Mitchell didn’t have a moment to think past the instinct to save himself. He shot before Clarkson did.
The man fell, landing in a heap of dust on the ground. Mitchell sunk to his knees, lightheaded from the pain in his arm, but not daring to drop his pistol.
He caught a flash of pink in the corner of his eye, but he didn’t avert his gaze from Clarkson.
“Mitchell!” Lara’s voice, insistent and oh, so, so welcome, penetrated his mind, and then she was there, beside him, pulling his injured arm away to examine it.
“King.” Another voice, male this time, came from behind him. “You can lower your gun. I’ve got him.”
Arlen came into sight, just off to the side, his shotgun aimed at Clarkson, who was beginning to stir on the ground. George was right behind him.
Mitchell blinked. They were here. All of them. And Clarkson had been right. One of the shooters was a woman.
Lara.
She’d come for him, and she’d brought Arlen and George—and half the town, it appeared to be from the men just beginning to pull up nearby. Bryce raised both of his hands while Clarkson moaned from the ground.
Mitchell finally lowered his pistol. “Lara,” he said, still in disbelief as she gently let go of his hurt arm.
“I’m here.” She laid a hand over his cheek and gave him an encouraging smile. “You didn’t have to do this alone.”
He shook his head, still trying to piece together what had happened.
But she was right. He wasn’t alone—and he never had been.
He had a family.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Sit down, or I’ll sendJosie out here to keep an eye on you.” Lara set down the cup of coffee she’d brought Mitchell on the front porch and popped a hand onto her hip.
He stopped, halfway to standing, and then sat again. “Yes, ma’am.”
She pulled up a chair to sit next to him.
Mitchell picked up the steaming cup. He took a sip and closed his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d ever taste coffee with clean water again.”
