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McPherson's eyebrows went up. "Don't know. Saw the sheriff at the livery and he said that after they left here last week, Mr. Palmer, the bastard that was in the group, was right pissed at Turner. They argued, mentioned something about a debt being paid. Turner replied that it was all taken care of."
"What the hell does that mean?" Brody asked.
McPherson held up his hands in front of him. "From what I heard at the mercantile—word spreads fast and the sheriff isn't the only one with news—Turner was a gambler. Bad at cards. Lost everything."
"To Palmer." I gritted my teeth. Something wasn't right. I had a bad feeling in my gut.
"If Palmer collected his money, why was he so bloody pissed?" Brody asked.
"Right. Palmer was angry enough to kill him," McPherson stated. "Why?"
We glanced at each other and the reason became clear. "Laurel." Brody and I said it at the exact same time.
McPherson's head came up, his eyes sharp. "Where is she?"
"At the house. We need to—"
A shot rang out, coming from a distance, but clear and loud in the still air.
My heart seized at the sound and we ran to the stable door and threw it open.
Bang. A second shot.
"Shit," Brody muttered. "It's coming from the house." He grabbed the reins on McPherson's horse and led it outside and mounted deftly.
McPherson grabbed the gun from the pegs above the door. "Brody!"
He tossed the rifle and Brody caught it before he spurred the animal into motion.
McPherson and I started running in the direction of the house and Laurel. What the hell was going on? Was it Palmer or something else? Was Laurel the one firing the shots to call us to help or was she defending herself? Or worse, had someone shot her? I picked up my pace, running as fast as I could through the deep snow. I needed to get to her, but was relieved to know Brody would almost be there by now.
"The others will come, too," he breathed. He kept pace with my sprint. "It's only been two shots so that doesn't mean anything."
Bang. A third shot, which meant—
"Laurel!"
CHAPTER TEN
BRODY
I barely slowed the horse before I jumped down. Laurel sat on the porch floor in the cold, her hair wild and half down from the pins, a gun held tightly in her hands and aimed at a body lying on the ground. Based on the blood beginning to pool around him, he wasn't getting up again. I dashed up the stairs, my footsteps loud and skidded to a stop in front of the man. I aimed my rifle at him as I nudged him with my foot, and then pushed him over onto his back.
Palmer. His eyes were open and staring fixed at the ceiling of the porch, a crimson stain of blood spreading across his white shirt. He was dead.
My he
art pounded and my muscles were tense and ready to kill. I wanted to shoot him myself, to relieve some of this pent-up angst and fear. Swiveling, I dropped to my knees in front of Laurel, put the rifle down gently beside us on the floor.
"Laurel," I said, my voice soft. I held my hands out by my sides not wanting to startle her.
She hadn't moved since I came up, her eyes focused solely on Palmer, the gun still raised and aimed at the man. The strong tang of blood filled the crisp air.
I reached out slowly and took her hands in mine. They were so cold, icy even, and not from the freezing weather. I doubted she even knew I was there. "Laurel, give me the gun. Laurel," I repeated, louder this time.
She shook her head slowly. "No. He's dangerous. He'll hurt—"
"He's dead, sweetheart. He can't hurt you now." Her hands relaxed enough for me to take the gun from her and place it beside the rifle. "Look at me."
