A deafening blast of sound and a cloud of eye-stinging smoke saturated the room when the kick of the pistol rocked her back. As blood sprayed out from the wound, she fought back her nausea. She felt sick—but not sorry.
“What . . . ?” His expression disbelieving, Henry slowly folded over, staring at her as blood gushed from his chest. With his last breath, he hissed, “Bitch . . . !”
Callie clutched the table as Henry fell, his pistol dropping from his hand. Fearing the cocked weapon might fire, she instinctively ducked back.
The weapon blasted more numbing sound and stinging smoke, and Goat shrieked. When Callie straightened, she saw blood blooming from the man’s temple. He made a strangled sound as he fell into an ungainly sprawl and spoke no more.
Callie was frantically reloading when Hoyle wrenched the pistol from her hand and threw it aside. “You bloody hellcat! You’ll pay for that!”
He grabbed her neck with both hands and dragged her toward him. Gasping for breath, she fumbled to pull her skirt up so she could reach the knife sheath on her left thigh. Molly had carefully sharpened both knives, and if she could just reach hers . . .
Molly screamed, “Let her go!” She scooped up Henry’s empty pistol and hurled it into Hoyle’s face, crunching viciously into his nose and cheeks. Then she reached for her own knife, fury in her eyes.
While Hoyle swore and clutched his nose, Callie managed to yank her knife from its sheath. She slashed at the overseer, cutting the right side of his face. He swung at her wildly, but missed her knife hand.
More by instinct than design, she ripped the knife sideways with all her strength. The razor-sharp blade sliced across his throat and released a scarlet fountain of warm blood. He was so close that it splashed over her as he collapsed.
She gagged and almost fell herself, but Molly caught her arm and kept her upright. “It’s all right now,” Molly said wildly. “It’s all right!”
From the time Goat had gone after Sarah to the death of Hoyle couldn’t have been much more than a minute.
Callie stared at the blood and bodies. The loft looked like a battlefield. She began to shake, her eyes stinging viciously from the smoke. Then she heard heavy footsteps pounding up the stairwell. Blindly she raised the knife and steeled herself to face this new threat.
“Callie!” Richard’s voice. “Callie!”
He blasted through the broken door, summed up the scene in one swift, horrified glance. “My God!”
“Henry attacked us,” Molly said starkly through her tears. “It was my thrice-damnedbrother.”
Richard reached Callie in half a dozen swift steps and enfolded her in his arms before she had fully realized that he was there. “Callie, are you all right?”
Her body recognized his before her mind did. She sagged into his chest and clung with biting fingers as the fear and anguish of the last minutes rushed through her. She began to sob uncontrollably.
Josh barreled through the door, older than Richard but not much slower. “Sarah, Molly!” He stopped and stared down at Henry Newell’s body. “Dear God, that brute came all the way here?”
“Grandpa!” Molly ran sobbing into his arms.
Sarah followed at a more moderate pace. Coolly she said, “That devil man came to rape and kill Miss Callista and take the rest of us back into slavery.” She reached her husband and slid an arm around his waist, leaning into his solid strength since his arms were occupied by Molly. “Miss Callista killed him and Hoyle like the swine they were,” she said with fierce satisfaction. “Fought like a tigress. Molly too.” She gestured at Goat. “Henry’s last shot killed that one and no loss.”
Josh swore with words Callie had never heard him use before. Not releasing his womenfolk, he moved forward and kicked Henry in the head. “I wish I’d been here to do the killing!”
“I wish you had, too.” Callie’s voice was so thin she could barely hear it herself. “But he waited until you and Richard were well away because it would be harder to break into the loft with you here.”
Richard smoothed her hair back with one large, gentle hand. “Come sit down, Catkin. You look ready to collapse.”
Numbly she folded limply into the nearest chair. “Where is Trey?”
Richard knelt in front of her and took hold of her hands, his gaze searching. “He’s down in the cart with Peter Carroll. Not badly injured, but weak. We were just pulling up to the warehouse door when we heard gunshots and a scream from in here. Josh and I left Peter in charge while we ran up as fast as we could.” His smile was as warm as his hands. “But you didn’t need us, Catkin. My warrior woman.”
“I was terrified,” she whispered.
“Of course you were,” he said briskly. “Any sensible person would be. A hero does what needs to be done despite being terrified. You’re a hero, Callie.”
“I don’t feel like one.”
“But you are.” His brow furrowed. “I need to go down and help bring Trey up here. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”
She summoned the remnants of her strength and resolve. “I’m fine.” She squeezed Richard’s hands, then released them. “Bring Trey up. After Sarah treats him”—she glanced at the bodies on the floor, then looked away—“we can decide what to do next.”
