Cowboy's Texas Rescue. Beth Cornelison

first, then his size—tall, broad-shouldered, and his fleece-lined ranch coat made him appear impressively muscle-bound. Plenty big enough to overpower her if he was working with the convict.

      A black cowboy hat and backlighting from the sky obscured his face in shadow, adding to her apprehension.

      “Are you hurt?” he asked, stashing the gun out of sight and undoing the buttons of his coat.

      “N-no.” When he reached for her, she shrank back warily. Her dishabille caused nervous skitters to dance along her nerves, left her feeling vulnerable. Awkward. Cold as hell.

      And where was the convict? She cast an anxious glance around them, down the side of the car, searching. Was he dead? Waiting to pounce when she climbed out of the trunk?

      She jolted when her rescuer grasped her elbow.

      “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.” The cowboy leaned farther into the trunk. “Let me help you out of there, and you can have my coat.”

      His coat… She almost whimpered in gratitude, anticipating the warmth. Heat from his fingers burrowed to her core as he steadied her and helped her rise to her knees. When she caught her first good glimpse of his square jaw and stubble-dusted cheeks, her stomach swooped. Oh, Texas! He was a freaking Adonis. Greek god–gorgeous with golden blond hair, cowboy boots and ranch-honed muscles. He lifted her out of the trunk, and when he set her down and her knees buckled with muscle cramps, cold and fatigue, she knew she couldn’t dismiss old-fashioned swooning for at least some of her legs’ weakness. He draped the coat around her shoulders, and the sexy combined scents of pine, leather and man surrounded her. She had to be dreaming… .

      Relief surged through her. Rescue!

      “You can sit in my truck and get warm while I deal with Brady and call the cops.” He stepped past her and reached up to close the trunk lid. Keeping a kind blue-eyed gaze on her, he slammed the trunk lid closed.

      She nodded her understanding. “Th-thank you.”

      A movement in the backseat of the car drew her attention. the convict glared at her through the shattered rear window, and a chill raced through her. As she held the inmate’s malevolent leer, he raised his tape-bound hands. Clutching the stun gun.

      He aimed.

      Terror shot through her, and she screamed, “Look out!”

      Too late.

      She heard the hiss and crackle of the electric current. She watched helplessly as the cowboy stiffened, his face contorting in pain. His body jerked and writhed as the convict continued to feed a disabling electric current through the twin probes piercing her rescuer’s neck.

      “Stop! You’ll kill him!” Tears of horror, fear and sympathy puddled in her eyes. She rushed toward the cowboy, desperate to do something to help. But…if she touched him, would she receive the debilitating shock, too?

      Overwhelmed by the current coursing through him, the cowboy’s legs crumpled. As he slumped to the ground, his head hit the back fender, then thumped hard on the pavement.

      Chelsea gasped and staggered toward the cowboy’s prone form. He lay eerily still.

       Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod. Please don’t let him be dead!

      When the crackling noise stopped, Chelsea plucked the prongs from the cowboy’s neck and felt for a pulse. She released a shaky sigh when she palpated a steady throb.

      Hearing scuffles from the car, she rose warily to peer into the backseat. The convict pulled The tape from his mouth, wincing and growling obscenities, then set to work gnawing at the tape on his hands with his teeth.

      Fresh prickles of fear spun through Chelsea. The inmate would be free soon, and she had no doubt he’d be set on vengeance. She needed a way to protect herself. Think!

      She glanced around. The cowboy’s truck sat about one hundred feet down the road. If she made a dash for it, could she get there before the inmate shot her? Unlikely. And what about the cowboy? She couldn’t steal his truck and abandon him. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her adrenaline-charged brain enough to make quick, logical decisions. With another glance over the trunk, through the shot-out window, she watched the inmate rip tape from his wrists, then bend down, presumably to work on freeing his feet.

      Her gaze darted to the broken glass. Gunfire…

      The cowboy had been holding a gun when he opened the trunk!

      Dropping to her knees beside the cowboy, she shook him. “Where’s your gun? I need your gun!”

      Still no response. Either the stun gun or the hit he took to his head had knocked him out.

      She heard Ethyl’s back door squeak open. The inmate was coming… .

      With frantic hands, Chelsea patted down the cowboy. Chest, waist, hips…dear God, the man was solid muscle. Finding nothing, she grabbed an arm and tugged, struggling to turn him over. Groped behind him…

      “Nice try, girlie.”

      Gasping, Chelsea jerked her gaze up.

      The convict hovered over her, a gloating expression twisting his face.

      Icy fear slithered down her spine. Finally, her fingers closed around the butt of a gun, and she yanked it from the cowboy’s belt. Swinging the weapon toward her kidnapper, Chelsea gritted her teeth. “Stop where you are!” She worked up enough spit in her dry mouth to swallow. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot.”

      The convict hesitated, eyeing the gun. He had a wad of white cloth taped to a bleeding wound on his leg. “You won’t do it. You could never live with yourself knowing you’d killed another human being.”

      Her pulse kicked. Was he right? Could she pull the trigger if she had to? “If you force my hand, I will kill you to save my life—” she nodded toward the unconscious cowboy “—and his.”

      The convict’s expression hardened. “Get back in the trunk, girlie, or I’ll fry you like I did John Wayne.”

      The frigid wind and her fear brought the sting of tears to her eyes again. She blinked hard, fighting to keep the inmate in focus, her attention glued on him. Shoot him. Just shoot him. It’d be justifiable homicide.

      Her hands shook, and her stomach roiled. “Just…t-take his truck and leave us here.”

      The inmate’s eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed as he studied the gun in her hands. “Good idea. But…you’ll still be in the trunk. Just in case you had any ideas about goin’ to the cops.”

      He took a step forward, and Chelsea tensed, her finger curling around the trigger. “I said stay back! Don’t touch me.”

      “Go ahead,” the convict taunted, “shoot me. I dare you.”

      He took another step toward her, and Chelsea squeezed the trigger.

      Click.

      Her insides clenched at the telltale sound.

      With a low rumbling laugh, the inmate closed in on her. “Well, well. Maybe you would shoot. Too bad you’re out of bullets.”

      Brady knocked the emptied gun out of the brunette’s hands and nudged the cowboy with his toe. The guy was out cold. Good. He gave the guy a hard kick in the ribs. “Sorry son of a bitch.”

      “Don’t!” The brunette moved between him and the cowboy. “Leave him alone! Haven’t you hurt him enough?”

      “He shot me!” Brady growled back, pointing to his bleeding leg. “I should put a bullet in his head and be done with him.”

      “No!” She draped herself over the cowboy’s body like some modern Pocahontas saving John Smith, and Brady scoffed. The girl had guts, standing up for the cowboy, trying to protect him, but Brady had other plans for the jerk.

      “Get