Page 31 of New Storm Rising
“Ya…ya can’t…!”
“Oh, and you’ll be sleeping in the doghouse tonight,” I added helpfully. Sharing marital experience turned out to be so much fun.
“Only if that bastard Brit wins!” the man protested. “Ya can’t say for sure that—”
That was the moment when the last Spaniard sailed through the air, his face nothing but a mess of bloody blotches and broken bones. Except for the fist-shaped indent in his cheek, that is.
Crash!
The room shook as he hit the ground. For a moment, silence pervaded the entire saloon, and nothing moved but the cloud of dust rising from the floor. Then, the figure of Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode past our little group, picked up a glass of water from a nearby table, and downed it in one go.
“You were saying?” I asked my betting partner, while silently busy admiring my awesome husband. Except for Rikkard Ambrose, who would dare down water in a saloon, and look cool doing it?
Literally cool. Like, minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit.[11]
“Thank you all very much for your generosity, gentlemen,” I told my new bet-happy friends, smiling at the crowd. I’m sure they were all smiling back, deep inside. The way their faces were contorted into grimaces was probably pure coincidence, right?
Gathering up my winnings, I tipped my bowler hat at them and strode over to Mr Rikkard Ambrose, cocking my head.
“May I assume that our ‘chat with the locals’ is concluded?”
“Indeed. You may.”
“Then what do we do now?”
Mr Ambrose’s mouth opened to speak, and—
Wham!
The door to the saloon slammed open, revealing the bristling form of another Spanish thug, with ten, twenty…oops, no, three dozen more behind him.
“Who?” The Spaniard bellowed, pointing to his two unconscious countrymen on the ground. “Who did this?”
“Now,” Mr Rikkard Ambrose told me, setting down the empty glass of water, “we leave.”
And, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, he dashed off. Together, we vaulted over the bar, and—
“Ooof!”
“Oops. Sorry.” I sent an apologetic smile at the barkeep whose gut had kindly cushioned my landing. “You don’t mind if we use your back door, do you?”
“Grgl…”
“Thanks! You’re a dear!”
And, patting the baldy’s head, I dashed after Mr Ambrose out the back. To judge by the screaming mob behind us, the Spaniards weren’t kind enough to give us a head start.
Slamming open the door, we rushed out into the dusty street, people stopping their day-to-day chores to stare at us. That ended the moment the first gunshot rang out.
“Everyone, get down!” I shouted.
A second gunshot sounded, and the townspeople hurled themselves to the ground, doing the best they could to hide behind carts and barrels. Mr Ambrose threw me a look. “Why did you ruin our human shields?” he growled.
“You…!” Huffing and puffing, I glared up at him sideways. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Duck!”
Two rock-hard arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me down behind a wagon, just before—
