Melissa Cutler - Cowboy Justice

She dropped the camera to swing around her neck and took up the revolver again. The sweat on her palms interfered with her grip. She held it tight against her thigh as she dug for more rounds.

The turn of events had her reeling. Why was she loading rounds instead of watching the criminals’ truck haul ass off her property in a cloud of smoke, like the other trespassers she’d caught had done? Who the hell were these guys?

She had no idea, but whoever they were, they weren’t scared of her. Shooing them away with two wide shots hadn’t worked. Grazing one in the leg might, but she’d have to inch closer to stand a chance of making a hit. The revolver wasn’t designed for distance shots, nor did she have much practice with target shooting. Anyhow, inching closer would leave Lincoln vulnerable and alone. He might get scared and hurt himself trying to flee, even if she tied him up.

So she stayed put as the men lined up along the edge of the mesa, scanning the valley below. Bits of red earth crumbled at their feet, rolling down the steep slope like a mini-avalanche.

Rachel held her breath.

With a whoop , the lanky man with the short, dark hair fired in her general direction.

The sound rattled her to the bone. Lincoln tried to spin around. He wanted to run away. That made two of them. But if they turned and made a break for it, she’d give the shooters a clear shot once they’d climbed out of the canyon. Shrouded by shade and the smoke tree, her best bet was to stay still and convince Lincoln to do the same.

She tucked the revolver under her arm and offered him another Fig Newton. He refused to be pacified. She tossed the treat on the ground, grabbed her camera, and took a quick series of photographs of the men. She watched through the lens as one of them shouted something she couldn’t hear over the ringing in her ears. Whatever he said, all four rifles swung toward the canyon she hid in.

She dropped the camera and grabbed the revolver, for all the good that would do. If she fired a round now, they’d know exactly where she was.

All she could think was that this couldn’t be happening. She was on her own property, for shit’s sake. Right now, though, she wondered if she’d make it out of the valley alive.

One of the men let out a whooping cry.

Gunfire rained over her. Shot after shot. Puffs of dirt exploded off the canyon walls. She ducked, holding her torso flush against Lincoln’s mane. Time to take the chance and run. The idea scared her out of her mind, but she had to get Lincoln out of the line of fire. She had to save them both.

She stuffed the revolver in her waistband and gripped the reins with both hands. A bullet whizzed into the smoke tree, cracking a limb and sending splinters flying at Lincoln and Rachel.

Lincoln reared all the way up, his hooves clawing the air. Even over her muffled hearing, she registered his shriek of pain. Another shot sounded, too fast for Rachel to react, and Lincoln fell sideways. She vaulted from the saddle and face-planted in the sand.

The gunfire stopped.

A searing pain spread from her upper arm into her shoulder, but she didn’t have time to wonder about it. She scrambled to her knees, spitting sand, and scanned the mesa for the shooters. They’d left the edge and were standing at their truck, leaning against the side of the bed, cool as could be. Two of them were laughing. Another was reloading his rifle’s clip. The lanky, dark-haired man took a match to the glass pipe hanging from his lips. He took a couple puffs and passed it on.

Assured that she wasn’t in immediate danger, she dropped to her knees. Lincoln lay on his side, his front legs pawing the ground. His breath came in shallow gasps. A bullet had pierced his chest. His hair was stained a slick, shiny red.

“No, no, no,” she breathed, smoothing her hands over his neck and cheek. Her mind whirred so loud it felt like a silent scream on the inside of her skull. “Oh, Lincoln, what have they done to you?”

His saucer eyes watched her check his limbs for other injuries. His left hind leg jutted from under his body at an odd angle. Broken. The moment was too unreal to process. Her horse, her best friend, lay before her, dying.

A dry, angry sob broke free from her throat.

She’d put animals down before—it came with the job—but never her own steed. Never a friend. But she couldn’t let him suffer, and no matter how the next few minutes unfolded, Lincoln had no hope for survival. Not here, tucked into a deep canyon, miles away from anything, bleeding from the chest, and with a broken leg.

She pressed her forehead to Lincoln’s cheek and cried. Wails of longing and pain. Sounds so tortured, they shocked even her. Then Lincoln made a noise that reminded her that whatever misery she felt, his pain was worse by far.

Sniffing, she rose to her knees. Her spine was weak, barely able to hold her body upright. A glance at the mesa told her the men hadn’t left. They were all taking hits of the pipe now. Even so, they kept their rifles close at hand, either slung across their shoulders or tucked under their arms.

Her focus returned to Lincoln. At the sight of his prone body and pained expression, her face crumpled into another silent sob as she prepared to do the unthinkable. The men on the mesa would hear her shot. Odds were they’d open fire at her again, but it was a risk she’d willingly assume. Lincoln had suffered too much already.

With her hands shaking so hard the cylinder rattled against the gun frame, she brought the revolver to Lincoln’s ear. Bile rose in her throat. She pushed her tongue to the back of her mouth like a cork and locked her jaw closed. Then she pulled the trigger and let the recoil push her. The gun fell away as she heaved the contents of her stomach into the sand.

Another explosion of gunfire sounded from the mesa, but the only sound in Rachel’s head was a howl of unconditional rage. It burned in her chest worse than the ulcer, worse than grief. How dare some group of young punks trespass on her property, defile her land, and shoot her horse? How dare they laugh and smoke dope like they weren’t the cause of one of the worst moments of Rachel’s life? Standing on a mesa in plain view like they were above retribution. They didn’t care that somewhere in the valley, someone with a gun was seeing red. Maybe they planned to kill her too. Maybe they’d go after her sisters next.

The edges of her vision dimmed as a spike of adrenaline sent her up to her knees.

She pushed against the ground with her hands. A slice of pain rocketed from her left arm, straight to her spine, but she was hard-pressed to care. Whatever the damage, her arm was still functional, which was all that mattered.

With her gaze averted from Lincoln’s face, she reached for her saddlebag. Into her pocket, she stuffed a handful of rounds. Next out of the bag was her cell phone. She got service in this valley, but it was sketchy at best. Nevertheless, she got a dial tone this time, and punched Vaughn’s number from memory, having deleted it from the phone’s address book more than a year ago. He picked up on the second ring.

“Rachel?”

She flinched at the sound of her name on his lips. That was a whole other kind of pain she didn’t have time for now.

“I’m about to kill some men, Vaughn. You better get to Parillas Valley fast, and bring an ambulance.”

Vaughn’s heart had dropped to his knees when he saw the number of the incoming call. Rachel. This marked the first time he’d seen her number on his phone in sixteen months and twelve days. They’d crashed into each other’s worlds since then, but it was never planned, and never involved much talking.

He answered with his eyes closed, his mind racing to come up with a possible reason for her call, but he couldn’t think of a single one.