The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Barbara Ankrum
jaw. "Put her down, now, or by God you'll wish you had." He pointed the barrel of his gun purposefully downward toward Deke's crotch. "I've a clear shot."
Sanders stilled, considering that awful consequence. Weighing his options, he slid Grace off his shoulder, and dropped her heavily onto the floor. She landed with a thud. Black spots swam before her eyes as the blood rushed from her head. She grabbed the edge of a nearby table for balance and pulled herself up. Swallowing hard, she backed up against the long wooden-planked bar.
Without taking his eyes off Donovan, Sanders pointed at her. "Stay there, bon-eeta. I ain't done with you— yet."
"Oh, I think he is. Get out of here, Miss Turner," Donovan told her, hitching his chin in the direction of the door, but she found herself rooted to the spot. Her feet refused to cooperate with the command to run.
"Mr. Donovan," she pleaded in a choked whisper, but he wasn't looking at her. His gaze was riveted to Sanders.
Sanders gingerly pulled aside the edge of his jacket to reveal a shiny, ivory-handled revolver strapped to his hip. "I ain't afraid of you, Donovan. I'm younger and faster'n you'll ever be. Your hand ain't steady enough no more to aim that gun of yours."
"Think not?"
"Yeah."
"Willin' to bet your life on it, are you?"
"Try me."
Donovan eased his pistol back into its holster and lifted his hand away. "You're drunk, Deke. Go home and sleep it off."
Sanders laughed uneasily. "You yellow, Donovan? I heard that about you. That you was yellow. I heard you even shot a friend in the back. That true— mick?"
"Get out of here, Deke, before I have to kill you."
"Ooh-hoo, I'm shakin' in my longjohns. Ain't I, boys?"
Grace eyed the men pressed up against the far wall. None but Shelby found much humor in the remark. He rubbed a nervous hand down his face. "You show 'em, Deke," he called.
Sanders rolled the tension out of one shoulder. "I'm gonna find out how fast this Irish yellow-belly really is."
"Get out of here, lady," Donovan ordered without looking at her. "Now."
Before she could begin edging toward the louvered doors, Deke countered, "Don't you move, girly-girl."
Anger crept up the back of Grace's neck. They weren't actually going to shoot each other, were they? And not even truly over her—over a bottle of whiskey!
Appalled, and shaken from her torpor by the thought, she reached for her fan and edged along the bar toward the door. If they insisted on murdering one another, she had no desire to see it.
"I do not now, Mr. Sanders," she said, "nor have I ever answered to the appellation 'girly-girl,' or 'boneeta' or any other—"
She didn't see the sawdust-filled gaboon planted near the foot rail until her foot struck it hard. Pain shot up her big toe and, balance lost, she jackknifed over the mucky receptacle. As she fell, the sound of gunfire exploded beside her. How many shots were fired, she had no way of knowing. Her ears rang with the sound. Reflexively, she slammed herself back against the bar in time to see the fat man, Shelby—drawn gun dangling from his fingers—stagger backward and fall across the rickety table behind him, sending the tiger-painted faro box, cards, and stacks of poker chips spinning across the room.
Grace's eyes widened in horror as Sanders stumbled backward as well, a blossom of crimson spreading quickly across his chest. His hands clutched at the air. She'd never forget the surprised expression on the man's face, or the moment when the life seemed to blink out of his eyes as he dropped heavily to the floor.
Nor would she ever forget the feral, almost wild, look in Reese Donovan's eyes as he lowered his smoking gun and looked at her, his expression filled with accusation.
Chapter 2
He blamed her.
Grace clamped a hand over her mouth, afraid she'd be sick. Two lives, snuffed out in the flash of a moment. Dead by Donovan's gun. Had she caused it? Certainly, she reasoned, if she'd never crossed the threshold of this little
Sanders stilled, considering that awful consequence. Weighing his options, he slid Grace off his shoulder, and dropped her heavily onto the floor. She landed with a thud. Black spots swam before her eyes as the blood rushed from her head. She grabbed the edge of a nearby table for balance and pulled herself up. Swallowing hard, she backed up against the long wooden-planked bar.
Without taking his eyes off Donovan, Sanders pointed at her. "Stay there, bon-eeta. I ain't done with you— yet."
"Oh, I think he is. Get out of here, Miss Turner," Donovan told her, hitching his chin in the direction of the door, but she found herself rooted to the spot. Her feet refused to cooperate with the command to run.
"Mr. Donovan," she pleaded in a choked whisper, but he wasn't looking at her. His gaze was riveted to Sanders.
Sanders gingerly pulled aside the edge of his jacket to reveal a shiny, ivory-handled revolver strapped to his hip. "I ain't afraid of you, Donovan. I'm younger and faster'n you'll ever be. Your hand ain't steady enough no more to aim that gun of yours."
"Think not?"
"Yeah."
"Willin' to bet your life on it, are you?"
"Try me."
Donovan eased his pistol back into its holster and lifted his hand away. "You're drunk, Deke. Go home and sleep it off."
Sanders laughed uneasily. "You yellow, Donovan? I heard that about you. That you was yellow. I heard you even shot a friend in the back. That true— mick?"
"Get out of here, Deke, before I have to kill you."
"Ooh-hoo, I'm shakin' in my longjohns. Ain't I, boys?"
Grace eyed the men pressed up against the far wall. None but Shelby found much humor in the remark. He rubbed a nervous hand down his face. "You show 'em, Deke," he called.
Sanders rolled the tension out of one shoulder. "I'm gonna find out how fast this Irish yellow-belly really is."
"Get out of here, lady," Donovan ordered without looking at her. "Now."
Before she could begin edging toward the louvered doors, Deke countered, "Don't you move, girly-girl."
Anger crept up the back of Grace's neck. They weren't actually going to shoot each other, were they? And not even truly over her—over a bottle of whiskey!
Appalled, and shaken from her torpor by the thought, she reached for her fan and edged along the bar toward the door. If they insisted on murdering one another, she had no desire to see it.
"I do not now, Mr. Sanders," she said, "nor have I ever answered to the appellation 'girly-girl,' or 'boneeta' or any other—"
She didn't see the sawdust-filled gaboon planted near the foot rail until her foot struck it hard. Pain shot up her big toe and, balance lost, she jackknifed over the mucky receptacle. As she fell, the sound of gunfire exploded beside her. How many shots were fired, she had no way of knowing. Her ears rang with the sound. Reflexively, she slammed herself back against the bar in time to see the fat man, Shelby—drawn gun dangling from his fingers—stagger backward and fall across the rickety table behind him, sending the tiger-painted faro box, cards, and stacks of poker chips spinning across the room.
Grace's eyes widened in horror as Sanders stumbled backward as well, a blossom of crimson spreading quickly across his chest. His hands clutched at the air. She'd never forget the surprised expression on the man's face, or the moment when the life seemed to blink out of his eyes as he dropped heavily to the floor.
Nor would she ever forget the feral, almost wild, look in Reese Donovan's eyes as he lowered his smoking gun and looked at her, his expression filled with accusation.
Chapter 2
He blamed her.
Grace clamped a hand over her mouth, afraid she'd be sick. Two lives, snuffed out in the flash of a moment. Dead by Donovan's gun. Had she caused it? Certainly, she reasoned, if she'd never crossed the threshold of this little
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