Page 111 of Charlotte's Reckoning
Good heavens, two of them! She’d need perfect aim or time to reload. Her best effort was six out of ten, far from perfect, and the difference between living and dying.
She glanced into her bedroom. Her derringer sat on the nightstand. Did she stay or get it?
The door latch rattled then a shoulder or a boot slammed against it. The new wood and latch held, thank goodness.
“You have until the count of three to leave, or I shoot. One...”
Another bang and the screws in the old frame gave slightly.
“Two…” she called more shrilly, her finger tensing on the trigger.
“Three,” she shouted, at the same time a more forceful bang knocked a screw out. Wishing they had listened, she fired twice, blowing a hole in the door as promised.
Through it, she could see a man lying on the porch.
“Shit, Cleve. The bitch shot me in the leg!”
Cleve! She recognized the name. He was one of the two outlaws who’d searched her room at the Red Eye. When lightning lit up the sky, she also recognized the skinny man who was with him that day. Quentin had sent them!
Suddenly, the door exploded inward with a deafening crash, splintering wood flying everywhere. “Fucking whore!” the other man roared. “You’re gonna be sorry for shooting my brother!”
Charlotte dropped the empty shotgun and ran for her derringer. A fist in her nightgown brought her up short, and he used it to reel her in, the neckline tearing and coming off one shoulder.
She twisted, clawing at his restraining hands and kicking wildly to get free, but he was too strong. With a violent shove that lifted her off her feet, he slammed her against the wall. Her head hit hard, and she saw a flash of white light.
“We were going to see you off with a final fuck, but you don’t deserve it. You deserve to die.” Fingers, like ten steel talons, tightened around her throat, cut off her air, and intensified the white light.
She lashed out, wildly punching and clawing at his face, but his grip only tightened. Distant shouts were unintelligible, fading as black spots swambefore her eyes. Another gunshot roared, deafeningly close, causing a buzzing in her ears—or maybe it was just the lack of air.
The hands abruptly vanished, and she gasped, filling her burning lungs. Shaking uncontrollably, her knees gave way, and she fell—not onto the floor but onto Cleve. Blood trickled from a bullet hole in his temple; his vacant eyes stared straight ahead.
A raw scream tore from her throat as she scrambled back. It escalated into a shriek when hands curled under her arms and lifted her.
“Let me go!” she croaked, panic rising at the thought of the brother, or worse, a third attacker.
“Charlotte, darlin’, it’s me.”
The voice was achingly familiar, but she craned her neck to be sure. “Seth!” she sobbed, throwing her arms around him as relief washed over her.
“You’re safe,” he whispered, holding her close, his face buried in her hair. Then, almost to himself, “Thank God I got here in time.”
Still shaken, she wrapped her legs around his waist to get closer, but it wasn’t enough. Desperate for reassurance, she whispered, “Kiss me.”
He didn’t hesitate. His fingers tangled in her hair, one hand finding its way to her backside. He carried her from the bedroom, away from the bloody scene, while deepening the kiss.
“Hey!” an infuriated voice called from outside. “You can’t just leave me out here in the rain to bleed to death.”
Neither cared if he drowned in the deluge. They ignored the injured man, clinging to one another, their bodies pressed close. She survived the ordeal; that was all that mattered.
“Cleve! Help me!” the injured man pleaded.
Hearing him call for his dead brother chilled her passion like being doused in ice water. Seth, too, evidently. He pulled his mouth away, his breath ragged, and rested his forehead against hers.
“Being sheriff is a real pain in the ass.”
“I’m finding it rather handy, and your timing is impeccable. What do we do now?” she asked.
“I should probably get one to the doctor and the other to the undertaker.”
