Page 75 of If the Boot Fits

Duke turned his back and headed for the door. Clint looked between him and Samantha, grooves digging deep ruts into his brow.

“Hold up a minute, Duke.” Her father took a step toward his departing foreman. “I think we should talk—”

Duke spun around, his hand flying to his holster and drawing his weapon in a single well-rehearsed move. “I’m done talkin’. Done takin’ orders from you, too.”

“Whoa, now.” Her father raised his hands, helpless to defend himself since he wasn’t yet wearing his gun belt.

“Duke?” Clint’s voice sounded small, high, like the boy he used to be. “What are you doing?”

Not liking that the table stood between her and her brother, Samantha started to inch around the obstacle. “Clint, come over here by me.”

Her brother hesitated, and that delay proved costly.

“He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Duke lunged and coiled an arm around his neck, dragging Clint against him.

When her father darted forward, Duke pointed the gun at Clint’s head. “Back up!”

Her father obeyed, hands back in the air. “Easy, Duke. No need to bring the boy into this.”

“He’s already in this. Has been from the beginning.”

“Don’t hurt him!” Samantha reached her arms out toward her brother as if she could pull him to safety with an invisible cord.

She reminded herself that Duke needed Clint if he wanted to claim the Three Cedars. He wouldn’t hurt him. It was a bluff. But the desperation in the foreman’s eyes made it clear he couldn’t be counted on to act rationally.

“You!” Duke unfolded his gun arm to point his revolver at Samantha. “You were supposed to stay in Boston and marry some highfalutin Easterner. You never shoulda come back here. You made a mess of everything.”

He cocked the revolver.

“No!” Her father yelled and jumped in front of her.

The gun exploded.

Her father fell.

Clint screamed. “Daddy!”

“He ain’t your daddy, boy,” Duke sneered as he hauled Clint out the back door. “I am.”

34

A gunshot cracked, and terror ripped through Asher’s chest.

Please, God. No.

Visions of Samantha, crumpled and bleeding, rose to torture him as he sprinted toward the back of the main house.

A man emerged from inside. Kendrick. He had a stranglehold on Clint Dearing. A gun in his other hand.

Asher slowed enough to draw his revolver. “Stop!” he yelled. “Let the boy go!”

Kendrick swiveled toward Asher, shifting Clint in front of him like a shield as his gun arm came around.

“Get down!” Sheriff Jeter shouted from behind.

Kendrick fired.

Asher hit the dirt and rolled toward the side of the house. With no cover, movement was his only protection. Another shot pierced the air. Asher flinched but kept rolling. No pain erupted, so he continued sweeping the dirt until his bootheel kicked against a wall. Twisting onto his belly, he brought his gun up in front of him, rocking slightly to his right so he could lean his cheek against his arm and sight down the barrel. His finger hovered over the trigger, but he resisted the instinct to defend himself. He couldn’t risk a shot. Not with Samantha’s brother in the line of fire.