Wyoming Wildfire. Elizabeth Lane

But there was nothing make-believe about the cocked pistol in her hand.

      “That wasn’t funny.” She jerked her head toward Matt’s gun belt, which was already settling into the ooze. “I ought to shoot you right now.”

      “I can get it for you.” Matt squinted up at her, wondering whether the black powder bullets in his pistol would be too wet to fire by the time he got his hands on the gun. He’d hoped she might make the mistake of climbing down to the road, but she stayed above him, keeping the advantage.

      “Never mind. Get off your horse.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Matt eased out of the saddle and dropped to the ground.

      “Now get your key and unlock my brother’s handcuffs.”

      “Sorry. The key’s hooked to the gun belt.” It wasn’t true, but it gave him an excuse to stall while he plotted his next move. Strangely enough, he’d begun to enjoy this little sparring match.

      “He’s lying, sis,” Frank said. “I saw the tricky bastard put the key in his pocket.”

      Her eyes flashed above the red bandanna. Even at a distance, Matt could see that they were the color of violets, almost purple, and framed with luxuriant ebony lashes. “Don’t play games with me, Marshal!” she snapped. “I’m running out of patience, and my trigger finger’s getting itchier by the minute!”

      “Whatever you say, lady.” Matt fumbled in his pocket, thinking that he’d give a new saddle and his Sunday hat to know what was underneath that silly costume of hers. If the rest of Jessie Hammond matched those eyes…Lord Almighty!

      His fingers found the small key and the ring that held it. Still he hesitated, stalling as he searched for some way to salvage this debacle.

      He glanced up at Jessie, then back at her brother. “You know, Frank, if you ride out of here, you’ll have a whole troop of vigilantes on your trail. And if they find you before the law does, you’ll be swinging on a rope before you can say your prayers.”

      “I’ll be swinging anyway,” Frank muttered. “At least, if I run, I’ll have a fighting chance. Do what she says, Marshal.”

      Matt sighed as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. “I just wish you’d—”

      The rest of the sentence died in his throat as he sensed a slight tremor in the mud beneath his boots and heard, from beyond the bend in the road, the rumble of galloping horses—many horses—coming from the direction of the town. Matt’s instincts slammed into high alert. Only one thing would bring a large band of riders onto the road this morning.

      “Vigilantes!” Frank’s face had gone chalky. Still handcuffed, he leaned forward in the saddle and, gripping with his knees, jabbed his boots into the side of the horse he was riding. The startled bay shot off the road and up the hill, with Frank clinging Indian-style to its back.

      Roped to the other horse’s saddle, Copper, Matt’s chestnut gelding was yanked into motion. Copper snorted, jumped, and broke into a gallop, keeping even with the bay. Matt swore as his prisoner and both horses vanished over the top of the wooded ridge. He could hear the riders approaching the bend in the road. Seconds from now they would be in sight.

      Jessie stood on the high bank, her pistol arm hanging slack as she stared after her brother.

      “Get out of here, damn it!” Matt snapped, lunging for his gun. “You’re the last person I want those hotheaded fools to find!”

      He found the gun belt in the muddy roadside ditch and jerked his pistol out of the holster. When he looked up again, Jessie Hammond had disappeared behind the top of the bank. He hoped she’d have the good sense to run. If the vigilantes failed to find Frank, they could turn their fury on his sister. Whatever happened after that was bound to be ugly.

      He took a split second to examine the gun. The leather had kept the weapon relatively clean of mud, but it hadn’t kept out the moisture. There was no way of knowing whether the bullets would fire except to pull the trigger, and there was no time for that. Any second now, the riders would be thundering around the bend—and right now he had a fast decision to make.

      The high-minded course of action would be to face them down and use his authority as a federal marshal to turn them back. But when the vigilantes saw him on foot, without his prisoner, they’d likely guess what had happened. If they picked up Frank Hammond’s trail, they’d be off like a herd of banshees and Frank would be as good as dead.

      If, on the other hand, he took the coward’s way out and hid, they might gallop right on past, thinking he and Frank were ahead of them on the road. With luck, they’d ride all the way to Sheridan, break up and head for the saloons to cool their thirst. That would give him time to round up Frank and bring him in by another route.

      There were times when cowardice made more sense than bravery. This was one of them.

      The riders were getting close. With a hasty glance toward the bend in the road, Matt clawed his way up the steep bank, dived between two clumps of rabbit brush and tumbled headlong over the top.

       Chapter Two

       A grunt of surprise exploded between Matt’s lips as his body collided with something soft and yielding. His pulse slammed, but before he could right himself and look around, he felt the cold jab of a muzzle between his ribs.

      “Lay one finger on me, Marshal, and I’ll blow you to kingdom come!” The voice was so close that he could feel the warm breath in his ear. Matt muttered a few choice words no lady should ever hear—but then he’d seen no evidence that Jessie Hammond was any kind of lady.

      “I thought I told you to get out of here!” he growled.

      “I’ll get out of here when I’m ready. Right now, I need to see what’s happening.”

      “Then put that damned gun away before it goes off. Believe me, I wouldn’t lay a finger on you for a month of paydays.” Matt could hear the riders coming closer. The last thing he needed now was for this trigger-happy hellion to start more trouble.

      Moving cautiously, he eased himself away from the steely pressure of the gun. She made no move to stop him as he inched toward the top of the bank. “Stay where you are and keep still,” he hissed.

      Instead of obeying, she crawled up alongside him. “I want to see, too,” she whispered through the bandanna that still covered most of her face. “You won’t recognize the rotten skunks. I will.”

      He couldn’t argue with that, Matt conceded. But even if he’d chosen to, there was no more time. He heard her breath catch as the band of mounted vigilantes exploded around the bend in the road. There were about twenty riders, he calculated, all of them masked, armed and, from the looks of them, well fortified with whiskey. Why they’d waited this long to come after Frank instead of busting down the jail was anybody’s guess. Maybe they thought there’d be too many witness in town.

      Behind those drawn-up neckerchiefs were the faces of farmers, ranchers, hired hands and townspeople—husbands, sons and fathers. Half of them would be scared to death, Matt reminded himself. But even the most law-abiding citizens could be swept away by the violent madness of a lynch mob. In their present condition these men were as dangerous as a pack of rabid dogs.

      “The brute in the lead is Virgil Gates, Allister’s brother,” Jessie whispered, close to his ear. “I’d know that big, ugly piebald horse of his anywhere. And I can pick out a half-dozen of the cowhands who work on his ranch, and a few no-accounts from town who’d ride anywhere for a bottle. The rest of them are likely from other ranches around here. I don’t—”

      “Shh!” Matt hushed her with a jab of his elbow. His heart froze as he realized the riders were slowing down, most likely to let some stragglers catch up. He’d been hoping—almost expecting—they would just ride on down the main road. If they stopped here, there was a real danger they’d notice the trail of fresh hoofprints where Frank had fled up the hill with the horses.