“Such as?”
Ashton shrugged. “I’m not quite sure yet. When I am, I’ll let you know.”
“Please do.” Malcolm’s smirk returned. “Until then, keep your damned horse and hands to yourself.”
Ashton smiled lazily. “As I said, Malcolm, you can’t keep her prisoner forever.”
The larger man thrust a hand inside his coat and, whipping out a pistol, promptly cocked the hammer. Ashton stumbled back a step, realizing he was completely defenseless against such an attack. At any moment he expected to feel the burning heat of a shot boring its way through his chest or head, and he could do naught but wait. Any attempt to assault the other would bring about the firing of the pistol that much sooner.
Malcolm enjoyed his power and savored it long and to its fullest as he waved the sights threateningly in front of the other. The hazel eyes showed concern, but as yet had not lifted one pleading look to him, and that really would have made his day. To have the high and haughty Mister Wingate groveling for mercy was his fondest wish.
“Well?” Ashton barked sharply. “Are you going to shoot me or not?”
“I’d love to,” Malcolm replied with a smug smile. “I really would love to.” He chuckled, relishing the moment a bit longer, then heaved a heavy sigh and raised the sights of the weapon from his opponent. “But I must save the shot for the mare.”
Chortling in glee, he spurred his horse forward and kicked him into a full-out run. Ashton ran to his stallion and, snatching up the dangling reins, leaped astride, then followed the other man in hot pursuit. It was a race, to be sure, and Malcolm knew how to get every last measure of speed from his horse. This was one thing he did well. Leaning forward, he slashed the crop against the stallion’s side. He chuckled deviously to himself, already savoring the idea of the bay mare lying dead in a pool of blood at Ashton’s feet. It would serve the man right for all that he had done.
Lost in his musings, Malcolm suffered a start when the thunderous pounding of hooves became louder, and he twisted, throwing a glance over his shoulder. He had been almost certain that it was his imagination, but he gaped in shock when he saw the Wingate man gaining on him…rapidly. With a savage curse, he slashed the crop repeatedly against his steed’s flanks, flinging droplets of blood out wide as he whipped it into a frenzy. Still, the other stallion reached out with its long legs, eating up the distance between them until horse and man drew alongside. Malcolm turned his head briefly and saw the other animal stretching out, and it seemed as if the steed did so for the sheer pleasure of the race. No whip marred his side, but he raced on because the challenge was there, and his heart pushed him to win.
Lenore glanced back as she heard the thunderous approach, and she saw Ashton raise his arm and motion for her to ride beyond the house.
“Get to the tent!” he shouted. “Go! Get that horse out of sight!”
“Stop her!” Malcolm bellowed the order to his men. “Stop her and that horse!”
Lenore did not know what was happening, but she trusted Ashton enough to obey him without question. She set the bay mare to a swifter flight, weaving around one man, who ran in front of her waving his arms as he tried to halt her or spook the horse. Past him, she got a little angry and charged lickety-split toward the other, who ran out to block her path. Seeing the oncoming approach of the charging steed, the man staggered back in some fear of being trampled. His eyes widened even more as the horse continued on the same course, and he suddenly realized that the lady was not going to swerve aside to miss him. She was going to run him down if he did not remove himself posthaste!
The man dove for safety, eating a lot of grass as he slid on the lawn, first on his face and then on his belly, and in the process scraping a lot of skin. Hickory was dancing up and down near the tent, gesturing for her to come quickly, and she came, pulling the mare to a skidding halt before the open door of the tent. The black man lifted her down and, grabbing the reins, led the mare inside. Lenore was wondering if she should follow when Ashton came charging toward her on his stallion. Malcolm was behind him, and as the first man slowed, Malcolm dove from his horse, across the other’s, and swept Ashton from the saddle. Lenore gasped and stumbled back as the pair fell to the ground at her feet. Malcolm landed on top and immediately used the advantage of his greater weight to pin Ashton down, clamping his thickly muscled legs over that one’s arms. Wedging a forearm beneath Ashton’s chin, Malcolm leaned hard on his throat as he slipped his other hand behind the dark head and began to apply a choking pressure, or one that would break his neck.
“Malcolm, stop!” Lenore cried and grabbed at his arm, trying to drag him off. With an angry growl Malcolm shoved her aside, sending her reeling to the open door of the tent. The man’s movement was enough to allow Ashton to wiggle an arm free, and with it, he slammed a hard fist into the wide cheek, rolling the man off him and winning his release. Promptly he was on his feet and moving. Taking a step toward the one who was rising from his knees, Ashton brought his own knee up hard beneath the other’s chin. Malcolm’s head rocked back, but rage pushed him beyond pain. Not even waiting for his thoughts to clear, he lunged forward and clasped his arms tightly about the lean waist of the other. He desired to hear the melodious sound of ribs cracking and began to squeeze, unmindful of the chopping blows that struck his neck and shoulders. Ashton rolled his head backward as the painful vise intensified, and changed his tactics. His fingers came up and probed for the other’s eyes, applying pressure that Malcolm could not bear. The younger man cried out and flung himself away, holding his hands tightly over his face. Ashton followed, raised a booted foot and kicked sideways, catching the man in the ribs. Malcolm sailed back and landed hard. As he blinked to clear his blurred vision, he saw his wife standing in the open door of the tent, looking distressed, and behind her, Hickory seemed equally disquieted. Beyond them both, he glimpsed the mare that had caused the confrontation, and the determination took hold of him to make sure the steed never caused another.
Forgetting the pain in his eyes, he searched about for the pistol that he had dropped when he first launched his attack. He saw the gleam of the smoothbore, and his hand stretched out, grabbing hold of the butt. He brought his arm up and across, pulling back the hammer, but a shadow fell across him, and another blow from a booted foot struck his arm and sent the pistol sailing. The weapon flipped through the air and, striking the ground, discharged with explosive force. Malcolm screamed in pain as the searing heat of the shot sliced across his arm, and he rolled in agony, holding a hand clasped over his wound.
“I’m shot!” he cried. “Someone help me!”
Ashton stepped forward and, kneeling on one knee, yanked down the sleeves of the man’s coat and shirt, ripping them away from the armholes until he could see the blood welling from the deeply grooved flesh. He made a quick assessment of the injury as Lenore hurried to him.
“A flesh wound,” he reported in sneering derision as she knelt beside him. “It’s nothing. Hardly more than a scratch. He’ll be all right in a day or two.”
Malcolm reddened and pressed a handkerchief over the wound, preventing any further view of it. He tossed a glare at Ashton and accused, “I could be dying, and he’d say it was nothing.”
“I was hoping it would be serious,” Ashton quipped. He rose to his feet and, with a hand beneath Lenore’s elbow, drew her up beside him. “Wash it, wrap it, and then let him sulk alone. I don’t think he’ll try killing the mare again, unless, of course”-he raised a brow sharply as he gave the man a meaningful stare-“he wants some trouble with the sheriff.”
Malcolm struggled to his feet, ignoring Lenore’s attempt to help him, and stalked off toward the house. Ashton wandered over to the discarded pistol and, picking it up, smiled as he examined it. “What wisdom directs this weapon? With unerring skill it has found the fool in our midst.”