Johanna Lindsey - Savage Thunder

If Ramsay heard them, he must have assumed they were some of Callan's men coming in off the range, for he still didn't pause. He was in the process of drawing back his arm for another slash when Jessie Summers palmed her gun and fired.

The bullet that was aimed to shatter Ramsay's skull flew over his head instead, Summers having hit his wife's arm up into the air at the last second when he saw her intent. But that shot was like a signal, every Rocky Valley man drawing a rifle or revolver upon hearing it. The Callan hands didn't move a muscle, didn't even breathe.

Walter Callan began to realize he might have made a serious mistake. Not that he didn't want the breed dead, but maybe he shouldn't have gone about it so publicly.

Ramsay Pratt stared in horror at the barrage of weaponry aimed mostly in his direction. A whip wasn't worth a damn against so many, even his bull-whip. He carefully lowered his arm until the blood-soaked leather was like a red snake curled about his feet.

"You bastard!" Jessie Summers was shouting, but she was shouting at her husband. "Why'd you stop me? Why?!"

Before he could answer, she had slid from her horse and run forward, pushing men out of her way who still didn't dare move on their own, and none too gently. She was in a towering rage. In all her twenty-five years she had never been killing mad like this. Not her father, her mother, or her husband, all of whom she had been at odds with at one time or another, had ever made her lose control like this. If Chase hadn't stopped her, she would have emptied her gun into Callan's men, and saved the last bullet for him.

But when she reached Thunder and saw close up the actual damage that whip had done, the fury drained right out of her. She doubled over with a keening moan that ended abruptly as she emptied her stomach in the blood-splattered yard.

Chase was there before she finished, putting his arms around her. But he was staring at Thunder and feeling kind of queasy himself. He had come to think of the man as a friend, though Colt was closer to Jessie. She loved him like a brother. They had shared a special relationship for more than half their lives.

Colt had always been there for her when she needed a friend, and Jessie was going to blame herself for not getting here in time. And Chase had a strong feeling they were too late. If the shock didn't kill Colt, the loss of blood would.

"Nooo!" Jessie was crying now as she raised up and looked at Thunder again. "Oh, God, oh, God! Do something, Chase!"

"I've already sent a man for the doctor."

"That'll take too long. Do something now. You have to do something now. Stop the bleeding — oh, God, why isn't he cut loose yet?"

It wasn't really a question. Jessie wasn't aware of what she was saying just then. Almost in a trance, she walked around the post. That was better. He looked all right from the front — except for the pale-ness of his skin, the deathly stillness of him, his shal-low breathing. She was afraid to touch him. She wanted to take him in her arms, but didn't dare. Any touch was going to hurt him. Any movement was going to be excruciating.

"Oh, God, White Thunder, what have they done to you?"

It was said in a tearful whisper. Colt heard her. He knew she was there in front of him, but he didn't open his eyes. If he saw the pain etched on her face, he would lose the slim thread of control he had left.

As it was, he was terrified she was going to touch him, and yet he needed her tenderness, needed it desper-ately.

"Don't… cry…"

"No, no, I won't," she assured him as the tears continued to pour down her cheeks. "But don't try to talk, okay? I'll take care of everything. I'll even kill Callan for you."

Was she trying to make him laugh? He'd made the same offer to her once, only the man he would have killed for her was now the husband she loved with all her heart.

"Don't… kill… anyone."

"Shhh, all right, all right, anything you say, but don't talk anymore." And then, "Dammit, Chase, hurry up with those ropes! We've got to stop the bleeding."

Colt didn't move his arms when they were freed. Chase stood in front of him now. His voice was gentle as he explained, "Jessie, honey, that whip was trailed through the dirt time and again. His back is going to have to be cleaned first if infection isn't to kill him."

There was a heavy silence. Colt would have tensed if he wasn't already holding himself so rigid.

"Do it, Chase," Jessie said quietly.

"Christ, Jessie—"

"You have to," she insisted.

The three knew each other well enough that both men understood she wasn't talking about cleaning wounds or even moving him yet. Colt's body almost sighed with relief. It was about time she had thought of something sensible.

"We'll need a mattress first, and a couple men to hold him so he doesn't fall."

Jessie was in her element, issuing orders, but when she sent two men into the house for a mattress, Walter Callan recollected whose property they were on and stepped in front of the door to block their way.

"You ain't wastin' one of my mattresses on that dirty. "

He didn't finish. Jessie had whirled around at the sound of his objection, and he now had her full attention, and every bit of the fury she had felt earlier. She mounted the porch steps, and before anyone re-alized her intent, she had hefted the gun from one of the men Callan was blocking. Chase wasn't there to take it away this time. No one else would dare try.

"You ever been shot before, Callan?" she said conversationally as she motioned the two men into the house and casually caressed the barrel of the old Colt.44 Dragoon. "There are parts on the body that can be shot off that won't bleed too seriously, but will sure hurt like hell. A toe, for instance, or a finger… or what makes a man a man. How many bullets do you think it would take to shoot off an inch at a time?

Three, maybe? Not even that many? Would that equal your own savagery, do you think?"

"You're crazy," Walter said in a horrified whisper.

His hand had gone to his gun in a protective ges-ture. Jessie did nothing to stop him, just stared at his hand, hoping he would draw the gun. He saw that hope in her eyes and slowly took his hand away.

"Coward," she hissed, done playing with him. "Pack your gear and be gone by sundown, Callan, you and your men. Ignore my warning and I'll make your life a living hell. There won't be anywhere in the territory you can hide from my vengeance."

He wasn't expecting that. "You got no call—"

"The hell I don't!"

He looked beseechingly to her husband. "Sum-mers, can't you control your wife?"

"I already did you one favor, you son of a bitch," Chase shouted up at him. "I kept her from blowing your head off. Whatever else she has a mind to do is the least of what you deserve, so don't press it. It's lucky for you one of your men who overheard what you were planning is a drinking buddy of my fore-man. And it's damn lucky for you he didn't have to ride all the way to the Rocky Valley, but found us out on the range. But that's where your luck runs out. What you did i.ere is the lowest kind of savagery, fit only for animals."

"I had every right," Walter protested. "He defiled my daughter."

"That cold bitch you got for a daughter encour-aged him," Jessie spat, moving to the side as the mattress was pushed out the door. A wagon had already been confiscated from the barn. "All I got left to say to you is, if he dies, you die, Callan. You better do some powerful praying on your way out of the territory."

"The sheriff will hear about this."

"Oh, I hope you're that stupid, I really do. If I didn't suspect you'd get no more than a slap on the wrist, I'd turn you in myself. Go against me and I'll take the law into my own hands, I swear to God I will. I ought to anyway," Jessie ended with a measure of self-disgust as she turned away.