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"Fancy that. Did you get in the way?"
"I tried not to."
"You didn't, honey," he said reassuringly. "You kept your head, got the rifle, and held it on him." He kissed her once more, his lips warm on her cool skin. "I'd choose you for my side in any fight. Go to sleep, now, and don't worry about the mess in the kitchen. Tink and I will clean it. up. He's already taken care of the beef stew."
She smiled, as he had meant her to, and he eased up from the bed. She closed her eyes, and in a few seconds she heard the quiet click of the door closing.
Hope opened her eyes.
She lay quietly, because the ice pack was easing the soreness in her shoulder. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen minutes off—if she remembered accurately how ice therapy worked. She might need all the flexibility in the shoulder she could muster, and she estimated Price wouldn't check on her for at least an hour. She had a little time to take care of herself.
She heard him moving around in the kitchen. Broken glass tinkled as he swept it up, and she heard the crackle of shattered wood when he picked up the smashed remains of some of her chairs. She didn't hear the captured Clinton utter a sound.
The flour had made quite a mess. Cleaning it up would require vacuuming and mopping, and washing it off everything else would take a lot of time.
Hope threw back the covers and eased off the bed. Silently she opened the closet door and took down one of her dad's sweatshirts, gingerly pulling it on over her head and wincing as her abused shoulder and back muscles protested the movement.
Then she began searching for the bullets.
Half an hour later, she found the box, in the pocket of one of her dad's jackets.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Hope had several of her dad's old, no-longer-used neck-ties dangling from the waistband of her sweatpants when she left the bedroom. The rifle was in her hands.
Clinton was sitting silently, exactly as she had last seen him, not that he had much choice. He opened his good eye when he heard her, the single orb widening as he saw the rifle. He gave a faint, satisfied smile and nodded at her.
Price was standing at the sink, wringing out a dishcloth. He had most of the mess cleaned up, though she was woefully short of furniture now and there were still a few surfaces dusted with flour. He looked up, and whatever he had been about to say died on his lips when she raised the rifle.
"Keep your right hand where I can see it," she said calmly. "Use your left hand to get the pistol out of your waistband. Put it on the cabinet and slide it toward me."
He didn't move. His blue eyes turned hard and glacial. "What in hell do you think you're doing?"
"Taking over," she replied. "Do what I said."
He didn't even glance at the rifle. His mouth set in a grim line, he started toward her.
"I found the bullets," Hope said quickly, before he got close enough to grab the rifle. "In a coat pocket," she added, just so he would know she really had found them.
He stopped. The fury that darkened his face would have terrified her if she hadn't had the rifle.
"The pistol," she prompted.
Slowly, keeping his right hand resting on the sink, he reached behind his back and drew out the pistol. Placing it on the cabinet, he shoved it toward her.
"Don't forget mine," Clinton said from behind her, the words slightly slurred; his damaged mouth and jaw were swelling and turning dark.
"The other one too," Hope said, not flinching from the sulfurous look Price gave her. Silently he obeyed.
"Now step back."
He did. She picked up her pistol and laid down the rifle, because the pistol was more convenient. "Okay, sit down in the chair and put your hands behind you."
"Don't do this, Hope," he said between clenched teeth. "He's a murderer. Don't listen to him. Why would you believe him, for God's sake? Look at him! He's wearing prison coveralls."
"Only because you stole my uniform," Clinton snarled.
