Chapter 2
Jameson Noble closed one eye and sighted down the barrel of his rifle.
Lying on his belly atop a rocky ledge overlooking the Longhorn Ranch, he counted five men on the perimeter.
They were hunkered down and had their guns out, which meant they were up to no good.
At least, that’s what it meant in his book.
Now that he’d exchanged shots with the man closest to him, Jameson was aiming at the second fellow. Course, he wasn’t shooting to cause any great harm, most definitely not to kill. He only planned to scare them so they would leave.
When he’d first ridden up ten minutes or so ago, he’d halted at the sight that met him, and he’d hastily pulled back so that he could assess what was going on.
For a minute, he’d contemplated that he’d stumbled on the wrong place.
But after securing his horse in a safe area and then skirting around and taking stock of the ranch, he knew it was the Longhorn.
It met the description he’d been given in Turnersville by a fellow who used to work there. Plus it was exactly a half day’s ride from town to the west, just a few miles away from the border of the Double T.
He’d heard the Widow Wilkes had been having trouble. He just hadn’t expected to arrive when she was being ambushed.
He readjusted his finger on the trigger and then took the shot.
The pop of the gun echoed in the eerie silence. A few seconds later, the bullet hit the barrel of the second fellow’s rifle, causing him to fumble, then drop the weapon.
Course, the ambushers had turned their guns away from the ranch house and pointed them in his direction. Another volley of gunshots rang out, and bullets rained around him. One came too near his head, ripping into the brim of his cowboy hat.
He flattened himself even further. Maybe he would have to get more serious with these fellows after all. He wasn’t the best sharpshooter in the West, but he was decent and could hold his own in a gunfight. Besides, on the higher ground above the ranch, he had the advantage.
Formulating a mental image of the men and their positions, he rose to his elbows, took aim at the third man, and sent the bullet flying toward the fellow’s arm.
Even as the man cried out, Jameson was already moving on to the next one.
He homed in and pulled the trigger. He shifted again and did the same to the fifth fellow, hitting each of them in the same spot on their arms, where it would hurt but not cause any permanent damage.
Then he flattened himself again, resting his cheek against the cool stone.
Making himself invisible was difficult, though, since he was a burly guy with a rugged, muscular frame, brown hair and brown eyes, and scruffy facial hair. He didn’t blend in well anywhere he went, probably because he was imposing and even slightly scary-looking.
His intimidating presence came in handy at times when he wanted to keep people at arm’s length. But in this case, he hoped his intimidating presence would help Mrs. Wilkes get rid of the rabble who were bothering her.
Apparently, she’d had a hard time keeping hired help ever since her husband had run off and died, because no one wanted to take orders from a woman.
Jameson didn’t give a skunk’s stink about having a woman for a boss.
His own mother had taught her four sons that women were capable and gifted every bit as much as men.
His sister Hazel had grown up to become a mare manager for a ranch near his family’s home in Colorado.
His sister Scarlet had always been a talented cook and talked about opening her own restaurant one day.
Nope, Jameson didn’t have a problem with women taking on work they found fulfilling. If Waverly Thorpe’s illegitimate daughter wanted to run her own ranch, Jameson wouldn’t stand in her way.
What he did have a problem with was rogue cowboys harassing a lone widow. It wasn’t right that a handful of men were preying upon a ranch in any situation, especially when a lady was involved.
Silence filled the air down in the ranch yard.
Jameson guessed the injured men were in pain and trying to stop their wounds from bleeding. The others had probably recognized they were in a bad position, that he was a good shooter, and that they were next.
His hope was that they would run off before he had to hurt anyone else. But he would shoot them too if they didn’t leave soon.
He raised himself slowly and peeked down at the fellows. A shot rang out immediately, and in the next instant, he felt the sting of a bullet.
From what he could tell, it was a surface wound. The bullet had probably just skimmed his shoulder, but he didn’t take the time to analyze his wound. Instead, he fired off another shot and then another, hitting the fourth man and startling the fifth.
Another sting hit his upper arm, but he pushed aside the pain as best he could and fired again, this time taking aim at one of the horses tied up in a grove of anaqua trees.
He wasn’t about to hurt the horses, but the bullet did sever the lead line—or almost so.
When the horse whinnied in fright, it easily broke away from the tree and began galloping away.
One of the injured fellows shouted at the horse. Then, cradling his arm, he stood and raced after the creature, dodging behind boulders and yuccas in his attempt to flee.
Jameson could have shot the man in the back, but he still didn’t want to kill anyone. Instead, he took aim and severed another horse’s lead line.
As his shot boomed, he rolled out of the way just in time to avoid another bullet hitting his other shoulder.
In the process, his injured arm took the weight of his body, and burning pain radiated all the way down to his hand.
For a second, he couldn’t catch his breath, could only stare up at the darkening sky and clench his teeth against the cry that was tearing at his throat.
Maybe he’d been rash in leaving the Double T after all. If he’d stayed on, he would have avoided this whole shoot-out.
If only Beckett hadn’t issued the ultimatum.
Or if only Beckett had stayed in Colorado and hadn’t decided to return to the Double T with his new bride.
Beckett had been living with Jameson’s family for the past seven years since leaving Texas. He’d even become the ranch foreman of the Nobles’ ranch and had seemed happy there.
When Jameson had fought with Father last summer and finally packed up and decided to leave Colorado, Beckett had witnessed him sneaking off. Beckett had given him the name of the Double T and told him he’d find work there.
Course, at the time, Jameson hadn’t known Beckett was half owner of the ranch and that his father was the deceased but well-known Waverly Thorpe. Jameson had learned that once he’d arrived at the Double T earlier in the year, after working his way there.
Jameson had liked the Double T, liked the men, liked the work, liked the area. He’d almost decided to stay on for a while.
But Beckett had confronted him again last night and told him to contact his family and let them know he was at the Double T—claimed his family was worried and that they deserved to know where he was. In fact, Beckett had threatened to write and inform the Noble family himself if Jameson didn’t.
Jameson had walked away from Beckett with his gut churning. It hadn’t stopped churning all night, and this morning, he’d known what he needed to do. Leave. Move on.
When he’d left the Double T at dawn and ridden into Turnersville, he’d stopped at a bathhouse.
Then he’d gone to the barber for a haircut and beard trim.
After eating a hearty morning meal with a couple cups of coffee, he’d started making inquiries about which ranches in the area were hiring drifters like himself.
He’d gotten the names of several, including the Longhorn, which was far enough from the Double T that he could stay for a few weeks to a month while he figured out where to go and what to do next.
He didn’t mind the drifting from ranch to ranch.
It kept him from getting too attached to one place or any one person. And that suited him.
Several more bullets whizzed past him.
He forced himself to roll over, couldn’t let the men think he was incapacitated or weak in any way. Because if they sensed he was injured, they might come after him instead of leaving.
Biting back a groan, he steadied his gun, then pushed up on his uninjured side and sighted down the rifle again. The sweat beading on his head trickled down into his eyes, but he focused on the one man still aiming up at him.
Jameson took a shot at the man’s hat, the force of the bullet knocking it from his head. He pulled the trigger for a second time, the next hit landing square on the man’s rifle barrel, forcing the man’s shot to go straight up into the sky instead of flying toward Jameson.
The pain in Jameson’s arm, though, felt suddenly like someone was taking a cattle prod and digging it into his flesh. Again, he bit back a cry and lowered his head to the ground.
His breathing was choppy, and he closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of blood saturating his shirt near his shoulder. He was losing a lot of blood and was growing weak. That meant the wound was worse than he’d realized.
Would he have the strength to shoot at the men again? Or would he pass out before he could finish the fight?
No, he wouldn’t let himself give up, not now. Not until he knew the men were gone.
He rested without moving for long seconds. A moment later, the whinnying of horses rose into the air. Were the men finally leaving?
He didn’t want to lift his head. Instead, he longed to close his eyes and rest. But he forced himself to glance up and make sure the men weren’t coming his way. They were hurriedly mounting while watching his position, probably afraid he’d shoot at them again. Which he would if they didn’t go.
As they started to ride off toward the west, Jameson loosened his grip on his gun.
He didn’t know who these cowboys were, but if he had to guess, he’d say the men who’d attacked were neighbors trying to take the ranch away from the Widow Wilkes.
As the last of the fellows disappeared into the thick brush beyond the house, Jameson let himself slump back down. The rock beneath him was growing slick with blood, and he felt dizzy.
He had to get some help with his wounds, and he had to do it fast before he passed out from the blood loss.
With a grunt, he crawled backward down the incline toward the few trees near a creek where he’d left Cougar . . . the horse he’d bought the first summer he’d apprenticed with Sue Ellen’s daddy.
He’d almost considered taking a different horse when he’d left home, simply because Cougar came with a mountain of memories Jameson didn’t want following him around. But Cougar was dependable, fast, and loyal. If a horse could be said to love a person, Jameson could almost believe Cougar loved him.
So even though the adoring horse reminded Jameson of a past he wanted to forget, he’d brought the horse anyway. It turned out Cougar had been a faithful friend when he’d needed one the most.
As Jameson’s efforts to reach the horse grew more labored, he paused and tried to draw in a breath. “Cougar,” he managed. “Come here, boy.”
He never had to tie the horse up. Cougar always stayed anywhere Jameson left him and waited patiently for him to appear, even during those long, dark nights when Jameson had tried to drown his sorrows and frustrations at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
At the clopping of hooves, Jameson attempted to push himself up. He got only as far as his elbow before collapsing with a soft moan.
The world around him wavered. Blackness hovered at the back of his mind, ready to crowd out reality.
A soft snort was followed by a moist muzzle nudging Jameson’s head, leaving slobber on his cheek.
“Hey, Cougar,” he whispered. “I think I’ll need some help getting up into the saddle.”
The horse lowered his head toward Jameson’s uninjured arm, pressing his nose into the space next to his rib cage.
Jameson was still fading out of consciousness, but he knew enough to realize Cougar was trying to get him to grab on.
Jameson lifted his arm over Cougar’s neck and latched onto the harness. The movement jarred his injury, and he couldn’t keep from crying out.
Cougar whinnied softly, as though encouraging Jameson to keep going.
He wrapped the reins around his forearm and hoisted his body over Cougar’s neck.
Slowly, Cougar rose.
Jameson held on as tightly as he could, and the reins dug into his arm. With a heave, he somehow managed to swing his legs onto Cougar’s back.
The horse hesitated, probably making sure Jameson was on securely.
Jameson gave the faithful friend a pat.
As the horse started forward, Jameson could feel the darkness falling over him, and he prayed he would make it to help before he lost his grip and fell.