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

into the curtain of darkness.
    For a moment, Grace lost sight of Donovan in the dark. His black clothes made him seem part of the night. She grabbed the saddle horn of the sixteen-hand gray gelding she'd bought from that flimflam liveryman down the street. As she crow-hopped with one booted foot locked in the stirrup, and the reins of both her and Donovan's horses clamped in her hand, it occurred to her that only an idiot would have chosen Mt. Everest for a getaway steed. Not only could she not haul herself into the saddle of the dapple gray behemoth, she was in serious danger of being trampled under the hooves as it scrambled, white-eyed, away from her.
    "Whoa! Whoo-hoahh!" Grace cried, hanging on for dear life. Without warning, a large hand planted itself firmly on her backside and shoved her upward and nearly over the other side!
    Grace shrieked, clawing for purchase on the horse's wide neck. Donovan cursed again and caught her by the leg before she could fall. He righted her halfway onto the saddle before he reached for the reins of his horse.
    A bullet plowed into the dirt at their feet, and the horses gave a unanimous, squealing cry of terror, sidestepping frantically. Donovan's horse backed into the hitching rail, splintering it with the force of the blow. Jerking its reins from Grace's hands, the black went down in a tangle of shattered wood and flaying hooves. Before she or Donovan or anyone could do anything to stop it, the downed horse found its legs and bolted into the darkness, dragging its loose reins behind it.
    Reese swore, diving into the shadows to evade the oncoming bullets. Another shot slammed Donovan against the wall, and he dropped to one knee behind a water barrel.
    "Mr. Donovan! Are you all right?"
    "I'm bloody fine!" He pulled off another shot at the pair across the street. Wood splintered from the edge of the watering trough. "Get out of here!"
    "Not without you!"
    Brew raised the rifle he'd stolen from the marshal's wall and fired at the two men emerging from behind the trough. One of them dropped his gun and grabbed for his wounded arm. Donovan fired again and the other one cried out, flattened himself to the ground, then rolled back into the shadows. The hammer of Donovan's gun struck an empty chamber.
    He broke cover, running toward Grace's horse. "Go!" he shouted to Brew.
    "Not without her!" he shouted back, reaching for the reins of Grace's horse.
    Without hesitation, Donovan took hold of her saddle horn and vaulted up behind her, colliding with her back. He shoved her down hard against the neck of the horse and reached for the reins.
    "Donovan!"
    The deep voice came from the window of the jail, not ten feet away. Donovan yanked the reins around. Grace's heart sunk at the sight of Connell Smith pointing a small-caliber revolver at them through the bars of the window.
    Grace felt Donovan's whole body go tense behind her.
    Smith looked a little woozy, but held his gun steady. "You forgot to check my boot."
    Donovan cursed behind her, reining the prancing gray around so his body shielded hers. "Go ahead," he told the deputy breathlessly, his empty gun resting on his thigh. "Shoot. I'm a dead man anyway."
    "No!" Grace cried, but Donovan pressed a hand down hard against her back. She winced at the stab of the saddle horn against her belly.
    For a dozen beats of her heart, Grace waited for the inevitable explosion. Numb, blind fear coiled around her throat, making breathing and rational thought impossible. Smith stared at Donovan, indecision clouding his eyes. Maddeningly, Donovan held the horse in check, refusing to run, and faced Smith head-on, daring him to shoot. Was he insane, making a target of himself for Smith's gun? Why didn't he run?
    An eternity passed in mere seconds. Then, the unbelievable happened. Smith pulled his aim wide to the left and fired two shots into the dirt beside them.
    Grace blinked back at Donovan, who held the nervous horse firm. There wasn't a shred of gratitude in the