“How’s Sun King doing?” Cain asked him.
“We’re making progress,” Denver said. “But it’s slow. Sanchez and I are both working with him, trying to regain his trust, but we’ve had to start completely over. Rotten sonsabitches ought to be castrated themselves.”
Cain’s jaw hardened. Every time he thought of what had happened to his stallion, he felt a nearly uncontrollable rage. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he ever got his hands on the men responsible.
It didn’t take long to saddle the horses. He hadn’t told Jenny, but he’d been carrying a little .380 semiautomatic since the day Sun King had been returned, and he had accepted the fact that someone had a personal vendetta against him.
Cain went inside the house and took a .30-30 Winchester lever-action out of the gun safe, then went back to the barn. They’d be out in the open today. It never hurt to be careful.
Cain shoved the rifle into the saddle scabbard and swung up onto Gladiator, while Jenny mounted Rosebud. Leaving the barn behind, they rode up the trail, into the rolling desert hills, disappearing over the rise behind the ranch house and out of sight.
At the bottom of the hill, Cain pulled the big red roan to a halt beneath a cottonwood tree next to a shallow stream that crossed the property.
“We’ll ride a little more after we eat.” Reaching up, he lifted Jenny down. It was Maria’s day off, so Jenny had poked around in the kitchen and found cheese and crackers, apples, salami, and a bottle of good Chablis. He handed her the bundle that he’d packed in his saddlebag, then walked over and hobbled the roan near the stream.
He was grabbing a second pair of hobbles out of the saddlebag for Jenny’s palomino just as the crack of a rifle echoed across the desert landscape. Rosebud shrieked and bolted, and Cain felt the impact of a bullet slamming into his chest.
“Get down!” He stayed on his feet long enough to pull Jenny behind the cottonwood, where both of them crouched on the ground.
He could feel the blood dripping down his arm, soaking into the sleeve of the shirt beneath his jacket, running over the tattoo on his arm, down the back of his hand.
“Oh, my God, you’re shot!” Horrified, Jenny reached for him. “Where . . . where are you hit?”
“Bullet’s in my upper-left shoulder.”
Another shot rang out, the lead ball slamming into the trunk of the tree a foot above their heads. Jenny dragged off the wool scarf she had tied around her neck for warmth while Cain dug out his cell phone. “No service.”
“Press this against the wound,” Jenny said, handing him the scarf. “Maybe we can slow the bleeding.”
Cain stuffed the scarf into the bullet hole, then zipped up his jacket to help hold it in place.
He pulled the little handgun out of the pocket of his jeans. “Can you shoot?”
“My dad taught me, but—”
He shoved the gun into Jenny’s hand. “This won’t reach far enough to do much good, but we can use it as a diversion. I need to get to the rifle.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll count to three, and you start firing.”
Jenny shoved the pistol back into his hand. “You fire. I’ll get the gun. The less you move, the less you bleed.”
He didn’t like it. Not one bit. But he was already feeling lightheaded. Jenny was right. If he passed out, their attacker could kill them both.
Cain nodded. “Don’t run in a straight line.” Damn, he hated putting her in even more danger. But they had no other choice. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“On three. One, two, three.” He started firing in the direction the shots had come from, while Jenny raced in quick-turning movements toward the roan. Wild-eyed, the big horse reared and nickered, but didn’t try to run. More gunfire erupted as Jenny slid the rifle out of the scabbard and ran a zigzag pattern back to where they crouched behind the trunk of the tree.
Blood still pumped from the wound. Cain could feel the wetness oozing down his chest and arm. He was lightheaded and dizzy, losing too much blood. He took the rifle and gave Jenny the handgun. He moved a little, lay flat on his belly, and propped the rifle on a chunk of rock next to the tree.
“Fire off a couple of rounds,” he said.
Jenny aimed the pistol and fired. Once, twice. A rifle shot cracked in return. Cain adjusted the barrel of the rifle, sighted, and fired toward the sound.
Return fire told him he was close. He shifted and fired, got more return fire, shifted again, caught a flash of movement and fired.
