Page 68 of Heart on the Line

She held her tongue.

Ten steps from the tree.

Eight.

“I’m going to count to three, and if you haven’t held up your end of the bargain, I’ll shoot him.” His gaze remained fixed on Amos.

Grace backed up a few paces. Started testing the strength of the rope at her wrists.

Five steps from the tree.

“One . . .” Lockhart counted.

Grace paced back another stride, twisting her hands. The right one was nearly free.

“Two . . .”

“The bank,” she blurted as Amos’s silhouette blended with that of the tree. He was out of pistol range. “The books are locked in the vault at the bank.”

“Thank you, my dear.” In a seamless motion, Lockhart holstered his pistol, spun toward his horse, and slid the rifle free of the boot. He’d just doubled his range by changing weapons.

“Run, Amos!” Grace screamed as she wrenched her hand free of the binding.

As Lockhart took aim, Grace hitched up her skirts and pulled her derringer.

She didn’t look for Amos. Didn’t worry about her shivering, trembling arms. This close to her target, it wouldn’t matter.

Holding the tiny pocket pistol with two hands, Grace disengaged the safety and raised the barrel.

The two shots concussed almost simultaneously.

Grace didn’t wait to see where hers had hit. Nor did she search for Amos, even though her heart yearned to know his fate. With Lockhart’s howl of pain echoing in her ears, she did the only thing she could. She used the last of her depleted energy to mount Lockhart’s horse, leaned low over the saddle, and raced for the road as a volley of gunshots exploded behind her.

33

Run, Amos!”

At Grace’s shout, Amos dodged sharply right. But instead of running as instinct and the woman he loved demanded, he lunged for the mesquite that stood a mere two steps away. Its twisted trunk and curving limbs might be thinner than his own frame, but they offered more cover than the knee-high scrub brush dotting the rest of the prairie landscape.

Even as he leapt behind the gnarled tree, a gunshot boomed. Then echoed. A second shot?

The question pierced Amos’s brain at the same moment a bullet pierced his sleeve.

Amos hissed and spun to his left, planting his good shoulder against the tree trunk and making himself as thin a target as possible. An animal-like roar, deep and angry, blasted across the clearing.

Lockhart.

Grace must have gotten free and retrieved her derringer. Thank God!

Another shot rang out. Then two more. Amos sucked in a breath and tensed for impact, his eyes squeezed shut, but no bullets peppered the tree. No lead ripped through his skin. Amos’s eyes popped open. The shooting wasn’t aimed at him.

Grace!

No longer concerned with his own protection, Amos ducked beneath the mesquite’s low-hanging branches and stared back across the clearing. Lockhart lay sprawled on the ground, firing his repeating rifle one-handed. He’d tucked the butt of the rifle into the crease between his legs and waist to hold it steady as he shot.

At a woman on horseback.

Grace leaned low over the horse’s neck. The too-long stirrups flapped against the animal’s sides, keeping the beast racing at top speed. Amos’s breath caught. As dark as it was, her mount could lose its footing and crumple. Grace could break her neck.