A Little Time in Texas by Joan Johnston Page B

that she had not noticed in the shadows when she’d arrived. She edged warily around them to reach Red, then threw herself into the saddle and lit a shuck out of there, back toward Dallas and safety.
    Mere seconds later she looked over her shoulder to see that the men had mounted the machines as though they were horses. The roaring sound behind her was more terrifying than the scream of a cougar. She looked back and saw that the heads of the four men had been completely encased in large, dark objects, becoming featureless. Indeed the men and machines seemed like exotic one-eyed beasts chasing after her.
    It became very clear, very fast, that she could not outrun them. When Angel saw a set of headlights, she veered toward them. Hopefully this was someone who would help her; she was no worse off if it wasn’t. She was counting on providence to arrange for her rescue. Otherwise she would fend for herself. These four men might overwhelm her, but they would pay dearly before they did.
    Dallas took one look at Angel riding hell-bent for leather on Red, chased by four rough-looking men on motorcycles, and reached for his gun. When he found it missing, he realized he was going to have to rely on cunning and intelligence—and luck—if he hoped to get Angel out of this without anybody getting hurt. Of course if he ended up having to use a little muscle along with his brain, he wasn’t going to mind one bit.
    He stepped down from the cab and went to stand just beyond the front lights of the pickup, which he had left on after he killed the engine.
    Angel yanked Red to a sliding halt, threw herself out of the saddle and headed toward the truck on the run. “Help!” she cried. “I need help.”
    “Over here, Angel,” Dallas said in a quiet voice.
    She flew into his arms and he gave her a quick, hard hug before putting her away from him. “Go stand over by the truck, but stay out of the light.”
    The appearance of the truck had changed things for the men on motorcycles. They skidded their bikes to a stop on the fringes of the light and revved the engines threateningly.
    “This is none of your business,” the wounded man shouted from the darkness. “Get back in your truck, mister, and get outta here.”
    “I’m making it my business,” Dallas said. “You can make something out of it if you want to, but I won’t go down easy. Any of you boys wants to try me, come ahead.”
    Finally one of the motorcycle engines went dead, and the man Angel had wounded with her knife stepped into the light.
    “I’ve got me a grudge to settle with that bitch, even if I have to go through you to do it.”
    For the first time, in the light from the truck headlights, Angel saw the face of the huge man who had confronted her in the cave. He had a mustache that hung down and hid his lips. His nose was too big for his face and his eyes too small. His hair hung limp and greasy.
    Her gaze drifted down over the rest of him.Obscenities were written on his denim jacket, and his hairy belly hung down over jeans that had some kind of metal studs along the outside seam. There were tattoos on his arms, like the black markings she had sometimes seen on the slaves—now freed by President Lincoln—who had come from Africa. He looked mean and in no mood to be reasonable.
    “You and me,” the wounded man said. “Winner gets the girl.”
    Dallas felt the killing rage rise up inside him and controlled it. This man had threatened Angel, frightened her, wanted to rape her. The hair stood up on his nape; he was a feral animal challenged for his mate. “Fine,” he said, his voice cold and hard. “You and me. Winner gets the girl.”
    Dallas stepped into the light.
    Angel saw the sudden wariness in the biker’s face. He clearly hadn’t been expecting to face someone of Dallas’s stature. He still had the advantage of reach and weight. He stepped forward, hands fisted and held up to protect his face. Dallas lifted his hands into daunting fists, as well.