Nightway by Janet Dailey Page B

the force of it straightening him and sending him flying backward to the ground. Pain roared through his head.
    A woman’s scream echoed through his brain as he shook his head, trying to clear its fuzziness. As he pushed his swaying body to his knees, his blurred vision saw Carol running to Chad. He never made it to his feet as another blow sent him sprawling into the dirt.
    Again, Hawk wedged an arm between his body andthe ground to lever himself upright. Before he could carry out the attempt, the toe of a boot was driving into his ribs, lifting the middle of his body, and rolling him over. Sheer instinct took over, rolling his body another revolution away from his attacker and letting the momentum bring him woodenly to his knees.
    As Rawlins advanced toward him, Hawk dove for him. A fist clipped his temple, but Hawk got his arms around the man’s waist and hung on to drive Rawlins backward. Hawk’s superior size and weight should have forced Rawlins to the ground and give Hawk the few seconds he needed to clear his reeling senses so he could defend himself.
    But Rawlins didn’t go down. Something supported him. In the next second, a different pair of hands was dragging Hawk away from his attacker. His first thought was that someone was trying to stop the fight until he realized no one was holding Rawlins. With his arms pinned in a vise-like grip, he couldn’t ward off the swinging fist that slammed into his stomach.
    Struggling wildly, Hawk nearly freed an arm, but his captor was joined by a second man. Some distant part of his brain realized the two men holding him for the beating were the cowhands, Bill Short and Luther Wilcox, men he’d ridden with and worked beside. But Rawlins’ fists were hammering him to pieces, blotting out the sun and his memory.
    Blinded, stunned, and helpless, he felt the strength going out of his legs. He sagged, kept upright only by the two men who held him. A bone popped, enveloping him in a red mist of pure agony. More blows fell, but Hawk had begun to sink into a black oblivion that offered numbness. His weight grew heavier and heavier, pulling at the hands that held him. His head was on a swivel that allowed it to roll with the slamming fists.
    The blackness swallowed him and he slumped over like a dead weight.
    “He’s finished, boss.” Luther Wilcox was on Hawk’s right. He let go of his arm.
    “Pick him up.” Rawlins’ voice was guttural and winded, vibrating with savagery.
    For a pulsebeat, there wasn’t a sound. Then Luther hissed an appeal for some rational thinking. “You can’t kill him, boss. My God, he’s—” His gaze darted to Chad. He checked the words he’d been about to say, not wanting to be the one who called attention to Hawk’s blood relationship to Chad.
    Moreover, Luther wasn’t convinced that Tom Rawlins was within his rights to do more than just work Hawk over. He’d seen Rawlins’ daughter out riding with Hawk a couple of times this summer. If Hawk took advantage of the girl, it might have been because he’d been given some encouragement. And he wasn’t so sure Hawk was the only one. Besides, there was J. B.’s reaction to consider if Hawk was killed.
    The silence lengthened without Luther’s appeal for reason being dismissed. Vengeance still burned in the set of Rawlins’ features, but the murderous light was fading from his eyes. Luther sent a brief, sidelong glance at the cowboy gripping the waist of the half-crumpled body.
    “Let him go, Bill,” Luther ordered with a nodding gesture of his head, his voice low and quiet, careful not to let his tone usurp Rawlins’ authority.
    There was a dull thud as the arm was dropped and the rest of the body hit the ground. It seemed to snap Rawlins out of his poised stance, his hands stiffly flexing out of their fists. He turned to shoot a glance at his daughter. At some point, with Chad’s help, she had succeeded in putting on her blouse. His arms werearound her, offering both protection and