “Give me your word.” A flare of surprise crossed her face, and then that chin set and she gave a short nod.
“Good.” He let her go. She limped over to Father Gerard, her steps awkward due to the way he’d tied the moccasins and the cuts on her feet. As soon as she reached the priest, he put his arms around her. She held up her hands. The older man went to work on the knots. Across the small distance her triumph was palpable. Caine nodded, ceding her the small victory. Then he turned back to the gambler. “I’m revoking your guardianship.”
“You can’t do that.” A portly man who shouldn’t have anything to do with the discussion broke in. Immediately, another man shushed him. Both were better dressed than farmers. All confident. None of them should have cared one way or another what happened to one small woman with no family or influence.
I’ll die there.
Desi’s words took on deeper meaning. An ugly suspicion took root as he pulled the puzzle pieces together. Mavis’s unreasonable dislike. The sheriff’s interest. The judge giving her over to the gambler. Father Gerard’s veiled innuendos about circumstances and his request for Caine to watch out for her personally. Son of a bitch. He didn’t like the conclusion he was reaching. He waved the rifle barrel at the fat man. “Who are you?”
The man paled but didn’t back up, obviously under some illusion that Caine would suffer a pang of conscience at plugging him. “Bryan Sanders. Representative of Steel, Jones and Steel.”
“And who are they?” From the cut of the man’s clothes, “they” were well-heeled.
“A group of gentlemen with financial interests in the region.”
“Bankers.” Sam spat. Sam liked bankers about
