“It’s the best I can give,” he replied quietly, meeting her eyes without flinching.
Abigail exhaled, the fight draining from her shoulders. Her hands eased their grip on the chair, but her worry remained. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to pray you mean it,” she murmured.
Anthony pulled the hat into his hands, staring down at the sweat-stained crown as though it held answers. “You pray, ma’am,” he said. “And I’ll ride careful. Between the two of us, maybe that’ll be enough.”
The shutters rattled faintly with a draft from outside, and the room sank into stillness once more.
Chapter 15
Anthony had been patient. More patient than he thought himself capable of.
The ridge was his perch, and the night was his shroud. From where he crouched, the road below was narrow. Any wagon rolling through would be forced into single file. He had chosen this spot for that very reason.
The earth was cool beneath his palms, and the air was sharp with sage. His Colt 1851 Navy lay heavy on his thigh, but he didn’t intend to use it unless the night forced his hand.
Tonight wasn’t about anger. It wasn’t even about the barrels. Not directly. Tonight was about Lyle Tate. If Anthony could get Tate alive...if he could pry loose the truth from that thick skull and louder mouth, it might finally give shape to the whispers Abigail and Brigg had pieced together.
Vanburgh was the head of the snake, but Tate was one of the fangs. Breaking him could draw venom enough to expose the whole body.
Anthony shifted, muscles stiff from the long hours. The night had stretched, and his patience was thinning. He had begun to wonder if Brigg had misheard or if Tate had chosen another trail.
Then he heard it.
First, the creak of wood, then the shuffle of hooves, then men’s voices cutting the silence.
Anthony’s heart slowed rather than quickened. The waiting was over. The work had begun.
The convoy came into sight. Two wagons with their lanterns swaying. Riders flanked the sides with rifles across saddles. At the very front rode Tate, sitting proud in the saddle as if the world itself bowed beneath his boots.
Anthony pressed himself lower against the ridge, studying the rhythm of their movement. He counted seven riders: Tate plus six. Maybe a guard or two in the wagons as well. More than he’d like, but less than he feared.
The men were careless, too confident. They hadn’t expected trouble on this road, not from one fugitive who ought to have been dangling from Muldoon’s rope.
Anthony’s lips tightened. That arrogance was the gap he needed.
He moved quickly, circling along the ridge until he was ahead of them before slipping down through the brush until the ground leveled near the road. A thicket of juniper gave him cover, no more than thirty paces from where Tate would pass.
He readied the lasso loop coiled at his belt. The rope was quieter than the gun, and if the throw was true, it could end this without a single shot fired.
The wagons groaned closer. Anthony’s muscles coiled. His breath stilled.
Tate’s chestnut Mustang stallion came even with the thicket. Anthony sprang.
The rope whistled through the dark, its loop flashing wide then snapping tight around Tate’s torso. The man let out a strangled curse as the yank dragged him sideways from the saddle. His rifle clattered into the dirt as horse and rider parted.
Anthony hauled back hard, pulling Tate across the ground and away from the horse’s hooves.
“Down!” Anthony barked, his voice sharp, cutting through the chaos.
For a flicker, the plan looked like it might have worked. Tate was on his back, tangled in rope. He was stunned.
But then the riders shouted, guns cracking into the night. Bullets tore through the dirt near Anthony’s boots. Horses whinnied, and the wagons began grinding to a halt.
Anthony dove, rolling behind the cover of brush and dragging Tate with him like a hooked fish. Tate roared and thrashed, but the rope held.
Two riders dismounted, charging toward the thicket. Anthony cursed under his breath. He yanked his Colt free and fired. One shot exploded clean into the chest of the first rider. The man dropped heavy, rifle tumbling loose.
The second fired wildly in panic. Anthony answered with a shot that caught him in the gut. The man folded with a groan, collapsing into the dirt.
