Page 103 of Honey Drop Dead

And there was Drayton in the middle of a corral. Frantic. Spinning in circles, slipping in the dirt, then springing to his feet again. He was covered in dust from head to toe, but Theodosia could see the fear etched on his face as he tried to elude the gigantic animal that was slowly stalking him.

The bull itself was an enormous bruiser, black with a shiny coat that glistened in the sun. At least a ton and a half of pure muscle and sinew, each horn curling out at least three feet where it came to a sharp point. A killing point.

“Run for the fence!” Theodosia yelled to Drayton. “Do it now!” Out of the corner of her eye she suddenly saw Philip hanging on the gate, laughing at Drayton’s dire predicament, actually enjoying himself.

Philip? What’s going on? Where’s Lucket?

Drayton spun around fast, saw Theodosia waving to him, and almost tripped.

“The fence!” Theodosia screamed again. “Run to the fence and climb up.”

The bull, meanwhile, lowered its head and pawed the dirt. It was getting ready to charge.

“Do it now, Drayton!” Theodosia shouted.

Finally heeding Theodosia’s shouts, Drayton half ran, half limped for the fence. His long legs stretched out, his hands clawed for purchase. He hit the fence so hard the boards rattled and groaned. And just as he pulled himself up, achingly slow, just as his foot lifted off the lowest rail, the bull charged the fence with all the force it could muster.

WHAM!

The boards shuddered from such a cataclysmic collision.

Theodosia’s heart was in her throat as she worried and prayed. But, thanks be to heaven, Drayton had made it! He’d scrambled to safety! Now he cowered on the top two rails of the fence, looking anguished, hanging on for dear life.

Philip, on the other hand, looked furious. He shook a fist at Drayton, shouting a string of unintelligible words. For some reason, he was ignoring Theodosia and focusing all his rage on Drayton.

“Philip!” Theodosia cried. “What are you doing?”

“You may have escaped the bull,” Philip shrieked at Drayton, “but you can’t escape me.” Then Philip, a crazed half smile on his face, climbed up onto the very top of the gate, pulled out a gun, and pointed it directly at Drayton.

Theodosia stared in amazement, not knowing what to do. Was Philip stark raving mad? He must be. He had to be. Would he really shoot Drayton?

But there he was. Leveling his gun in Drayton’s direction!

Theodosia knew she had to act fast, had to stop this cold-blooded killing. She was Drayton’s only hope at this point. But could she hit Philip from this distance? Would her antique gun even fire?

Philip’s grin stretched across his face like a malevolent Halloween jack-o’-lantern as he leveled his gun, rested his index finger on the trigger and...

BANG!

The explosion was deafening.

***

Drayton squeezed his eyes shut at the very last moment, tensing every muscle, every fiber of his being, hoping for the best. Praying that Philip was a lousy shot and would only wing him in the shoulder, causing a painful, but hopefully fixable, flesh wound.

As that horrible, cringe-inducing thought settled over Drayton, the world seemed to explode around him. Seconds later, his eyes flew open and he looked down at himself, fully expecting to see blood spurting from a terrible bullet wound.

But no.

Philip Boldt was the one with the shocked expression on his face. He was hanging on to the gate where he’d half fallen, twisting in agony. A gush of bright crimson blood poured from his left shoulder and his gun dropped from his hand. Then he lost his grip completely and slipped slowly down the gate, landing flat on his back in the dirt.

Realizing his fate, knowing he’d sustained a terrible wound, Philip let out an ungodly scream that rose up to the heavens. Then his feet beat hard against the earth as he struggled to sit up. He made it halfway, then uttered a strangled gasp and flopped back down.

“What happened?” Drayton blurted as he jumped down from the fence, landing outside the corral. He ran in Philip’s direction, fearful, practically tripping over himself in the process. When he got there, Theodosia was standing over Philip. Her mouth was set in a grim line, her face was white as snow, and her mane of auburn hair billowed about her face. Hands shaking, she was still pointing a gun at Philip.

“I didn’t want to shoot him,” Theodosia said when she saw Drayton. Her voice was a dry croak, she wore a look of absolute distress. “But he was going to kill you.”

“I believe that was his intent,” Drayton said in a raspy whisper. Then he looked at the pistol in her hand and said, “Sweet Fanny Adams, that’s my pistol.”

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