“Now, just a minute there—” someone protested.
Summer swung the rifle in the direction of the voice. “If you want to hang him, you’ll have to kill me first! I advise you not to try it, because I’ll shoot every last one of you.” She gestured with the rifle. “I have fifteen rounds. And Reed should be bringing more.”
A tense silence followed her threat.
She found Calvin Stapp’s youthful face in the crowd. “You’re in on it, Calvin, I know. You’ll be the second one I shoot, right after Will Prewitt. Now, cut him down.”
Lance, as bad as he felt, couldn’t help but also feel a measure of pride at her defiant defense of him.
Stapp even s
tarted to obey her fierce order, before Prewitt stopped him. “Hold on. We ain’t gonna let anybody interfere with the carriage of justice. Calder’s a cattle thief who deserves to hang.”
Summer turned on Prewitt in fury. “My husband no more stole any livestock than I did! I’m willing to swear my life on it And so will my sister.”
“Miss Amelia?” Harlan Fisk asked.
“Yes, Amelia! She’ll be here any minute, along with Dusty and Reed. You can wait that long to carry out your unlawful justice.”
Prewitt, however, apparently didn’t care to wait. He lunged forward with a shout and struck Lance’s horse with the butt of his rifle. The startled horse squealed and bounded sideways, leaving its rider behind: Lance’s body jerked as the rope took his entire weight.
Summer choked on a scream, paralyzed by horror. It was sheer terror that made her kick her mount viciously, forcing it between Lance and the ground.
He appeared half-dead, but he managed somehow to try and save himself. Wildly swinging his leg, he hooked it over her horse’s neck, relieving his neck of some of his weight.
Desperately Summer abandoned the rifle to wrap her arms around Lance—which was a mistake. Rather than supporting him, she was only helping the rope kill him with the added strain.
Sobbing with fear, she groped for the knife he always wore around his belt and whimpered out loud when her fingers closed around the hilt. Crying too hard to see, she raised her arm and blindly sawed at the rope.
When it finally gave way, Lance slumped forward on her horse’s neck, choking and coughing. Still weeping, Summer pressed her face against his back and held him, murmuring his name over and over and over again.
She didn’t even hear the arrival of the vaqueros from Sky Valley, even when they came thundering up. She felt gentle hands urging her down from her horse, but she didn’t want to turn loose of Lance for an instant. Only when Harlan Fisk’s quiet voice explained that Lance needed care did she relent.
Practically falling into Fisk’s arms, she allowed him to support her while two men carefully laid Lance on the ground. They took the noose from his neck and cut the bonds from his hands; then, by the light of a torch, they stripped off his vest and shirt to examine his injuries. Lance lay with his eyes closed, unmoving, except for the harsh rise and fall of his chest as he dragged short breaths of air into his lungs.
“The arm is not too bad, señora,” Pedro pronounced. “The side, it is bleeding, but the patron, he will be okay.”
Summer wanted to scream a denial, that Lance wasn’t all right, that he was hurt, but she couldn’t force the words past her raw throat. She watched as Pedro made a bandage from Lance’s shirt and tied it around his bleeding waist.
As soon as the task was complete and someone had covered Lance’s bare torso with a bedroll blanket, she dropped to her knees beside him, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. She felt the shudders ripple through him, felt the clenching and unclenching of his muscles as he struggled to draw breath. Carefully she took his hand and pressed her lips against his palm, wetting it with her tears.
She heard the buckboard arrive a moment later, but was too shaken to acknowledge it. A wild trembling had invaded her limbs. She had lost her shawl on the mad ride, and perspiration soaked her gown, but it wasn’t the chill night air that froze her blood. It was realizing how very close she’d come to losing Lance. She had never known such desperation.
The crowd of men parted slightly, allowing a path for the buckboard. Dusty brought the vehicle to a halt, a mere three yards from Lance.
“Is he all right?” Reed asked sharply.
Summer managed a tearful laugh. “If you call being shot and nearly hanged ‘all right.’ They tried to lynch him.”
“Put him in the buckboard. We’ll get him to a doctor.”
Summer shook her head. Just now she wanted nothing more than to protect Lance, to take him home, away from these people who wished him dead. Yet a more urgent task prevented her. She couldn’t leave until the cloud of suspicion hanging over Lance’s head was destroyed for good. She had to prove his innocence, make them believe. She lifted her gaze to her sister. “After Melly tells the truth about what happened.”
Amelia sat totally still, her eyes shut, her head lowered.
Summer was grateful when her brother took the lead. Reed remained in the buckboard beside Amelia, holding her hand, and cleared his throat. “My sister has something to say,” he announced to the crowd. “Amelia?”
She gave a choked sob, and then mumbled something no one could hear.