She needed to know where the men were, but how?
Boss kept his place at the door, snarling and scratching to escape, but whoever had been at the front must have moved when they heard the dog barking.Keep your head, Kizzie.
Her gaze landed on the door that led to the upper floor, so she ran over and dashed up the narrow stairs. Two rooms separated the space, both with large front windows. She moved to the first, the moonlight giving her a much better view of the outside than any of those men could have of her.
Three shadowy figures, one holding a torch, stood in the front yard by her fence. One looked as if he held up a rock to throw. With quick work, Kizzie gently propped open the window and readied the rifle. Squirrel hunting in broad daylight proved a little different than this, but the same technique applied.
Careful. Steady.
The rifle jerked against her shoulder, its blast sending a ring to her right ear, but she hit her target. The fence right beside the man with the rock.
A loud roar came from the man, and three more men ran from out of sight to join the first three.
Six?
And just her.
She squeezed her eyes closed. “Lord, help me. Please.”
How could she ever scare off these men when there was only her?
She felt for the pistol in her skirt pocket, and an idea popped to mind out of nowhere. She propped the rifle against the wall and ran back down the stairs, staying within the shadows of the house. With careful movements, she slid the broken window up enough to peer out. Two men stood at the porch steps, arguing. Two more rounded the left side of the house, and the other two, both with guns, moved to the right.
She positioned herself out of sight and raised the pistol, this time taking careful aim for the man nearest the porch … and his massive hat. The shot rang out, and she stayed only long enough to watch the hat fly off the man's head before she dashed back up the stairs.
A gunshot fired from outside, hitting what sounded like the wall of the house. She reloaded the rifle and went to another upstairs window.
A voice rose from one of the men. “I thought you said she was alone.”
“She's supposed to be,” came the response. “Morgan said she was.”
Morgan? Kizzie's face went cold. Not Charles, surely.
“Then who's shooting from where?” The man's words came slurred.
Drunk men were especially dangerous, she knew all too well from a lifetime with one. But at least her plan had worked to confuse them. Drunk men were usually easier to confuse too.
The men who had moved right turned the corner of the house, where her bedroom was, so Kizzie landed a shot directly in front of one of them, maybe even caught his boot.
The man jumped back, letting out a string of curses.
“There's got to be more than one. Someone's in there protecting that girl.”
Kizzie rushed down the stairs, carefully returning to the broken window. The men had moved away from the house, three with guns raised.
She swallowed, her throat dry, her internal prayers shaking through her as she contemplated what she needed to do next. She couldn't keep firing at them all night. She hadn't the bullets.
One of their shots hit the house where she'd been at the other window, so she took her time, trying to make the next shot count. With another deep breath, she fired. The man released a cry and dropped his gun, reaching for his shooting hand and pulling it to his chest.
“The old woman didn't say nothin’ ’bout the whore having someone helpin’ her,” one of the men yelled at him.
The old woman?
“Your aunt ain't payin’ enough to get us killed,” said another.
Paying? Aunt?
She didn't have time to fully consider the possibilities. She needed to take advantage of their weakening fight. The men's horses waited outside the fence, so with another breath, she stabilized her shoulder against the window frame and fired at the fence post nearest the front horse, a pale brown one.
