The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) by Barbara Ankrum

once the marshal gets wind of this. And if we don't hurry, it won't matter what we steal." He gestured toward the door with a solemn flick of his gray head. "The horses are outside. And don't try nothin' funny, Donovan. These guns are as much for you as for Sanders if you're thinkin' of parting company once yer out the door."
    Reese grinned amiably. "I wouldn't think of it, old man."
    "It's Brewster to you."
    "Let's save the formalities until we're away from here, all right?" Grabbing his gun belt off a peg near the door, Donovan fastened it around his hips with a gunman's ease. He shrugged on a dirt-colored oiled canvas duster hanging beside it, then lifted his black felt hat with its band of silver conchos off the peg and fitted it on his head. He pulled the heavy door open and swept a mock-gallant arm across the threshold. "After you."
    Grace slipped out into the darkness, followed by Brewster and Donovan. They hurried through the shadows around the corner of the jail, beneath the overhang of thick pine beams protruding from the adobe. In the distance, the faint sounds from the cantinas up the street drifted to them, punctuated by laughter closer by.
    As one, they pressed into the shadows of the building at the sound. The moon darted in and out from behind the high, fast-moving clouds, mocking their attempts at invisibility. The sound of laughter drew closer, distinguishing itself from the ramshackle buildings across the wide span of road separating the north and south sides of Pair-a-Dice. Several men were coming their way.
    Reese cursed under his breath, gripping his gun harder and drawing Grace roughly closer to him. Not fifteen feet away, he could hear the soft snorting of the horses Brewster and Grace must have left tied there. Fifteen feet of open ground, more than enough to be caught cold.
    Seconds dragged by. The pounding of his heart echoed the thud of hers against his ribs. She hadn't stopped shaking. They heard the drunken voices of two men somewhere in the lengthening darkness. Too close to judge, too far to see. Of all the times to run into company, he thought. But they had to go. Every second they delayed could mean disaster.
    He looked up at the moon, which was suddenly and frustratingly clear of the very clouds they needed to obscure their escape.
    "Let's go," Reese urged, shoving Grace forward. She balked, stumbling to a halt two steps away.
    "Wait. What if they see us?" she whispered urgently.
    "We have to take that chance. One at a time—go!" he ordered in a hoarse whisper.
    She lunged forward into the dappled spill of moonlight, feeling utterly exposed. Covering the ground between the wall and the horses at a dead run, she collided with the hitching rail in the darkness with a grunt of pain. Donovan appeared beside her like an apparition in the darkness.
    "You all right?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.
    She nodded. With shaking hands, she untied the reins of all three horses, the warm, steamy breath of the black brushing the back of her neck. Her knuckles whitened around the whipcord leather.
    "Mount up," Donovan ordered.
    Brew relieved her of the reins of his horse and launched himself aboard the black-stockinged bay. "C'mon, Gracie, dad-blame it!" he called. His breath came in rattling puffs, and Grace feared a coughing spell coming on.
    Indeed, only seconds later, Brew hacked hard and loud, his breath a wheezing rattle that echoed across the dusty street like a warning shot.
    "Hey!" came a shout from the street behind them. "Hey, you there!"
    Hands locked around her mount's saddle horn, Grace froze. "Oh no."
    "It's Donovan!" came another voice from the darkness. "He's gettin' away! Ree-ward's mine, if I nail 'im first!"
    Grace cried out as gunshots exploded nearby, tearing into the adobe wall of the building beside them. Beside her, Reese's gun thundered with a deafening roar, the shot sending a plume of water gushing upward from the trough the man had crouched behind.
    The man cursed, ducking back