Mal had been so certain that Angus would park himself in a place where he could watch all the comings and goings. But what if he hadn’t? What if he truly was waiting for morning to make his move and didn’t see the sign?
Mal shifted his position, tightening his grip on the rifle he held. No time to second-guess himself now. God had led him to this point. He just had to have faith. To stay strong and trust that if the Lord wanted him to change plans, he’d find a way to let Mal know.
Five minutes passed. Then another five. The sun dipped lower in the sky, slanting light beneath Mal’s hat brim, impeding his vision. He raised his left hand to shade his eyes, more concerned with spotting the enemy than in having both hands on the rifle.
As if that movement had been a signal, in the next heartbeat, two horses cantered out of the woods and across the brush-laden prairie. The first was a big chestnut with black socks and mane, the markings etched in Mal’s memory with keen precision after the shootout by the bank. It carried two riders. A large, barrel-chested man and a slender, black-haired angel. The angel rode in front, her body shielding the man who held a revolver to her temple. Mal barely even glanced at the second horse. The small sorrel and its youthful rider didn’t pose much of a threat, though Mal did a quick scan, anyway, to ascertain that the boy did not have his weapon drawn.
Angus reined in his chestnut a good twenty yards from the church. “If this is a trick, Shaw, your woman’s gonna be the one to pay the price. If I don’t see my gold in the next two minutes, you’ll see my bullet blow through her pretty little head.”
Mal tamped down the searing rage that churned in his gut and lifted his rifle with cool precision. He didn’t aim the barrel directly at Angus, not with Emma in the way, but he had it up and ready, his finger steady on the trigger.
“It’s no trick. I found the strongbox in the basement hearth of the old station house. Wedged in the flue about five feet from the floor. Sound familiar?”
The chestnut danced restively to the side, a sure indication his rider was agitated. Mal narrowed his gaze. Good. Time to even the odds a little more.
“Let the woman go, and I’ll tell you where I’ve hidden it.”
Angus tightened his hold on Emma. “Not a chance. I let go of the skirt, and you take a shot at me. I ain’t a fool, Shaw. You tell me where the gold is . . . then I’ll let ’er go.”
Mal slowly shook his head. “Nope. Soon as you know the gold’s location, Emma’s as good as dead.”
“What d’ya propose we do, then, cowboy? Stand here and jaw all evenin’?” he scoffed. “I ain’t exactly the socializin’ type.”
“I propose that we set aside our weapons and handle this trade like gentlemen. You and the boy dismount and send the horses on their way, then you and I lower our weapons and kick them aside. Once that’s done, send the boy over, and I’ll give him further instructions.”
“How do I know you won’t attack him or take him hostage?”
Like you did with Emma? But Mal kept the accusation to himself and simply shrugged. “He can keep his pistol—can train it on me the whole time, if he wants.”
Mal knew he had to appear to give Angus the upper hand or the man would never agree to the terms. Besides, he could afford to be a little generous, seeing as how he had strategically placed a few extra weapons of his own.
Angus mulled it over, shifting in his saddle. He clearly wanted to agree. The restless energy flowing from him into his mount was a sure indication of his being torn. The moment Mal had accurately described the gold’s hiding place, Angus had been salivating over how to reclaim it. Hopefully his greed would win out over caution.
After a long, heart-stopping minute, it did.
“Ned! Get off your horse, boy, and do as he said. Aim your gun at his chest. Don’t give him an inch.”
The boy obeyed. Dismounted. Gave his sorrel a slap on the rump to send it trotting off into the field between the church and station house. Then he drew his pistol and aimed it straight at Mal’s torso. The kid had a steady hand—steadier than Mal had expected, making him a little uneasy. Perhaps the boy wasn’t as unwilling a participant as Flora had led him to believe.
Angus had to holster his revolver in order to maintain his grip on Emma while dismounting. Mal breathed easier the instant the gun disappeared from Emma’s temple. He met her gaze across the churchyard, promising her with his eyes that he would take care of her, keep her safe. Her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened. She was ready. Mal bit back a smile. His angel was a fighter.
“All right, Shaw.” Angus slapped the hindquarters of his own horse, sending the rifle in the saddle boot safely out of reach. “Let’s see that rifle of yours hit the dirt.”
Malachi complied. He slowly lowered the weapon to the ground, then used the toe of his right boot to kick it out of reach.