****
Allie ran down the boardwalk toward the livery. As she rounded the corner, she brought the rifle up to her shoulder.
The injured man stood, glaring his hatred and defiance at Arnold Smith. Barely able to stand, even with the four men holding him, he wasn't giving an inch. Obviously, Smith had dealt him another punch in the time it had taken Allie to load the repeater and get back outside the store. Her throat tightened, emotion almost overcoming her. She pushed it back, letting the anger wash away every other emotion.
"I'll have that thousand dollars back now, if you please, Mr. Gabriel," Smith taunted.
"Screw you, asshole."
Smith gave a snarl of rage, his bloodied fist pulling back again, and the gunman visibly steeled himself for what was coming.
Allie's stomach churned and clenched, as if she'd been the one who'd taken that last blow, as if she waited for the next one, along with the man in the dusty street. Her breath stopped as her nostrils filled with the dry heat of a day ten years past, so much like this one it was as if she'd been flung back in time.
Brandon. My sweet Lord, it's Brandon!
****
Ten years earlier, she'd stood just this way in the middle of the orphanage compound, forced to watch as they'd made him strip off his shirt. The Reverend Tolliver had tied him, arms above his head, to the rough wooden pole that splintered down the center of his bronze skin, his bare back exposed to Tolliver's whip.
The leather seemed to have a wicked life of its own, slithering and coiling in the headmaster's hands. His weathered face twisted, almost pleasurably, as he'd laid Brandon Gabriel's flesh open in the hot summer sun. Ten strokes, he'd been sentenced to, for one piece of bread – a piece of bread he had never helped himself to in the first place. By the seventh lash, Allie could not stand the injustice another second.
She ran forward from the group of tense, sweating children and teachers, throwing her arms around Brandon's taut waist, laying her cheek against the bloody stripes across his back. The next lash scored her own back, destroying the material of her dress. She'd tried to be as brave as Brandon, but couldn't manage to stifle the cry that escaped her.
Today, she stood alone, with nothing but the repeater to help her bring justice and order to the mindless mob in the street. In his swollen eyes, she could see the remnants of the fifteen-year-old boy he'd been ten years ago. He'd even spoken the same words to Arnold Smith that he'd said to The Reverend John Tolliver, who'd tried to make him see the error of his ways by cutting his flesh to bloody ribbons.
What was he doing here? The answer was obvious, but she couldn't quite believe that her Brandon was the hired gunman who’d so recently rid Spring Branch of the Clayton Gang. Ten years. After all the ways she had imagined they would someday meet again, it was unbelievable that this would be the outcome.
Arnold Smith pulled back his fist, his arm quivering with bloodlust and anger, just as Tolliver's had. But before he could deliver the blow, Allie cocked the repeater, notching the first shell into the chamber. The unmistakable sound arrested the attention of every man in the group.
****
Brandon's eyes were nearly swollen shut, and his jaw hurt so badly he could barely form the words. But by the look on Smith's fat face, he'd understood just fine.
Brandon prepared himself for the coming blow. Maybe this'll be the one that ends it. The men who held him suddenly tensed, and he heard one of them mutter that this wasn't what he'd 'signed up' for.
The sounds around him seemed suddenly to blur and fade, and the pressure on his arms released abruptly. No matter how he tried, Brandon couldn't stand on his own. He went to his knees in the street, but refused to go any farther. He breathed in as deeply as he could, the sharp pains in his sides stopping him.
Cracked ribs.
But what did it matter? He was dead, anyway. One thing he knew; he was not going to lie down for it.
I won't crawl.
He waited, unable to lift his hands to defend himself. But the blow never came. Instead, the sound of a woman's voice drifted to him, low and angry, and the cocking of a repeater that reverberated like righteous heavenly thunder. He tried to force his eyes open, to cooperate just a little, but when he did, he was still looking through a stream of blood… Looking at an angel in denim pants and boots, standing at the end of the boardwalk.
With that repeater in her hands, she was holding all the cards, a fistful of aces.
Chapter 2
"You hit him again, Mr. Smith, and I'll blow your head clean off." Allie's voice was low, and she managed to keep it steady. Smith would call her bluff at some point, she knew.
He turned to look at her fully, gradually lowering his arm. His heavy breathing labored. "Allie, girl – what're you doin'?" He turned on a wide smile, but Allie's rifle didn't waver.
"Pick up his gun and put it in his holster," she directed calmly. Her insides flipped over.