Lawson’s gaze slid to the gun pressed against his head.
Victory sparked in his eyes as he pulled his gun back and then rammed it back into Abraham’s midsection. His free arm swept up and bashed Abraham’s arms against the doorframe.
The calculated risk worked. Abraham tried to keep hold of his gun, but with his burns making gripping difficult, the weapon flew from his hands and skidded somewhere into the dark room beyond. Abraham might have lost his gun, but Lawson’s momentum allowed Abraham to twist away from the muzzle at his gut and shove Lawson to the floor.
As soon as Lawson hit the ground, Abraham stomped on his wrist and dropped a knee to his chest. He pounded on the man’s hand until he released the gun. When Abraham reached for it, however, Lawson rolled, bringing with him a punch that landed solidly against Abraham’s jaw. Light shot across his vision, and ringing shrilled in his ears.
Using his advantage, Lawson maneuvered to the upper position. His hands wrapped around Abraham’s throat and squeezed.
The rough material of bandaged hands told Abraham exactly where to retaliate. He pried his fingers beneath the man’s grip and curved them into a claw as he pulled Lawson’s hands away.
Lawson roared and reared back in pain.
Abraham shoved him off and scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t interested in a fight to the death, but he would fight for his life.
Lawson was standing before Abraham could pin and handcuff him. Head down and arms out like bull horns, he charged forward and tackled Abraham’s midsection.
They flew across the room and crashed into the table.
It cracked along the middle and collapsed to the floor with Abraham caught in the V of the two halves and Lawson on top of him. At the same time, the shotgun fired, someone screamed, and glass shattered.
The room plunged into darkness, only to reignite as flaming kerosene spread across the floor from the broken lantern.
Lawson’s eyes illuminated wild and crazed as he raised his arm for a lights-out punch.
Still pinned in by the broken table and Lawson’s body, Abraham could only move his head and arms, but the shotgun had landed near his head in the fall. He wrapped his hand around the barrel and swung it with all the force he could muster. The cord attached to it jerked with resistance about halfway through the swing, but then released with a cracking sound. The stock of the gun connected with Lawson’s head and was followed by something heavy from above.
Lawson’s deadweight tumbled backward off Abraham and landed on the floor. Abraham scrambled to his feet. In the light from the flames, he identified the pulley that had probably saved his life lying next to Lawson’s head. Unwilling to chance the older man’s coming around, Abraham slapped handcuffs on him, then tossed his coat over the flames and stomped them out.
With the fire out and Lawson either unconscious or dead—Abraham really didn’t want to know which for sure—Abraham took stock of himself and his surroundings.
Early morning light was just beginning to brighten the room. His burned hand stung like it was on fire again, and his entire body hurt but probably not as bad as it would later. He was alive, and that was a miracle considering the gun he’d had jammed in his gut less than five minutes ago. A glance at Lawson confirmed that he’d be no trouble, even if he roused. It was safe to go in and retrieve Lydia and Ingram.
He approached the door, then froze. A dozen holes tightly peppered the lower half corner of the door and wall. Soft whimpers came from the other side. Had Lydia been shot?
He turned the knob and pushed, but something solid blocked the door from opening.
“Lydia!” He rammed against the door, and whatever was on the other side scraped against the floor.
She yelped. “Stop. That hurt.”
Her voice came from the side where the buckshot had hit the wall.
His chest constricted, and his attempt at a calm voice failed. “Have you been shot?”
“Yes.” Her whimpers tore at him.
“Where and how badly?”
“Arm. Don’t know.”
Depending on which arm and where, it could be a fatal wound. His heart raced as fast as his mind. He needed to get her out and now.
“I can’t open the door. What’s in the way? Can you move it?”
“The bed. I can’t.”
Great. She could be bleeding to death, and he couldn’t even get to her. That store had to have something of use in it, and Yount could run for the doctor.
