Only 04 - Only Love

had learned just how fast and accurate a bullwhip could be.
    “Hold still, darlin’,” Darcy said. “I’m just as ready for it as you are, but Beau gets firsts, him bein’ the oldest and all. I get thirds, so save your fightin’ till— eeeiow! ”
    The words ended in a cry of shock and fear as Prettyface came up on Darcy’s blind side and leaped straight for his throat.
    Darcy dropped Shannon in order to protect himself. An instant later, one hundred and forty pounds of enraged dog slammed into Darcy’sshoulder. The force of the attack knocked him right out of the saddle.
    Prettyface followed Darcy down, snarling and snapping the whole way.
    Shannon landed on hands and knees on the other side of the mule from the fight. No sooner did she hit the ground than she was on her feet and running again. As she ran, she yelled at Prettyface to break off the attack and flee, for she knew the Culpeppers would have no mercy in them for the loyal hound.
    Just as Shannon reached the forest, she glanced back. There was a snarling, swearing tangle of flesh and fur on the ground. Beau was still in the saddle. His six-gun was drawn. The barrel tracked the fight, waiting for an opening.
    Inevitably, it would come.
    Tears streaming down her face, her breath tearing at her lungs, Shannon raced into the forest, taking the chance Prettyface had given her to escape. And as she ran, she prayed that she could circle back up the mountainside, sneak into the cabin through the cave and grab the shotgun before it was too late to help Prettyface.
    Shannon was only partway up the mountainside behind the cabin when Beau’s six-gun opened fire.
     
    W HIP reined Sugarfoot to an abrupt halt at the edge of one of the trail’s many crossings of Avalanche Creek. The horse chewed unhappily at the bit, but was otherwise quiet.
    Listening intently, motionless but for his eyes, Whip probed the shadows and forest in all directions. He neither saw nor heard anything to explain his deep unease.
    “You’re imagining things,” he muttered.
    Yet still he heard Shannon’s voice calling his name with every shift of the wind, every stirring of the forest, every swirl of water over rocks.
    Whip, I really didn’t mean to ask for your love.
    His big hands clenched into fists.
    “Damn you, Shannon. You’re tying me in knots.”
    I love you, yondering man.
    Whip closed his eyes. His fingers were so tightly clenched that the reins cut even through his riding gloves.
    “I don’t want your love,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t want to feel beholden. I can’t stay in just one place, honey girl.”
    Suddenly Sugarfoot’s ears pricked and his elegant gray head whipped around to watch the trail behind him.
    His rider heard the sounds, too.
    Back toward Shannon’s cabin, someone had opened fire with a six-gun. Shannon didn’t own a weapon like that.
    But the Culpeppers did.
    Whip spun Sugarfoot around and spurred him. As the horse leaped forward, Whip checked that his repeating rifle was safe in its scabbard. There were times when a bullwhip just wouldn’t get the job done. Whip was certain this was one of those times.
    Bending low over his mount’s neck, Whip urged the horse to a reckless pace. Rocks and trees raced by, but it seemed to him that he was nailed to the ground, moving at a snail’s space, slow as dawn on the longest night of winter.
    He would have sold his soul to be able to reach Shannon before the Culpeppers hurt her.
    Sugarfoot pounded back up the Avalanche Creekpath, taking the fork in the trail at a dead run, leaping rocks and rotting logs without a break in stride. When the forest thickened again, Sugarfoot slowed just enough to be able to avoid or jump over the natural obstacles that were strewn across the trail. Small runoff channels and big boulders, freshly fallen trees and trees that had long ago fallen, all of them flashed beneath the hooves of the hardrunning horse.
    Whip rode Sugarfoot like a big cat, never coming loose no matter which way the horse jumped, always ready with a steady pressure on the reins to help Sugarfoot gather himself after a difficult jump.
    As Sugarfoot hurtled yet another log, more shots came from up ahead. The sounds were much closer now. There was no doubt that it was a six-gun. Several six-guns, in fact.
    No rifle answered.
    No shotgun boomed.
    “Run, you big gray bastard,” Whip said through his teeth. “Run!”
    Spurs reinforced Whip’s command. Sugarfoot flattened out and gave