11

Meanwhile, at The Ruffled Feather, Hazel finished tidying and locking up her shop before walking to the stairs, holding her oil lamp aloft. The treads squeaked beneath her weight when she stepped on the fourth step, despite her attempt at fixing the loose board a couple days ago. Muttering a curse, she shook her head and continued upstairs.

A heavy thud, followed in quick succession by two more, brought her to an abrupt stop. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her stomach dropped to her toes, setting her arms and legs to trembling.

She held her breath and waited.

Was it Dynamite? The thought sent chills racing down her spine.

Forcing a swallow, Hazel slowly turned and descended. Her heart lodged in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She set the lamp on the floor at the foot of the staircase, afraid her shaking hand would drop it. Then, reaching into her pocket, she withdrew her derringer and cocked the hammer, holding it at the ready as she scanned the room for the source of the noise.

Pale moonlight filtered through the lace curtains covering the large window by her sewing machine but failed to provide sufficient illumination beyond the glow from her lantern.

She didn't know how long she stood there, frightened and straining her ears. The thuds continued, sounding as though they came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Either she'd lost her mind, or she was letting fear get the better of her.

"It's only the wind," she whispered to herself in reassurance a moment later.

She waited, watching the silhouette of the birch trees swaying back and forth, scraping against her window panes every now and then.

Releasing the hammer on her gun, she returned it to her pocket before picking up the lantern. The thuds sounded again, but she ignored them and hurried upstairs, breathing a sigh of relief once she walked into her bedroom.

After closing the door, she set the lantern on her dresser and began undressing. Against her will, her gaze kept going to her window and the Morning Glory beyond, wondering what room Shepard was staying in.

Her heart swelled as the memory of his handsome face filled her mind. He'd been gone so long, she'd believed she'd succeeded in convincing herself the feelings she harbored for him had been nothing more than a girlish infatuation.

How wrong and naive she'd been. She walked to the window and pulled the lace curtain aside, gasping when she saw Shepard leaning against a porch post in front of the saloon. He stood in only his shirt, trousers, and boots, his gun-belt, hat, and coat were nowhere in sight, probably still wet from the storm.

She smiled, remembering the look of disgust that had crossed his face when he'd donned his coat before he and Strickland left tonight. It had seemed such an innocently boyish expression on such a ruggedly handsome face, she'd fought against the sudden desire to march over and kiss him straight on the mouth right then and there, which had terrified her.

The last thing he needed was to get mixed up with the daughter of a prostitute—provided he was drawn to her in the same way she was to him. No doubt, a man that attractive already had a sweetheart, and her worries were for naught, but it seemed important to point out to her heart that Shepard Devereaux could never be hers regardless of how badly she wished it otherwise.

He deserved better.

With a mournful sigh, Hazel's eyes took in their fill of him, standing there, completely unaware that she watched him from the safe distance of her room. He'd shaved; that much became apparent by the absence of his beard.

His hair, darker and curlier than she remembered from years ago, fell in thick shaggy waves to his shoulders. Moonlight bathed his face, highlighting the hard, chiseled angles of his jaw, straight nose, and cheekbones as he looked up toward her window. Was he watching her?

The thought barely crossed her mind when he straightened and took a step toward the edge of the boardwalk, then stopped, his gaze locked with hers.

Hazel's heart raced. She lifted a hand to the windowpane, tempted to lift the lower sash, and call down to him. But then her mind cruelly reminded her of the need to keep him at arm's length, if for no other purpose than to protect her heart from further pain.

'He'll leave, just like before,' her mind whispered, 'once Dynamite is dealt with, he'll ride off into the horizon never to be seen again.'

It would do her well to remember that he was only here because of what had happened to William, not for any great love or missing of her. Even though she knew if he asked her to leave with him, she'd do so in a heartbeat and never look back.

Tears stung her eyes and clogged her throat as she retreated from the window and allowed the curtain to fall back in place. Hazel squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands into fists at her side, forcing herself to focus on the music brokenly carried across the wind.

Emerson MacDonald still plunked away on the piano, playing one of her favorite songs that helped ease the ache in her heart. Hazel started humming along with the tune, smiling as memories of her mother performing the song many years ago flooded her mind.

She could still remember the smell of her mother's perfume mixed with the scent of heated oil from the stage lights that would carry to her where she hid in the wings, enthralled by the magical spectacle her mother effortlessly wove.

The only picture she had of Amalia Jones sat pride of place in a decorative frame on her dresser. Hazel removed her shirtwaist and smiled at the image of her mother smiling back at her, wearing her favorite 'lost shepherdess' costume Hazel helped create before they'd moved to San Luis.

The first nine years of her life had seemed an enchanted, mostly stable little bubble. But then, shortly after her tenth birthday, things suddenly changed. Her mother cried more, or maybe she didn't bother hiding her emotions as much as before; Hazel never was sure.

In those terrible months before arriving in San Luis, two weeks shy of her eleventh birthday, all that seemed to matter was escaping California and her mother's inconsolable heart. It was only after Amalia was murdered and Hazel sorted through her belongings to determine what had been stolen that she discovered the love letters and began to understand the secrets her mother had hidden.

Closing her eyes against the painful memories, Hazel sought solace in performing the mindless tasks of preparing for bed and withdrew the ace of spades tucked up her left sleeve. She'd have to get better at hiding it, or one of these days, she might end up with a bullet in her chest.

She set it atop her dresser and ignored the way her hand shook, determined not to dwell on the matter for the rest of the night and released the buttons on both sleeves, then slipped off her blouse and folded it. Opening the middle drawer, she laid it gently inside with the others, then pushed the drawer closed with a nudge of her hip.

Continuing to hum the pretty tune, Hazel removed her derringer from the pocket and placed it next to her mother's picture, then reached behind to release the closure of her skirt, jumping when a loud thump from downstairs carried up to her. She looked out the window and scowled at the howling wind. Unfortunately, there'd most likely be damaged shutters to mend come the morning.

She pushed her skirt down her hips, allowing it to fall, and stepped out, then held it at the waistband in front of her just as a brawny, masculine arm wrapped around her waist. A calloused hand clamped over her mouth, strangling her scream of alarm.

Hazel whimpered, her heart pounding a furious beat against her ribs as recognition took hold.

Dynamite had found her.

Her stomach lurched to her throat then fell to her toes, and her gaze darted to her derringer atop her dresser, just out of arms reach.

"Evenin', pretty bird," he panted in her ear, clutching her close to his chest and stopping her from lunging for the weapon. "I've missed you."

The thick stench of wood smoke, sweat, and wet horses permeated the air around him and made her want to vomit. "Keep nice and quiet, you hear. You're comin with me."

Hazel shouted against his hand and bit down hard, trying once more to grab her gun.

Dynamite grunted and spun her away but didn't release her as he struggled to avoid the wild punches she threw toward his head.

"You better stop that," he warned after her fist landed in his eye. Dynamite cursed and dragged her across the floor to the open doorway, hissing in pain when she clawed at his face and hands. "You ain't getting away from me this time. I know you'll grow to love me, given a little time and persuasion."

Hazel screamed her denial. Or tried to. It came out sounding more like a whimper stifled as it was by his hand.

Dynamite chuckled, breathing hard as he struggled to control her. "Fight me all you want, pretty bird. It'll make your eventual surrender that much sweeter."

Hazel growled and lashed out with her arms and legs, bumping into the dresser with a wild kick and knocking her lantern over. She gasped for air, screaming when the spilled oil caught fire.

Within seconds the dresser was engulfed in flames. Smoke stung her eyes and lungs, choking and blinding her, heightening her fear and panic. But, no matter how hard she hit and bit him, Dynamite refused to lessen his hold on her until they came to the stairs.

"She's just as feisty as I remembered, Oso," Dynamite breathlessly chuckled, grunting when Hazel landed two consecutive blows to his face. He coughed and shook her till her teeth rattled, then slapped her hard enough to make her taste blood. "Don't just stand there; help me tie her up."

The fire raged, crawling across the floor to the lace curtains in her bedroom, the heat and smoke growing increasingly uncomfortable as Oso stepped from the shadowed corner in her kitchen. He quickly gagged her by wrapping a rancid cloth around her mouth. Bile burned the back of her throat, and tears stung her eyes.

Hazel kicked and fought against them, coughing and screaming for help, but to no avail. Before she knew it, her hands were bound at her back, and her world went topsy-turvy when she was flung over Dynamite's meaty shoulder seconds before he and Oso raced down the stairs.

"She's squirmy as a worm on a hook," Dynamite laughed as they reached the bottom step.

He slapped her rump with the flat of his hand, eliciting a muffled scream of outrage. His laugher increased further, and he tightened his hold on her legs when Hazel attempted to wriggle off his shoulder.

"Yessir, I always preferred my women with a little fight in 'em, pretty bird," he drawled, adjusting her position with a jolt that knocked her head into the wall hard enough to daze her. "You and I are gonna have a good time tonight."

Thick billows of smoke trailed behind them as they hurried to the back door. But before Oso could turn the knob, the door burst open, and Shepard stumbled inside.

Rubbing his shoulder, Shepard came to an abrupt stop, staring in shock at the surprised faces of Dynamite and Oso.

It took him all but a couple seconds to realize the gravity of the situation. Hazel's petticoat-covered rump in the air over Dynamite's shoulder helped. But within the next heartbeat, before his shout of outrage entirely escaped his throat, Oso threw a nasty uppercut and tackled Shepard to the ground.

They landed with a bone-jarring thud across the uneven threshold and tumbled down the porch steps outside. Shepard managed to get in several good punches, but Oso soon held the advantage and hammered his meaty fists into Shepard's face.

Star's burst before Shepard's eyes in a blinding display of color. Pain consumed him in pulsating waves as he fought back, driving his knee up into Oso's groin and stomach.

The crippled bear groaned and fell to his back, releasing Shepard in time to see Dynamite riding away with Hazel. His heart clenched, and fear set his limbs to trembling. He reached for his gun but found only air and cursed at realizing he'd left both revolvers in his hotel room, believing he was merely running to help put out the fire.

He had his pocket knife sheathed in his right boot, but attempting to inflict any real damage with it would be tantamount to wielding a stubby toothpick in a knife fight.

Clutching a hand to his sore ribs, he spun on his heel and slipped in the mud. He landed hard on his knees but scrambled to his feet just as Oso stood with a growl and charged. Shepard dodged the attack and ran for the hotel, shouting, "JEREMI-"

However, his cries for help were abruptly cut off when Oso knocked him flat. They wrestled in the muddy road, punching, jabbing, and kicking until a combination of blood and muck ran down their faces and made it difficult to land a successful blow.

Shepard wriggled away, kicking Oso in the face as he scrambled to his knees and shouted once more for Jeremiah. But Oso proved to be a formidable opponent and tackled Shepard, his bulky weight landing fully atop his back and driving the air from Shepard's lungs.

His breathless condition was further aggravated when Oso forced Shepard's face deep into the slop, suffocating him. Panic flared to life within Shepard's heart and mind. He couldn't die this way, not when Hazel was in danger.

But with each passing second, his struggles for air lessened, his muscles grew increasingly weak, his brain foggy, and his body numb.

Once again, he'd failed to save someone he loved.

Out of nowhere, there were two sharp, successive cracks that his oxygen-deprived brain groggily recognized as gunfire seconds before the weight on his back abruptly vanished. Oso's boot thudded against Shepard's ribs and pressed into his lower back a moment before he was flipped over.

"SHEPARD," Jeremiah called out, turning him onto his side and slapping him between his shoulder blades until he coughed up the mud lodged in his mouth. He whacked him several more times, "Come on, son, don't you die on me."

Shepard raised a weak arm, his body wracked with a coughing fit as his battered lungs struggled to gasp in precious air. "I'm... not... dying...."

His throat burned, and every muscle in his body screamed with pain. People were running around him, shouting about a fire, and it took him a moment to realize they were referring to Hazel's shop.

A fresh wave of panic crashed through him, lending him strength. Ignoring the frantic effort by the townspeople to put out the fire before it spread, Shepard struggled to his knees, gasping for breath as he turned to Jeremiah and wheezed, "He's got Hazel."

Jeremiah's eyes widened, reflecting the flames from across the street. Cursing, he helped Shepard to his feet, then took off running.

Shepard followed at a slower pace, bracing his hands on his thighs as he coughed and tried to catch his breath. Jeremiah raced for the stable behind the saloon, and by the time Shepard arrived, Jeremiah had both Bubbles and Flapjack saddled and ready.

He waited long enough to ensure Shepard could mount up, then kicked Flapjack into a full gallop. Bubbles seemed to sense the moment's urgency and ate up the distance between them and Jeremiah without much prodding from Shepard.

Clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the moonlight at the same time thunder cracked and rolled. In a matter of seconds, the first drop of rain struck Shepard in the cheek, followed by another. Thunder crashed, lightning streaked across the sky in a blazing glory of light, and the storm clouds released their watery burden.

Soaked to the skin for the second time that day, Shepard wiped the rain from his eyes and leaned low over Bubbles neck. His heart matched the rapid cadence of her hooves, chanting out with each beat a plea that they'd reach Hazel in time.

They rode for what seemed like an eternity until they came upon Oso almost half a mile outside of town. He ran as best as he could with a wounded left leg, glancing over his shoulder at their approach.

He swerved to his right, and Jeremiah wasted no time in aiming his revolver and firing at Oso's retreating back. He stumbled forward but remained upright.

Jeremiah fired twice more in quick succession. Oso cried out and dropped to the ground. Then, stopping only long enough to fire a third and final shot to ensure he wouldn't be getting up again, Shepard and Jeremiah raced at a breakneck speed after the shadowed figure on horseback up ahead.

Their frantic pace quickly closed the distance, each droplet of rain pelting against Shepard's exposed face, neck, and forearms feeling more like thousands of tiny needles. The terrain passed by them in a blur, changing from shoots of spring grass amidst clumps of snow and trees to more rugged and rocky ground, forcing them to slow their mounts.

Shepard cursed, his gaze focused on the lone rider up ahead, watching as Hazel fell from Dynamite's horse. The outlaw reined in, bringing his horse to an abrupt stop, and glanced over his shoulder toward Jeremiah and Shepard.

Dynamite's horse pranced for a moment in indecision but then bolted, abandoning an unmoving Hazel in the rocks and somehow gaining ground despite his moment of hesitation. A shout built in Shepard's throat, his entire body trembling with fear at the thought of Hazel being wounded or possibly dead.

Thunder rolled and crashed directly overhead, its powerful boom echoing in Shepard's chest just as a bolt of lightning arced, momentarily drowning their surroundings in blinding white light. He wiped more rain out of his eyes, worried he'd trample Hazel in the darkness or ride past her until another flash of lightning revealed she lay less than a hundred feet ahead.

Jeremiah glanced at Shepard and motioned him over to Hazel before retrieving his rifle and riding after Dynamite.

Shepard slowed Bubbles and dismounted. Slipping on the wet rocks, he fell to his hands and knees.