The sound of gunfire yanked Morgan from sleep. Reaching blindly for the automatic weapon at his side, he tumbled out of a bed much higher than his normal cot.
“Take cover,” he roared, crawling across the floor in the dim light. Realizing what he was hearing was not the rapid fire of an assault rifle, he called out quickly. “It’s a sniper, men; keep your heads down.”
Finding his pants, he pulled them on, looking around for the rest of his combat gear.
“Morgan?” Callie Mae called, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “What is it?”
“Get down,” he yelled, pulling her to the floor and pinning her body beneath his. “Where the fuck is my radio? John, get ahold of recon and find out what we’re dealing with.”
“Your what?” she asked, struggling to push him off her. “Morgan, what is it? Who are you talking to?”
Morgan felt Callie Mae’s soft body, her breath on his cheek. His eyes stared at the lace trim on the quilt hanging off the bed. Resting his forehead against hers, he shuddered with relief. It was just a dream, only a dream.
“Are you all right?” she whispered, stroking his rough cheek.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I must have been dreaming. I thought I heard gunfire,” he replied as calmly as he could with his heartbeat still drumming in his ears. “Get dressed, baby. I need a drink.” Standing, he offered Callie Mae a hand and pulled her to her feet.
Dressing quickly, he smiled at the hissing sound she made as she pulled up her jeans.
“Maybe you want to wear something else, something a little looser,” he suggested, pulling on his boots.
“And have someone suspect what we were doing up here?” she asked, her face blushing prettily. “No thank you.”
“I think…what was that?”
“Sounds like trouble,” Callie Mae said, throwing on her shirt and grabbing her gun belt. She was out the door on a dead run, Morgan hot on her heels.
“Wait,” he ordered at the top of the stairs, taking her arm. The uproar was stunning as they rounded the corner. Fists were flying, glass was shattering, and bullets were whizzing in all directions.
“Callie Mae, no!” Morgan roared as she twisted away from him and flew past the landing.
“They’ll destroy this place if I don’t stop them!” she yelled back, diving into the melee. Picking up a chair, she started swinging, knocking aside anyone who got in her way. She could see Marilee and Annalise huddled behind the bar. One minute they were hugging each other and the next Marilee was handing out bottles and Annalise was clocking the heads of anyone who tried to climb over the bar.
Fancy was perched on top of the piano swinging a pool stick at any head that came within whacking distance. Searching frantically, Callie Mae couldn’t see Jane.
Morgan shoved his way toward Callie Mae, punching and ducking, not willing to be held up in his pursuit of his woman. He spotted Ty and Matthew working their way through the mob, trying to reach the girls. Morgan knew instinctively the bottles would run out before they got there and plowed ahead.
The scream had him pivoting just in time to see two rough looking men headed for the door. One of them had Jane over his shoulder as she pounded his back. Doc Brubaker let out a roar and made a grab for Jane, spinning the man around and planting his fist in his face as he gathered the sobbing girl to him. The other man drew a gun and fired just as Mead lunged. The shot spun Mead sickeningly in a slow motion circle before he collapsed. Morgan drew and his aim was true, catching the man in the chest and sending him crashing through the doors and into the street.
Torn between going to his brother’s aid and helping Callie Mae and the girls, he spun to search for her, watching as she jumped on the bar and swung herself over. In the blink of an eye she had a pistol in each hand, cocked and ready. Raising his gun over his head, Morgan fired rapidly four times as he made his way to his injured brother, walking backward and keeping an eye on the remaining fighters as they looked around, nervously eyeing one another.
“Somebody go get the Marshal,” he ordered, keeping both of his weapons trained on the crowd. “Doc, how is he?” he asked as Ty made it to the bar and took up residence beside Callie Mae, his weapons drawn.
“He’s hurt bad, Morg,” Matthew replied, “and in the same damn leg.”
Morgan shook his head, his teeth clenched in fury. “Can you save him?” he ground out.
“I think so, but I’m not sure about the leg. Come on you two,” Doc said, taking off his belt and tightening it around Mead’s thigh to stop the bleeding. “Help me get him to my office. Jane, stop that crying and come along too. I may need your help. Matthew, you take his feet and for God’s sake be careful with that leg.”
Matthew carefully lifted his brother with the help of another man and carried him out. Jane dried her tears and followed the procession out of the saloon, looking longingly at Callie Mae and the girls.
Marshal Riley arrived quickly, bringing several armed men with him.
“Sorry about Mead,” he said to Morgan as he surveyed the scene. “You go on over to the doc’s office and see how he’s doing. I’ll handle things here,” he continued as he kicked broken tables out of the way and approached the piano. “All right, young lady, get down from there,” he insisted, holding out his hands to help her. Fancy launched herself into his arms, not letting go until he carried her to the bar. As soon as he sat her down, she swiveled and jumped down, pulling Marilee and Annalise close.
“You can put those away now, Callie Mae,” Hank said.
Callie Mae looked at Morgan and at his nod holstered her guns.
