"No! Don't trust him, Gabriel!"
From inside, Brandon could hear Doc's muffled voice shushing Arnie. But the distraction had been enough to break the spell of false security that Carver had been under. He took a step back, his face hard and set.
"No, Arnie's right. You wouldn't trust me, would you, Gabriel? You'd follow, and you'd find me. I'd never be able to sleep again, would I?"
Brandon sighed, tamping down his frustration. "Let's end all speculation, then, Carver, about your sleeping habits. You can wonder, or we can end it here. One of us will sleep forever, and the other one—" he shrugged, "—the other one of us will be able to go to bed tonight with a clear mind."
"Nothing ever goes right for me," Carver muttered. "First Arnie, then you. I'm half a mind to blow this kid's head off just to please myself for once."
Brandon flexed his hand slowly. It hurt, but he could use it. If he drew now, would Carver kill Sam first? Or would he try to save himself? He couldn't shield himself behind Sam and get a decent, fast shot off in Brandon's direction. Carver's head was close to Sam's – it was a shot Brandon didn't want to risk, yet there might be no choice.
"What good would that do?" Brandon asked. "He's nothing to you." He stood, relaxed but ready, his hand hovering close to the walnut stock of the .45 at his hip. "I'm the one you want, Carver. Let's do it."
Chapter 23
Allie's breath caught, and she leaned against an elm tree near the edge of the woods. She'd promised Bran she would wait at their cabin, but how could she? Now that he'd walked back into her life again, she realized how raw the hole in her heart had been…how she'd missed him. She couldn't bear to lose him again, certainly not permanently.
From where she stood, she could see just what Brandon was seeing – Tom Carver, with his gun at Sam's temple, his elbow crooked around the boy's neck tightly.
She'd changed into jeans and a cotton work shirt, pulling on her boots as soon as Jay and Brandon had disappeared. When Jay returned, she grabbed the new repeater she'd taken from Zach Anderson's store two days earlier, and set off at a trot toward the line shack.
She'd put Ben in charge of the younger boys and threatened them within an inch of their lives if they followed her, including Jay and Jimmy Smith.
Now, she stood helpless to do one thing.
Brandon looked almost negligent in his stance, but Allie was not deceived. It was the slow flex of his hand, which would have gone undetected by anyone who didn't know him, that worried her. He was testing his smashed fingers and bruised muscles before he drew.
"I'm no fool," Carver called.
A cold smile crossed Brandon's face. "No. You're a chickenshit."
Carver's thin lips drew back tightly, showing his teeth. "I'll kill you for that, Breed."
"Quit talking, then. Let that boy go and come for me, Carver."
With a sudden movement, Carver snarled in rage, flinging Sam away from him as he squeezed the trigger and leveled his gun in one motion.
But Brandon had his .45 in his hand, the barrel smoking as he dropped, rolled, and fired in rapid succession.
For a moment, there was no movement inside the little shack or out. In that short space of time, the only sounds that filled the still summer day were the lazy drone of honeybees seeking the sweet fields of clover, the call of the mourning doves, one to the next, and the hot breath of a slow breeze.
Then, with a short stuttering step, Tom Carver went to his knees, the life already gone from his startled eyes. He pitched forward, flat on his face across the narrow porch. The last breath he'd drawn rushed out of his body, along with a groan, and then he lay still.
Allie closed her eyes, stifling a gasp, and then realized there was no need to keep silent any longer.
Brandon. Had Tom Carver hit him? She started to run. She only had eyes for Brandon, as he got to his feet, slow to rise. He turned at the sound of her footsteps. He holstered his gun with a curse, tinged more with concern than anger, and caught her to him.
His mouth came across hers as he wrapped his arms around her, his left hand splaying through her long hair, clutching the silken mass as she opened her mouth under his.
Alive. Her thoughts sang the word again and again, in rhythm with her pounding heart. His thumbs moved over her cheeks, and she realized she was crying; that he was wiping her tears away as his lips moved across hers in a slow, sweet kiss. Reassurance with no words needed. He was not hurt. He loved her. It was over.
He lifted his head giving her a half-smile. "Okay?"
She nodded, then sniffed. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay."
"Stop crying, Allie," he whispered. "I'm okay too."