Chapter 30
CHAPTER 30
It took a shocked moment for Max to react to what he’d seen. A moment that had him and Ares sweeping around the far turn behind Cally, a moment in which his heart stopped, his ears straining for a rifle shot, Max unable to warn her, then he realized the rest of the field was between her and the rifle, a moment of safety, if she—or Max—was the rifleman’s target.
A burst of rage engulfed him. A steely determination filled his soul. His gaze trained on the rifle, his heart in his throat, he turned his head and followed the barrel to the person who hid behind the thick sagebrush, the person too hidden for Max to make an identification as he and Ares finished the turn.
But there was only one person presently in Mule Stop who would dare— dare —to shoot at his competitors in this race, or hire someone to do it. Hugo.
Damn the man to hell.
Was the rifle meant for the rider out in front? A clear shot, to open up the lead to Hugo?
Or was it more personal? Did Hugo plan to murder in a very public way the young woman who’d made a fool of him with her climb out of his castle’s bedroom window?
Two lengths ahead, she rode low over Apollo’s shoulders, no time now for impish grins, her whole body telegraphing her intent to win. The crowd cheered as she thundered past, crossing again over what was left of the chalk starting line.
Max and Hugo came next, Finn a half of a length behind them, everyone else spread out another two or more lengths behind the young man’s buckskin horse, and Max saw quite clearly how it would be. It would happen after the next turn, along the straight on the far side of the track, nearest the shooter, who would act the moment Cally and Apollo lengthened their lead far enough to ensure Hugo would be out of the?—
Hugo’s horsewhip lashed out, striking Max on the arm, the bite of the leather cutting through the heavy cotton of Max’s plaid sleeve, raising a welt.
Was the man merely getting his own petty revenge for Max’s arrival at the castle two days ago, moments before Cally’s escape? Or had he seen Max spy the shooter?
Slipping his left foot from his stirrup, Max kicked out with the hard heel of his cowboy boot, striking Hugo on the knee.
Beneath the brim of his peaked military hat, Hugo’s mouth contracted in a flinch. Jerking his reins, he forced his gray stallion into Ares, and Max knew he meant to pin Max’s leg between the two animals.
Max kicked out again, harder this time, intent on causing real injury.
His kick landed home with a satisfying crack on Hugo’s ankle, the ankle giving way for a moment. Another kick, this against Hugo’s horse, drove the gray stallion away, toward the rail, and then the turn was upon them.
On Max’s left, Hugo slowed, just the slightest, just enough to lose ground to Max.
Among the sagebrush, the rifle raised again.
Cally finished the turn and started up the far-side straight, Apollo’s stride lengthening, as if he was just starting to get up to speed.
Max’s heart wrenched. A shout to warn her would be lost among the pounding horse hooves. She was too far ahead for him to wave her down.
He had no weapon of his own, weapons prohibited in the race.
He turned his upper body toward Finn, who’d lost another half a length to Max, but was gaining on a still slowing Hugo. Pointing at the distant rifle, then Hugo, in case the Evil Prince had any other nasty tricks up his royal sleeve, Max veered Ares off the racetrack, straight for the sagebrush, at an angle that would swiftly put the two of them between the rifleman and Cally.
Ares fought him, wanting to race with Apollo. His nerves taut as a stretched wire, Max fought back, his heart pounding in his ears, pounding, roaring, until at last, at last , he’d blocked the rifle from Cally.
The rifleman didn’t see him coming until he’d crossed his sights. With a startled oath, the man—Hugo’s henchman Kuthbert, damn him—drew back for a moment, not realizing Max had seen him, and then not realizing Max’s intention of knocking the rifle from his arms, with Ares’s hooves if necessary, Max praying the henchman wouldn’t shoot him instead.
But the man gaped at him, and Max realized Kuthbert had recognized him as Hugo’s ‘cousin,’ the Duke of Balmont, and in that instant, that instant of Kuthbert’s hesitation, Max leaped from his horse.
Max landed with a thud atop Kuthbert, his body driving the man flat onto his back, and knocking out his breath. Grabbing the rifle barrel, Max thrust it upwards, toward the sky, away from Cally, away from Apollo, away from Ares, who’d come to a frothing stop beside them.
Shoving his knee into the man’s stomach, his other knee in the dirt among the sagebrush, Max struck the thwarted assassin in the jaw with a fist like a hammer, once, twice, three times.
Thundering horse hooves crossed the finish line.
A cheer rose from the crowd.
Unable to see who came in first, Max struck a groaning, dazed Kuthbert once more with every ounce of anger inside him, knocking the man out.
Creede and Roy were the first to reach Max, their faces grave, their pistols out.
Max doubted many others had seen what had gone on. The only reaction he remembered as he’d veered off the racetrack had been a simple burst of laughter from the crowd, followed a short time later by a crescendo of shouts and urgings on as the riders came down the final stretch, a loud cheer telling him the winner had crossed the finish line.
A cheer. Not screams and panic, and Max, removing his knee from Kuthbert’s stomach, let out his breath.
Cally was safe.
Surveying the passed-out would-be murderer with an inscrutable expression, Creede held down his gloved hand to Max. “That was some flying leap you made there.”
Max groaned, his whole body—now that the danger was past—feeling jarred. “It looked a lot easier on your TV show,” he said, taking Creede’s hand and accepting the swift boost up.
Roy shackled Kuthbert’s wrists with a new-looking pair of old-fashioned iron manacles, Kuthbert seemingly incognito in cowboy clothes rather than Hugo’s livery. Stubby, who by the grim, angry expression on his weathered face must have seen the man aim a rifle at the riders, strode up on his bowlegs, carrying a bucket of river water, which he dashed into Kuthbert’s face.
Slowly, Kuthbert came to.
Leaving him to the law, Max spun toward the crowd on the other side of the track, his eyes searching for…
There she was, in the center of the jubilant spectators, and he knew a moment of intense relief at the sight of Cally surrounded, not by Hugo and his men, but by well-wishers, and more importantly, Bart and Nick.
His gaze kept traveling as he limped toward the crowd, trailing Ares by the reins, his eyes stopping when they finally found Hugo, who stood atop the winner’s stand—formerly the stage—Hugo yelling at the mayor and gesturing with angry arms.
Max’s legs followed the path of his eyes, moving faster and faster until he was running like a speeding bullet train, fury in every pounding stride, the people between him and Hugo parting as he and Ares neared, then passed them, his mind narrowed to a single need that echoed in every muscle, stop Hugo, stop him now.
“Disqualified?” Hugo was yelling.
“That’s right,” the mayor said as Max reached the edge of the stage, then Max leaped like a lion after its prey and knocked Hugo into the dirt.