Code of the Wolf. Susan Krinard

of effort he might get his hands free, but his feet would still be bound. Even so, a carefully aimed kick would relieve Leroy of his weapon—if Jacob could find some last reserve of strength.

      Leroy stopped inches from Jacob’s body. He lashed out with his foot, kicking Jacob and sending a fresh wave of agony through Jacob’s ribs.

      “So long, Constantine,” Leroy said with a twisted grin. “Hope the buzzards don’t start into you before you’re dead.”

      He aimed his pistol. Jacob gathered his muscles for a single, straight kick.

      The gun went off, but Jacob felt no shock of impact, no pain. Leroy howled, dancing like a man who’d just stepped on a red ants’ nest.

      Jacob didn’t give himself time to wonder what had happened. He ripped his hands free of the ropes and threw himself on top of the gun Leroy had dropped. Someone shouted a warning. Stroud came running, and another shot from nowhere took his hat right off his head. He grabbed Leroy and fell flat on his belly.

      Clutching Leroy’s pistol, Jacob felt his muscles turn to water. He couldn’t so much as raise the weapon above his head, let alone get to his knees. He rolled onto his back and concentrated on keeping his hand on the gun. Whoever came for him next would get a bullet between the eyes.

      “Stay where you are!”

      Jacob laughed. He couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to. But after a dazed moment he realized the voice he’d heard didn’t belong to Leroy or any of his men. It was higher-pitched, though it carried strongly enough.

      A woman?

      Blackness rolled like thunderclouds behind Jacob’s eyes. He fought it, fought the helplessness that was coming. If there was a woman here, she didn’t stand a chance against Leroy’s gang. God knew what they would do to her once they…

      The pistol fell from his hands. His senses dimmed. He heard hoofbeats…. One horse, three, six. The gang’s mounts, plus his own. More gunshots, and a cry of surprise and pain. Seconds or minutes or hours passed before he heard a different set of horses—three of them—approaching from the west.

      Jacob struggled to keep his eyes open as the riders drew up a few yards away. They dismounted, feet striking the ground more lightly than any man’s would have done.

      A silhouetted figure appeared, slighter and shorter than any of the outlaws, smelling faintly of perspiration, soap and chamisa. He could see nothing of her face. She stood over him, rifle in hand and at the ready. She prodded his hip with her booted toe.

      “Is he alive?” she asked in the same voice that had rung with command so short a time before.

      Another woman knelt beside him, and slender fingers touched his throat. It was the first soft, cool thing he’d felt in days.

      “He is alive,” the second woman said, speaking with a slight Chinese accent. “But he may not remain so for long.” The fingers withdrew. “We must take him back with us.”

      “No man comes to Avalon,” she said.

      “But, Serenity,” a third, younger, voice said, “he’ll never survive out here! We have to bring him in.”

      Serenity. Jacob tried to remember what serenity felt like. He tried to imagine what kind of woman would have such a name. It didn’t go with her hard, merciless voice.

      “Very well,” she said. “But only if we can tie him to one of the horses. I won’t have him loose for a moment.”

      “He may not survive the ride,” the woman with the cool fingers said.

      “It’s the only way,” Serenity said. “If he makes one hostile move, we drop him.”

      Smart, Jacob thought dreamily. Smart—and tough. Tough enough to beat Leroy at his own game. But were the men dead? He’d heard those six horses running away, sure enough, but he doubted the outlaws would have fled if they hadn’t been caught by surprise. If Leroy and his men were alive, they might come back at any time.

      He had to warn these women somehow. He opened his mouth. His lips cracked. His tongue was like a chunk of stiff rawhide, but somehow he managed to move it.

      “G…go,” he rasped. “Get a—”

      Lightning flashed inside his skull, and the blackness engulfed him.

      SHE HATED HIM.

      Serenity didn’t have to know a single thing about the man slung over the back of Changying’s horse. One good look at him was enough. It wasn’t just the way he was dressed, not much different from his tormentors, or the fact that he had been so quick and graceful and handled the gun like an expert in spite of the severity of his injuries. She wasn’t deceived the way Frances had been, assuming this was a helpless victim in need of succor.

      No. Helpless he might be—for now—but he wasn’t some innocent passerby set on by outlaws. Killers like those other men didn’t bother to torture a captive for no reason, and this man had been shot and beaten and put out in the sun to fry like bacon on a griddle.

      More than likely he was one of them, or someone just like them. His face told the tale. It was young enough. It might even be handsome under the grime and sunburn.

      But it was also hard. Hard in the way only a killer’s would be, narrow-eyed, thin-lipped, sharp as the edge of an ax blade. The kind of face people didn’t stare into for long, because they knew one look too many might leave them wishing they’d never seen his face at all.

      Serenity touched the butt of her rifle in its scabbard. For a red cent she would untie those ropes and leave him in the dust. He was like a sickness, a rot that would invade Avalon and steal its peace even if he never recovered at all.

      Her hand closed around the rifle stock. One move…

      Changying shifted behind her, reminding Serenity that she had more than her own wishes to consider. “It was right to take him,” the Chinese woman said quietly. “I know you would never have left him to die.”

      Changying was right. She wouldn’t have left him. No more than she would have left a beaten dog.

      When they stopped briefly to rest the horses at the well, Changying reported that he was still alive. Serenity permitted the healer to set him upright just long enough to give him water, but the liquid only dribbled over his flaking lips. Serenity pushed on even after the sun had set, torn between wanting the security of home and hoping the man died before they reached it. There was still some danger that the other men might follow, though she knew she had wounded two of them, one badly.

      A mile west of Avalon, Frances spurred ahead to warn the others. By the time Serenity, Changying and their cargo reached the ranch house, several of the other women were there: Victoria, Avalon’s blacksmith, her bare arms still coated with ash from her shop; Helene, her belly bulging under her apron; Bonnie, her cascade of red hair falling into her face after a hard day of washing; Michaela and Nettie, both weary from their day’s work. Zora, Caridad and Judith were still out on the southern range but should be returning at any moment. They would be of the most use if the man caused any trouble.

      Not that she would let him get the chance.

      Bonnie approached Changying’s horse, her green eyes curious. She bent to peer into the stranger’s face. “Frances said you were bringing a man back here, but I didn’t believe it,” she said. “Who is he?”

      “He hasn’t been able to speak,” Serenity said as she and Changying dismounted. “He may not last the night.”

      “Yes, he will!” Frances said. “Changying will take care of him.”

      The other women turned to stare at the girl. “You seem very happy to have him here,” Victoria said softly. “Haven’t you listened to anything we’ve said?”

      Frances thrust out her chin. “I’m not afraid of him just because he’s a man! He can’t hurt any of us.”

      Helene