Aces cantered our way.
Malcolm turned to face me, keeping hold of the horse’s halter, his panic under strictest control; his dark eyes burned as he commanded, “Turnbull’s riding out to reload that rifle. If anything happens to me, you ride hell-for-leather due east, back the way we’ve come. Do you hear me?”
“What are you going to do?” Wild-eyed, scalded with fear and concern, I wasn’t about to leave his side.
Aces reached us and Malcolm grabbed his lead line. “Thank God for you, boy, you damn good horse.” Not about to be disobeyed, he ordered harshly, “Camille!”
“No! I’m not leaving you here!” Tears gushed, infuriating me.
“We’ll run for those cottonwoods beyond the creek, there ain’t a second to spare. Keep close to me between the horses!” Malcolm latched a solid grip on the lead lines of both animals and yanked their heads forward, roaring, “Gidd-up!” and then we ran, using their heavy bodies as cover, angling for the creek and away from the threat of Turnbull’s long-distance rifle. Not five seconds later a deep, echoing boom split the air and I cried out; both sounds were muted in my ringing ear canals. We made it to the water before another shot shattered the stillness, splitting the slim trunk of a nearby willow. We splashed through the rocky creek, sending water cascading over our feet and calves.
“Keep low!” Malcolm shouted.
We cleared the opposite bank, dodging branches, and positioned behind a stand of towering cottonwoods. Breathing hard, Malcolm wasted no time slinging the horse’s lines around a tree branch and slipping his rifle from Aces High’s saddle.
“Get down!” he ordered, cocking the weapon, and I dropped to a crouch against the middle tree’s massive trunk, gasping for breath, pressing my forehead to the rough bark as Malcolm stood to my left, his upper body exposed, to aim his rifle. He shot, cocked a second round, and shot again.
Turnbull returned fire.
Malcolm ducked to a crouch to slip two more bullets in his rifle; he was a foot away from me but in grave danger, with little protection between his body and the path of a flying bullet. Bleeding from two wounds, his lower lip split, he clenched his jaws and rose with a roar, taking aim and firing. I flinched, digging my nails in the bark. I could hear nothing but intense, high-pitched ringing.
I finally realized Malcolm was speaking.
I got him.
Even in triumph he moved with caution and care, edging closer, his rifle trained on Turnbull – in whatever state the man now existed. I didn’t dare move from behind the trees, watching with hawk eyes as Malcolm crept forward, assessing the situation. And at last, he lowered the rifle.
We resumed our course, aiming northwest toward Cole and Patricia’s last known destination, together again on Aces. Malcolm had untied Vole’s horse and let the animal run free.
“I’m not about to be taken for a horse thief,” he’d explained.
I did not break down until we’d ridden perhaps two miles; once we’d put distance between ourselves and the dead bodies of two vicious criminals, Malcolm reined Aces to a walk, then a complete halt. He dismounted and lifted me down; able at last to embrace full-length, we crushed each other close and clung. He cupped the back of my head, holding fast, letting me weep; I wrapped my arms around his torso, holding like I never meant to let go, sobbing out all the fear I’d restrained in the past terrifying hour.
“I was so scared, Malcolm, oh my God. You’re hurt, they hurt you, and I couldn’t do anything but watch…” I hid my face against his chest, his shirt flecked with blood and wet with a mixture of rain and sweat.
He rested his lips to my temple, scraping aside flyaway tangles of my hair. “You are a brave woman, Camille Carter. I can’t think about what might have happened back there or I’ll go crazy, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a damn brave woman.”
I wanted to tell Malcolm I thought he was braver than anyone I’d ever known. In the span of an hour we’d been pursued and attacked; we’d been shot at and Malcolm had killed two men who intended to kill us first. But none of that seemed real; all I could consider just now was the fact that Malcolm bore injuries, one of which I was certain was a gunshot wound.
I looked up at him, scalded anew with concern. “You’re hurt, Malcolm. You were shot in the arm, weren’t you…oh God…”
“I been hurt plenty worse, sweetheart, I swear.” He drew away to show me his arm, which I inspected with the diligence of a field nurse – or someone deeply in love with him. Although bloody and raw-looking, the wound didn’t appear as dire as I’d imagined; the bullet had scored only a shallow path along the muscle and skin above his elbow.
I ran my fingertips over his face, his forehead with a lumping purple bruise and the blood dried on his split lower lip. I stood on tiptoe to gently kiss both injuries. “I love you,” I whispered. “You saved us.”
“My heart breaks with loving you,” he said in return, cradling my face between his hands. “And as much as I hate to admit it, we aren’t safe yet. Not ’til Fallon’s dead.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Windham, IA - June, 1882
IT TOOK ANOTHER TWO HOURS OF HARD
