Page 75 of The Heart’s Charge

“Gun!”

His warning came too late. The first shot struck Jonah in the back and sent him plummeting from the saddle and over the side of the mountain.

“No!” Mark drew his pistol and fired overhead as he leapt off Cooper and plastered himself between his horse and the side of the mountain. His military training demanded he find cover. His heart demanded he find Jonah.

But he couldn’t go after his friend until he dealt with the threat from above.

Flopping over to press his belly against the side of the mountain, he fired in the direction of the rock he’d seen the shooter sheltering behind. After exchanging a few shots each, the return fire seemed to switch direction, coming more from the right than the left.

A second shooter.

He was pinned down. Outgunned. No cover, and nowhere to run. His only chance was to surprise his attackers with the unexpected. To follow Jonah over the side of the mountain. Probable death was better than a sure thing. And if he survived, he’d be out of the gunmen’s range and back with his partner.

The gunshots echoed closer. One grazed Cooper. The horse reared.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Mark lunged in front of the horses. He shot left, then right, his last two bullets buying him precious seconds as he dove toward the ledge.

A gun cracked. His hat flew from his head. Pain ripped through his skull. He crashed to the ground inches from the ledge. His vision went black, and as consciousness departed, his last thought was of Kate.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

Unable to stop his momentum, Jonah toppled end over end down the steep slope of Packsaddle Mountain. His head slammed the ground repeatedly as he rolled. Ribs cracked against rocks. Legs tangled in thick vegetation, tearing at his joints but not slowing his descent. Desperate to halt the fall, Jonah fought against the self-preservation instinct to curl in on himself and forced his knees away from his belly.

The more he unfolded, the more the mountain tore at his limbs. Gritting against the pain, he twisted with a jerk and sprawled onto his belly. Dirt filled his mouth. Prickly brush scraped his torso, pulling his shirt up to his armpits and exposing the tender skin beneath. Broken twigs jabbed at his chest and his belly, but instead of paying attention to the torture they wrought, he used it as a warning mechanism to alert him of brush that might be large enough to grasp. Thankful he’d worn his riding gloves, he grabbed wildly at anything within reach. Gradually, he slowed. And when his midsection bumped over a juniper bush big enough to punch a fist-sized jab into his stomach, he jerked his head up, laced his fingers, and lassoed the shrub with his arms.

He jerked to a stop. Finally.

He lay still for several minutes. Panting. Getting his bearings and thanking God he was alive. Though the first time he tried to move, that blessing seemed more like a curse. Everything throbbed. Except for the places that shot stabbing pain into him. Like his right shoulder. And left hip. And his head whenever he moved it. So he stopped trying. Just closed his eyes, lay still, and took inventory. A challenge when it felt like someone had tied him up, hung him from a meat hook, and turned a pair of bare-knuckle brawlers loose to tenderize him from both sides.

Slowly, senses other than his pain receptors started registering environmental details. Like the quiet. Jonah’s eyes popped open. The gunfire had quit.

Wallace.

Jonah fought the urge to lift his head and look up the mountain. Had Mark been shot? Did he escape? Was he lying injured or dead somewhere on the mountain? Jonah swallowed hard against the emotion clogging his throat. He couldn’t seek answers. He had to play dead. Convince their attackers he posed no threat.

Their attackers. Who were they? How many? He’d been too distracted by trying not to die during his plummet down the mountain to accurately assess the enemy. Coulda been just one man, but he doubted it. There’d been too many shots fired too quickly for a single attacker. Even if Wallace had returned fire. All he knew for sure was that they had shot from uphill and from cover. He would have seen them otherwise. Wouldn’t he? True, his attention had been focused downward, on scouting the flatland below, but he would’ve caught movement from above if it had been there.

Had he missed something? Something that might have gotten Wallace killed? Jonah groaned, his fist clenching at his side. No. He couldn’t let his mind go there. Couldn’t second-guess past choices. Had to focus on the present. On surviving. A dead man couldn’t go after his partner. Couldn’t fetch help.

So he lay in the dirt. Unmoving. Playing ’possum until birds started singing again, signaling that the danger had passed. Still, he took no chances. He lay there longer. Waiting for the sun to dip farther west. He spotted a rock a yard away from his face and determined not to move until his shadow touched it. And as he waited, his mind ran through the possibilities.

Had they accidentally stumbled across the snatchers here on the mountain? Or were the attackers just random outlaws protecting their territory? His gut rejected the outlaw theory. He and Wallace had not witnessed anything incriminating. Not even the men themselves. They would have no reason to attack when they could simply avoid their unwanted visitors. Why open fire and risk bringing the law down on their heads? Besides, those hadn’t been warning shots designed to scare folks off. They’d been shooting to kill. And had almost succeeded.

The moment Wallace had shouted his warning, Jonah had kicked out of his stirrup and darted left to dismount. The bullet aimed at his back had only taken a chunk out of his shoulder, but the force and surprise of it had thrown him off-balance and sent him hurtling down the slope. Gravity and momentum had done the rest. Had he not dodged, the bullet would have hit vital territory, and he’d either be visiting the pearly gates right now or packin’ his bags for the trip.

No, this attack had not been random. Not instigated by surprise. It had been stealthy. Almost as if the shooters had lain in wait. As if they’d been warned that he and Wallace were coming. But how could that be? He and Wallace hadn’t known themselves they were coming out here until last night. Had they tipped off an accomplice during their search with Deputy Bronson this morning? It was possible someone from one of the first homesteads they visited had made a run for the mountain after they’d left, putting the men on their guard. Yet none of the people they’d met had raised any suspicions.

The throbbing in Jonah’s head worsened, making it difficult to keep a grip on his thoughts. He needed to rest. Just for a few minutes. Then he’d be able to think clearly.

The next time his eyes opened, the sun’s shadow had fully engulfed his marker rock. He’d dozed too long. Gathering himself, he pushed up from the ground, every inch of his body protesting loudly. A lizard napping next to his knee startled and darted off to find more stable shelter. Jonah envied the reptile’s agility and speed. He felt like a half-dead armadillo mired in molasses. Probably looked like one too, all hunched over and wearing a layer of dirt thick enough to grow potatoes.

His shoulder hurt the worst, so as soon as he got his feet under him, he craned his neck to take stock of the damage. Blood stained his dust-encrusted coat. Hearing Dr. Jo’s voice in his head, scolding about infection and keeping a wound clean, he hissed and moaned his way out of the coat, feeling decidedly light-headed as he battled the clinging garment. The shirt beneath carried less dirt but more blood—blood that was still oozing. Moving gingerly, he removed his riding gloves to expose hands that were somewhat clean. Next, he unbuttoned the placket on his shirt, then pulled his handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Lifting the shirt fabric away from the wound, he pressed the folded handkerchief against his right shoulder and pressed down hard for a count of fifty. Then, praying the makeshift dressing would stay in place, he eased his hand away and fit the shirt back over it. He tugged the shirt down tight and tucked it as deep into his trousers as he could manage. Then he turned to face the climb.

Lord, save him. It had to be at least a quarter mile straight up. Well, not straight up. It wasn’t a cliff face, after all. Just a robust incline with gravel, grass, and gopher holes to make the climb interestin’. A climb he’d have no trouble accomplishing if he didn’t have a concussed head, shot shoulder, and battered everything else.

Jonah scowled at the mountain. Good thing his daddy hadn’t raised no crybaby.