her mind: Come to see me. I miss you.
Hawk had waited too long before deciding to ride into town. He should have known it would be too late to pay a visit to the Silver-tons by the time he reached Sweetwater. And maybe that was for the best. He had no business trying to court Bethany, no matter the reason, whether it was for real or for revenge.
And it wasn’t for revenge. Not anymore. It had become increasingly difficult for him to believe the girl who’d invited him to church in order to win a wager was the same young lady who’d stood up for him in the mercantile last week. In his heart, he believed the real Bethany was the one in the mercantile, the one who’d touched his arm and, with tears in her eyes, said, “It doesn’t matter what anyone says.”
He slowed his horse as he drew near the Plains Saloon but didn’t stop. He continued down the street until he reached the livery stable. There he dismounted, his gaze on the Silverton home. There were lights burning both downstairs and up. The family must be awake. It wasn’t all that late. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if he called on them at this hour. He left his horse inside the livery and strode toward the preacher’s house. Raindrops began to fall, sparsely at first, then harder. If he didn’t get under cover quick, he would be drenched.
He was past the boardinghouse and nearing the church site when someone grabbed his arm and yanked. As he spun around, a fist crashed into his jaw, knocking him backward. He stumbled, then righted himself. But before he got his bearings, his assailant slammed into him a second time. This time Hawk took a hard hit in the solar plexus. The air whooshed out of him.
Rain fell in sheets now, getting in his eyes, making it hard to see. The earth beneath his feet turned slippery.
As he straightened, he saw the approach of a shadowy figure. He took a swing and connected, heard a grunt of pain, and snarled in satisfaction. Another shadow came at him from his left. A blow to his jaw knocked him backward a second time. His boot slipped in the mud and he fell. His head struck something hard, perhaps a stack of lumber for the church. He rolled to his side, struggling to rise.
“We got a message for you, Chandler. Stay away from the Silverton girl.”
One of the assailants kicked him in the ribs. Another kick and another and another. Fingers grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head up. A fist cracked against his cheek.
The men — he thought there were three of them — backed off. Were they leaving? He rolled onto his stomach, then rose up on all fours, coughing and gasping for air. Just one deep, long breath. That’s all he needed. Just one long —
The toe of a boot caught him in the gut, so hard it lifted him off the ground. Then he slammed to earth again, and everything went blessedly blank.
There was a moment as consciousness returned when Hawk felt nothing except the cold of the rain and the mud on his skin. Then he tried to get up, and pain exploded. In his head. In his chest. In his gut. It shot to the tips of his fingers and toes.
By sheer grit, he rose to his knees, dragged in more air, and got to his feet. Water and mud — or maybe it was blood — ran into his eyes. He couldn’t see anything clearly, but he made out some light that didn’t seem too far away. Instinct pulled him toward it. He held one arm tight against his belly as he dragged one foot, then the other forward.
He didn’t know how long it took to reach the porch of the preacher’s house. Minutes? Hours? Holding on to the railing, he wiped his shirtsleeve across his eyes, trying to clear his vision, before staggering forward and falling against the door. With his right hand, he knocked. Once, then again.
At that point what little strength he had left him, and he slid down the door. Unconsciousness loomed a second time. He lifted his hand as though to knock again, but his arm fell back to his side.
“God, help me,” he whispered before sliding
Hawk had waited too long before deciding to ride into town. He should have known it would be too late to pay a visit to the Silver-tons by the time he reached Sweetwater. And maybe that was for the best. He had no business trying to court Bethany, no matter the reason, whether it was for real or for revenge.
And it wasn’t for revenge. Not anymore. It had become increasingly difficult for him to believe the girl who’d invited him to church in order to win a wager was the same young lady who’d stood up for him in the mercantile last week. In his heart, he believed the real Bethany was the one in the mercantile, the one who’d touched his arm and, with tears in her eyes, said, “It doesn’t matter what anyone says.”
He slowed his horse as he drew near the Plains Saloon but didn’t stop. He continued down the street until he reached the livery stable. There he dismounted, his gaze on the Silverton home. There were lights burning both downstairs and up. The family must be awake. It wasn’t all that late. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if he called on them at this hour. He left his horse inside the livery and strode toward the preacher’s house. Raindrops began to fall, sparsely at first, then harder. If he didn’t get under cover quick, he would be drenched.
He was past the boardinghouse and nearing the church site when someone grabbed his arm and yanked. As he spun around, a fist crashed into his jaw, knocking him backward. He stumbled, then righted himself. But before he got his bearings, his assailant slammed into him a second time. This time Hawk took a hard hit in the solar plexus. The air whooshed out of him.
Rain fell in sheets now, getting in his eyes, making it hard to see. The earth beneath his feet turned slippery.
As he straightened, he saw the approach of a shadowy figure. He took a swing and connected, heard a grunt of pain, and snarled in satisfaction. Another shadow came at him from his left. A blow to his jaw knocked him backward a second time. His boot slipped in the mud and he fell. His head struck something hard, perhaps a stack of lumber for the church. He rolled to his side, struggling to rise.
“We got a message for you, Chandler. Stay away from the Silverton girl.”
One of the assailants kicked him in the ribs. Another kick and another and another. Fingers grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head up. A fist cracked against his cheek.
The men — he thought there were three of them — backed off. Were they leaving? He rolled onto his stomach, then rose up on all fours, coughing and gasping for air. Just one deep, long breath. That’s all he needed. Just one long —
The toe of a boot caught him in the gut, so hard it lifted him off the ground. Then he slammed to earth again, and everything went blessedly blank.
There was a moment as consciousness returned when Hawk felt nothing except the cold of the rain and the mud on his skin. Then he tried to get up, and pain exploded. In his head. In his chest. In his gut. It shot to the tips of his fingers and toes.
By sheer grit, he rose to his knees, dragged in more air, and got to his feet. Water and mud — or maybe it was blood — ran into his eyes. He couldn’t see anything clearly, but he made out some light that didn’t seem too far away. Instinct pulled him toward it. He held one arm tight against his belly as he dragged one foot, then the other forward.
He didn’t know how long it took to reach the porch of the preacher’s house. Minutes? Hours? Holding on to the railing, he wiped his shirtsleeve across his eyes, trying to clear his vision, before staggering forward and falling against the door. With his right hand, he knocked. Once, then again.
At that point what little strength he had left him, and he slid down the door. Unconsciousness loomed a second time. He lifted his hand as though to knock again, but his arm fell back to his side.
“God, help me,” he whispered before sliding
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