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Gray started to laugh, then groaned as the action sent a fresh round of pain shooting through his head.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured to Mercy and his…his friends?
“Yes, we do,” Preacher said, coming to stand on Gray’s other side, a wicked-looking dagger in his hand.
Barkeep stepped up, wielding his broom, and Gray inched up the post, standing a little straighter, his eyes wide.
The barber stepped up, too, holding his scissors like a knife. He gave Gray a nod and turned to glare at the gunman. Martha planted herself next to Mercy, waving her marble rolling pin. Mrs. DuVere and her girls poured out of the tavern. The girls all held wine bottles by the neck, brandishing them like they couldn’t wait to bludgeon someone over the head. Mrs. DuVere marched over and stood beside Preacher, winking at Gray before she leveled her gun at Gray’s assailant.
More townspeople joined them, each holding anything that could be used as a weapon, and Gray’s chest grew so tight, he rubbed at it. What were all these people doing?
Doc turned a cold smile on the gunman. “Sorry, Mister. But Sheriff Woodson belongs to this town. And we take care of our own.”
Gray sucked in a breath, completely…flabbergasted. He didn’t know how to react or what to think. Why? Why would they all do this for him?
“See?” Mercy said, for his ears alone. “I told you this was your home.”
A noise escaped him that he’d meant to be a laugh but sounded more like a sob. Home?
He looked around at the people gathered by him, gathered with weapons gripped tight to help him, defend him.
For the first time in his life, that tiny spark of hope in his chest that he tried so hard to ignore flared. Maybe…maybe he had finally found the place he belonged. Maybe he could actually live a full life that didn’t end prematurely at the end of a gun.
He pushed away from the post and Jason was there to steady him. His head pounded somethin’ fierce, but he ignored it. Mercy wrapped an arm around his waist and Martha stepped nearer, ready to flatten anyone who got too close.
The gunman had slowly backed up as more and more people came out to stand by Gray, but he hadn’t lowered his gun. He’d have to shoot through more than one person to get to him, but he looked like he might still try.
Just then, Frank came hurtling from the jailhouse, swinging the teakettle with a garbled yell. The gunman spun around but not fast enough, and the teakettle slammed into his arm with a crack. The gunman dropped his weapon, howling in pain.
Gray’s eyes widened. Frank looked pretty surprised himself. But he shook it off and stood up straighter, giving Gray a nod.
“I might have to make him a deputy now,” Gray muttered.
Mercy smiled. “As I said. You aren’t alone anymore.”
The townspeople all nodded, and Gray cleared his throat, wiping at the sudden moisture in his eyes. “Must have gotten some dirt in there,” he murmured, and Mercy laughed and kissed his cheek.
Doc nodded to the stunned gunfighter who still knelt on the ground, cradling his arm.
“You. Get out.”
The man’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“Not this time,” Preacher said. “You get to deliver a message for us.”
The man’s face paled, but he jerked his head in a nod.
“Spread the word,” Preacher said. “To anyone else thinking about coming for the sheriff. You tell them even if they manage to get a lucky shot off—and that’s a big if—this is Quick Shot Woodson we’re talking about. That person will never make it out of town. Let alone collect any bounty. The townspeople will make sure of it. All five hundred and sixty-three of them.”
“Soon to be five hundred and sixty-four,” Mercy said, putting her hand on her belly.
Doc grinned, Preacher laughed, and Jason beamed like a proud uncle.
Gray stared at Mercy, down at the hand covering his…his child?
The world around him spun again. He opened his mouth to say something, anything. But the black spots took over his vision and everything went dark.
…
