Ann Voss Peterson - Seized By The Sheik

“Is he?”

“No.”

He let out a breath with a whoosh. “Why are you here?” The man’s voice cracked.

Efraim smiled. It was one thing to gun a man down from a distance. Looking through a rifle scope made everything seem unreal, like watching a violent movie or playing a video game. Americans loved their violence as long as it was at a distance. Pretend. Or in someone else’s country.

Efraim knew how to deal with it close up.

He had to be calm, to clear his mind. He’d struck too fast with the knife. Played it too recklessly. He’d assumed he was faster than his enemy. As fast as he had been years ago when he’d fought for Nadar. He’d been wrong. But he didn’t need to be faster. He was smarter. This time he needed to think. And when he got an opening, he needed to make it count.

The guy had him pinned to the ground, but his weight rested too much on Efraim’s back. In that unstable position, Efraim could throw him off balance and flip him. He’d already proven himself more fond of throwing threats around than bullets. He’d give Efraim another chance. Cracked rib or not, Efraim could take him. He tensed, ready to make his move.

“Efraim?”

Callie.

Bloody hell. She must be near. She must have heard voices. And knowing what he did of her, she was probably on her way to help.

Efraim could feel the man tense at the sound of her voice. He still had his rifle, probably two, because he’d taken Callie’s, as well. Maybe that was what he was waiting for…for all three of them to be together. Maybe he was following, being as quiet as he could, biding his time so he could take them all out at the same time.

“Efraim? Is that you?”

She was closer. Riding straight into his trap. Straight toward a man with a gun.

Efraim couldn’t let Callie be his target. “Callie? Run.” He bucked backward, trying to unseat the man.

The man was too quick. He shifted his weight off Efraim and brought his fist hard into Efraim’s side.

Into his cracked rib.

Pain ripped through his body. A gasp tore from his lips. For a second, he couldn’t move.

Gritting his teeth, he forced his body to function. He sprang upward and back, but the man was off him and he connected with nothing but air.

A shadow moved to the left.

He spun to the side with a kick. This time he hit flesh.

The man grunted but kept moving. Running. Not toward Efraim or the sound of Callie’s voice but away. Footsteps ground on dry earth and faded into the night.

Efraim tried to run, to give chase, but after a few steps, he knew it was no good. He slumped forward, bracing his hands on his knees. Pain tore through his side, making each breath agony. Cracked rib for certain. Maybe two. He forced himself to straighten, took a few steps in the direction the shooter went, then doubled over again.

“Efraim? Are you okay?”

He turned toward her voice. All he could make out was the silhouette of a horse carrying two riders. She was near him, only a few feet away. But he couldn’t see her face.

“Efraim?”

“I’m fine,” he lied.

“I heard voices. Fighting. What happened?” Her voice trembled, frightened for him, not sparing a thought about what she was rushing into.

At once he felt grateful for her concern and angry that she’d exposed herself to such danger. “You should have run for the ranch. You shouldn’t have risked coming back for me.”

“And let you die?”

“I wasn’t going to die.” He was close enough to see her face now, her golden hair. But he couldn’t read her eyes. But there was something, the sheen of tears on her cheeks… “Callie? You’re crying. What happened?”

Her breath hitched. “I’m so sorry, I—I think Fahad is dead.”

Efraim didn’t want to believe Callie’s words, but some how he knew they were true. He stumbled forward, reaching the horse’s side.

“His pulse, I checked. The first time, it felt weak. But this last time…I couldn’t find it at all.”

Fahad was slumped to the side, Callie gripping the fork of the saddle, stretching her arm like a gate to keep him from falling off. Efraim had to wonder how long she’d been riding like that.

“Do you want to check? I mean, to make sure?”

He glanced around. Sagebrush dotted the ground around them, darker hulks in a dark world. The gunman could be anywhere. Twenty feet away, and they might not be able to see him. “We need to get out of here. Can you hold Fahad upright a little longer?”

“I think so.”

He had a feeling she would, no matter how numb her arm became, no matter how slick the saddle leather felt under her fingers. He had to hurry.

Again he scanned the darkness. The fight had thrown off his sense of direction. With the clouds low and no sign of the sun’s glow behind the mountains, he couldn’t get his bearings. “Which way?”

“To your right.”

He turned the way she’d suggested.

“See the big sage and Russian olive? That’s the creek that runs through my family’s ranch. We can follow it right to the Seven M.”

He took the palomino mare’s reins and started leading her toward the larger shadows. He pulled in short breaths, pain shooting through his side. He struggled to listen, to hear the rustle of human boots moving through the sparse vegetation. But the only sounds that reached him were the four-beat rhythm of the horse’s walk and the faint creak of the broken-in saddle. After a while, he added the gurgle of the creek to his list. In the distance, a dog barked.

“You hear that?” Callie asked. “The dog. That’s my dad’s border collie.”

So they were getting close. Not that it mattered for Fahad. But at least Callie would be safe.

Fahad. Dead.

He still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept it. “Try to find his pulse again.”

Callie shifted in the saddle and the horse stopped. She brought her hand to Fahad’s neck. Seconds passed. She met Efraim’s gaze and shook her head. “You check.”

He reached up. Callie took his hand and guided it to Fahad’s throat. As soon as Efraim touched his skin, he knew. It felt cool, much cooler than it should. He didn’t have to search for a pulse, but he did anyway.

A weight bore down on his chest. His throat thickened as if filled with sand. He’d thought the pain of a broken rib was bad. This was much worse. He tried to swallow, to take a breath, but he couldn’t.

Fahad had told him leaving the ranch was dangerous. He hadn’t listened. He hadn’t cared about the danger to himself. It had never occurred to him the danger would be to Fahad. And now to Callie McGuire, as well.

Efraim wasn’t a devout Muslim, but he wished he were more devout now. Maybe then he’d know what prayers to offer for his cousin’s soul. Maybe then he could breathe. Maybe then he’d know how to feel.

He looked up at Callie, bravely holding on, cradling Fahad’s body, even though she had known for quite some time that he was dead. She’d done it for him, Efraim knew. To give them time to get closer to the ranch and away from the gunman. But even more, to give him time to accept that his cousin was, indeed, gone. “Release your grip.”

Even in the dark, he could sense her searching his eyes. “Are you sure?” she asked.

He nodded. “You’ve done enough. I will take him.”

She let go. Fahad slumped to the side and into Efraim’s arms. He held his cousin’s body while Callie slid to the ground, shaking the blood back into her arm. He was heavy, but Efraim could only half feel the weight. The knowledge that he wouldn’t have died if not for Efraim’s actions weighed far heavier.

His legs faltered.

Suddenly Callie was beside him, her hand on his arm, her voice in his ear. “Put him down.”