Page 17 of In Her Sights

The outlaw cursed at the sound of Tessa's name. "Fool woman nearly shot off my hand! Rushed at me like a raving lunatic."

Desperation clawed at Jackson. "Tessa!"

"I'm here." She coughed, her voice shaking. "I'm all right."

She didn't sound all right. Jackson ran out to the boardwalk and finally spotted her sitting on the wood planks a few feet away. She was leaning forward over the edge of the walkway, her face pale, a small pool of vomit on the street beneath her.

He hurried to her, hunkered down at her side, placed a hand at her back, and tried to rub away her distress. She'd shot a man. On purpose this time. He knew the toll that took on a person's soul, especially for someone as kind and nurturing as Tessa. He wanted to gather her into his arms and hold her tight, but a gunshot down the street brought him to his feet. Glass shattered. A woman screamed.

Jackson leaned into the street and spotted the source. Decker. Shooting up buildings to cover his retreat.

"Spivey!" Poindexter shouted from the doorway of the shop. "You've got to stop him before he kills someone."

Tessa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked at him fully. Vulnerability glistened in her eyes, yet there was a strength present as well. One that assured him she'd not be falling apart anytime soon. "Go."

Jackson nodded and ran for the shop.

"Use the Winchester," his boss ordered, glancing over his shoulder at the display case behind the counter. "If anyone can make that shot, it's you."

Jackson didn't think. Thinking led to doubts, and he couldn't afford any. He ran to the case. Grabbed the sporting rifle and a handful of cartridges. He'd cleaned this gun often enough to know every inch by heart. But knowing the gun wasn't enough. He needed a clear path to his target, and only one plausible idea came to mind. High ground.

Another shot echoed from outside, spurring him up the narrow staircase that led to the roof. Muscling open the trap door, he climbed onto the flat surface that spread behind the building's false front and scanned for his quarry.

He spotted Decker in an instant. Two blocks away, heading north on Main. He fired a shot across his body to the left then extended his gun arm to the right.

Jackson thumbed a cartridge into the rifle and rested the extra-long barrel on the roof ledge.

Decker seemed an impossibly small target at this distance, but he was still within range of the sporting rifle. If Jackson perfected the angle.

He lined up the shot, aiming for just below Decker's right shoulder to disable his shooting arm and hopefully unseat him from his horse. A breeze ruffled Jackson's hair, then fell calm. Now or never. He sighted down the barrel. Aimed to lead his target. Held his breath. Then squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the shot rang loud in his ears. The stock kicked against his shoulder. Jackson rushed to load another cartridge into the chamber and lifted the Winchester back into position. But no second shot was needed. Decker slumped forward, then slid from the saddle.

Jackson closed his eyes and let out a quivery breath, praying he hadn't killed him. Taking down a deer was one thing. Taking down a man, quite another.

"You got 'im!" Mr. Edmund poked his head out of his blacksmith shop a block away to give the triumphant shout. Hammer in hand, in case Decker still had some fight in him, he jogged toward the fallen outlaw. Decker staggered to his feet and tried to hobble away, his gun arm hanging limp at his side. A handful of men filed out of the hotel and rushed him. They subdued Decker in a matter of seconds.

Where had they been ten minutes earlier? Hiding behind closed doors and peeping through windows. Only one amazing woman had found the courage to risk life and limb to help him. And if he had his way, she'd never do so again. She'd shaved a good five years off his life showing up like she had, bold as brass, shooting ducks and outlaws in equal turn.

As much as he'd feared for her safety, he had to admit she'd been magnificent.

Eager to get back to her, he ejected the cartridge he'd loaded, then cupped his hands around his mouth to call down to the men below. "Someone better fetch Doc."

One fellow waved to signal he'd heard, so Jackson turned his attention to more important matters. Like getting back to Tessa.

Tessa unloaded her pistol with shaking hands. She hadn't yet found the strength to rise, so she dumped the three unspent bullets from the cylinder into her lap. The harsh, gray metal glared up at her from among the tiny pink flowers of her calico skirt.

A rifle shot echoed above her. She flinched. Jackson. He was doing what needed to be done, but she ached for him nonetheless. Ached for herself as well.

Tears she'd been too numb to shed a moment ago welled in her eyes. Good heavens. She'd shot a man. A foul-mouthed villain with evil intent, yes, but a man nonetheless. A human being made in the Lord's image.

Forgive me.

The Old Testament might be filled with warriors enacting God's will, like David, Gideon, and Samson—even women like Jael—yet all Tessa could picture in her mind's eye was Jesus instructing Peter to put away his sword as the Savior reached out and healed the severed ear of a man who had come to arrest him.

A time to kill, and a time to heal.

Please, Lord. May there only be healing for me from now on. I want nothing to do with killing or causing injury to anyone ever again.