Page 15 of In Her Sights

The sound of people screaming and running down the street filtered into the shop. Mrs. Robertson hopped off the dais and ducked behind a fainting couch in the corner.

Tessa darted around the screen and ran to the front of the store, trying to see around the chaos to determine what was happening.

Laura waved at her from behind the counter. "Get away from the window! It's not safe."

Just as she began to draw back, a man ran into the shop. Mr. Robertson. "Is my wife here?"

Tessa nodded and pointed to the screen. "In the back."

He started to go to her, but Tessa stopped him with a question. "What's happening?"

"A pair of outlaws are holding up the gun shop. I heard the big one threaten to kill Poindexter if that Spivey kid doesn't hand over the money and merchandise. I knew that boy was bad for this town. Bringing in the criminal element."

A defense of Jackson sprang to her lips, but she opted for a more imperative response. "Has anyone notified the sheriff?"

"Sheriff's been out of town tracking rustlers since yesterday. Poindexter's on his own. God help him."

But he wasn't. Jackson was there. And if Tessa knew anything about Jackson Spivey, it was that he would fight to his last breath to protect what had been entrusted to him. To prove himself a man of honor. And if the sheriff wasn't around to watch his back, she could think of only one other person who would.

She ran to the workroom, unlocked the gun case, and loaded her pistol with the bullets she'd stored inside the case. Icy calm spread through her as she emulated Annie Oakley's confident demeanor. Jackson needed her. She would not let him down.

Dropping a handful of extra ammunition in her skirt pocket, she gripped the gun in her right hand and strode for the back door, head high and heart pounding.

Time to fight for her man.

Jackson stared into the hardened face of the gunman currently aiming a Colt .44 at his chest. The man's partner had an arm coiled around Mr. Poindexter's shoulders with the barrel of his Peacemaker pressed to Poindexter's skull. They'd already fired off a round of warning shots that scattered the townsfolk and cleared the streets.

"Uh uh uh. Hands up."

Jackson complied. Even if he could reach under the counter and grab the revolver he'd just repaired for a customer, the gun would do him no good unloaded.

"Your daddy warned me you was hardheaded. A good shot, too. I'll thank ya to keep them hands where I can see 'em."

The man stood about five foot ten and looked whipcord lean. Grime coated his clothes and skin, like a man who bedded down by a campfire every night and considered the occasional rain shower a bath substitute. A shaggy black beard hid his neck, but when he spoke, teeth stained yellow from tobacco peeked out from beneath his untrimmed mustache. His eyes demanded attention, though. Dark. Flinty. Cold. As if his soul had been seared long ago. His gun arm held rock-steady, and Jackson had no doubt of his skill. An outlaw didn't live into his middle years without being able to shoot what he aimed at.

"I ain't seen my daddy in more'n three years." Jackson glanced over to his boss, praying the man would keep a cool head. Poindexter was more of a trapshooting fella than a true hunter. He wasn't used to pitting himself against critters that could kill in return.

"Well, I saw 'im two months ago." Flint Eyes smiled, the expression somehow making him look more dangerous. He turned his chin but not his gaze, then spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the floor. "At Huntsville. Before I gained my release. Ol' Sam owed me a pile o' money. Told me you'd square his debt. I'm here to collect."

Jackson clenched his jaw. "'Fraid you wasted a trip. I got nothin' for you."

Flint Eyes and his greasy-haired friend might have expected to find a young, wet-behind-the-ears kid without the sand to stand up to them, but Jackson planned on disappointing them. He'd not roll over. They could say all they wanted about his pa, too. He knew better than to believe a word of it. Yes, his pa was serving time at Huntsville, and yes, he was a two-bit crook with a penchant for losing money as regularly as a molting chicken lost feathers, but he was loyal to his kin. He mighta been a lousy father who left his boy to fend for himself most of his growing-up years, but he wouldn't send a thug to threaten his son at gunpoint. Especially since there weren't no liquor in prison to pickle his brain and weaken his willpower. More'n likely, this fella got ahold of one of Jackson's letters and thought to use the information to his advantage.

The fella in question narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to Jackson. "That's not how I see it. I see a whole store full of things you can give me."

Jackson's gut tightened as the outlaw's gun came a foot closer to his chest, but he kept his expression flat. The minute he showed weakness, he'd be done for. If he could keep Flint Eyes talking, though, he might be able to buy time for someone to intervene. The sheriff was out of the picture, which was likely why this pair had decided to make their move today, but surely someone else would step up. All he needed was a distraction. A chance to get the upper hand. None of the guns in the shop were loaded, but a rifle stock made a mighty fine club. Only trouble was, Mr. Poindexter. Jackson couldn't make a stand until his boss was out of harm's way.

Hands still up, Jackson managed a small shrug. "None of this is mine to give."

Flint Eyes took another step, the rowels on his spurs jangling loudly in the quiet room. "I'm gettin' tired of your lip, boy." He reached behind his back with his left hand and pulled a folded gunny sack from his waistband. He tossed it on top of the counter. "Fill it. Give me the best small arms you got. Cartridges too."

Jackson lowered his hands and picked up the bag. He looked past the outlaw, however, and sought permission from his boss. If he lived through this, he didn't want anyone accusing him of helping thieves.

"For pity's sake, Jackson." Mr. Poindexter quivered in the grasp of the second man, his skin pale, his face sweating. "Give them whatever they want."

"You heard the man." The outlaw holding Mr. Poindexter sneered as he pressed his gun barrel harder into his hostage's head.

Mr. Poindexter whimpered. Jackson turned away and started filling the sack with boxes of cartridges. In an act of defiance, he stuffed the bag with boxes of longer rifle cartridges instead of the ammunition that would fit the small arms they'd ordered him to retrieve. It might be petty and a bit pointless since they were sure to have rifles too, but it made him feel better to squeeze out a drop or two of retribution for them terrorizing Poindexter.