First Class Male by Jillian Hart Page B

ground, falling helplessly, or dead. She really had expected to be dead. Determined, she kept going, ignoring the spate of bullets peppering the ground around her, the sting of something slicing along the outer curve of her ankle.
    Just keep shooting, guys, she thought, running, stumbling, her skirts tangling around her ankles, tripping her. Terror choked her, gasped in her breath, kicked in her veins, but the men were making enough noise that Mason could hear. He would be warned there was trouble ahead. That was all that mattered.

    There she is.
A scrap of deep blue against the amber and tawny slope. Mason frowned. Did she think she could outrun those bullets?
    He wheeled Indigo off the road, onto rocky terrain, dropping the reins to position his rifle, guiding the animal with his knees. The gelding obeyed instantly, charging up the dangerous slope without hesitation. Pulse thrumming, sweat gathering on the back of his neck, Mason peered down the length of the barrel, searching for his shot.
    Three men, one stayed astride on the trail, a revolver in each hand, lackadaisically firing off shots at the ground where Callie ran, while the other two were rounding her up. One behind, the other racing down the trail to get ahead of her, trying to cut her off. Maybe he could even the odds for her. He touched Indigo with his heels, counterbalancing his weight in the saddle as the horse skidded to a stop.
    Just one shot, he thought, that’s all it would take to help her escape. He lined up the iron sights dead center on the gunman’s chest, finger on the trigger, breathing out, ready to fire—
    A single gunshot boomed from nearby, the bullet digging into the slope ahead of him.
    “Take that shot, Marshal, and you’ll be a dead man,” a voice called out, sardonic and amused. “It’d be a real shame too, seeing as how you can’t rescue her if you’re dead.”
    Mason didn’t take his finger off the trigger. He squeezed, felt the kickback slam into his shoulder and kneed Indigo to move. A moving target was a whole lot harder to hit. As the gelding scrambled backward, Mason saw the outlaw on the trail up ahead tumble from his horse and hit the ground. But Callie? He searched the slope but there was no sign of her.
    Worry ate at him. One bullet, then two, whizzed by him, close enough to slice through the side of his shirt, tearing the fabric. He swung his rifle to the left and up, searching for the wide-brimmed hat hunkered down behind a protective shield of big rocks searching for the gunman. There that bastard was. Mason pumped the lever, squeezed the trigger, willed the bullet to hit.
    Bingo. The hat went flying, but was it a good hit? Mason didn’t know. He galloped Indigo down the trail, cutting across the slope, driving for cover. The boulders were small, not optimal, but tall and wide enough to protect him and Indigo. Gunfire followed him in. Apparently it hadn’t been a kill shot, the now hatless outlaw was at it again. Judging by the flurry of bullets, he sounded a little pissed.
    Well, that made two of them. Mason hunkered down behind the rock, taking a second to look around. There was Callie. His chest punched with relief, although it looked like Lew Folsom had her, dragging her by her braid up the slope. The gang leader stepped over his fallen comrade like he was a rock on the road and tossed Callie onto one of the horses. Mason grimaced, swore, cursed, wanted nothing more than to be able to get to her, but there was no way. No possible way. The outlaws rode out of sight, taking her with them.
    Mason hung his head. Fury filled him like a volcano, bubbling hot lava of anger roiling around inside him, ready to blow. He heard the clomp of horses, of bridles jingling—his men had arrived.
    “Marshal!” The hatless outlaw shouted from behind his rock. He was outnumbered, and the arriving lawmen were just out of his range, moving off the road, taking cover, moving forward cautiously. “I got a message for