Shannon didn't stop to think a moment longer. She stepped back through the doorway to the entry hall and plucked one of the Colts from its crossed position. She reached into the top drawer of the secretary beneath it for the shells and quickly loaded the gun.
"Kristin! Cole! Samson, Delilah, someone!" she called out.
But the house was silent. Where were they all? She didn't know. She was on her own.
Shannon slipped back onto the porch.
The colors of the night were growing darker, deeper and richer. The sky seemed to have turned a deep purple; the land itself seemed to be blue. The outline of the stables stood black against the horizon, and the two loft windows looked like dusky, evil orbs, staring at her menacingly.
Her heart was beating hard, she realized. The coldness remained near her spine.
She should not be afraid. She had been under attack in one form or another several times now. She should have learned courage.
She was still frightened.
But not frightened enough that she would sit like a wounded lamb and wait to be assaulted, she assured herself. No, she would turn the tables. No honest man skulked and loitered in stables. No sincere fellow, Reb or Yank, hid, waiting for the coming of darkness.
She raced from the porch to the paddock, then paused, breathing fast. She listened intently, and heard nothing, but still, she knew. Someone was there. She could feel it in the air now. She could sense the danger.
She leaned against the paddock fence. She was good with a Colt. Damned, deadly good. Cole claimed that she could hit the eye of a fly from a distance of a hundred feet, and that wasn't far from the truth. As long as she held the weapon, she would be safe.
Don't ever tarry, Cole had warned her once. Make your decisions quickly. And if you decided to shoot, shoot to kill.
It shouldn't be too hard, she thought. She had lived through so many years of hell; she had grown up under the fire. In the world she knew, it was kill or be killed, hurt or tortured. She could manage any situation. She always had.
Shannon drew in a deep breath and pushed away from the paddock fence. Where was Cole? He had been born with a sixth sense. He should have known that there was trouble by now, yet he wasn't here. She couldn't depend on Cole. She had to depend on herself.
Shannon raced for the door to the stables. It stood as dark as the windows in the coming night, gaping open like a dark pit.
And she could feel the evil lurking and waiting inside.
She gritted her teeth and carefully flattened herself against the paneling by the stable door, then swiftly, flush against it, she stole inside.
The darkness was complete. For several long moments she stood where she was, her heart thundering, her ringers like steel around the Colt, her breath coming too fast and seeming to rasp more loudly than a twister. He would hear her, she thought. He would hear her, and find her.
She forced herself to be calm; she was not as loud as she thought. But she had to adapt to the darkness, or she would accomplish nothing.
One horse whinnied and a second one snorted. She tried to envision the place with light. The stalls were large and well constructed; there were fifteen of them across from her, but only nine of the horses would be in their stalls, for the men were still out on the range after the cattle. The tack room was to her immediate right, and to her left was a pile of fresh hay and the grain bags. There was more hay up in the loft above her head.
She caught her breath suddenly, barely daring to breathe.
That's where he was—in the loft.
She wasn't in a very good position if the intruder lurked right over her head.
She cocked her Colt and sank low to the floor, then began inching toward the bales of hay. They could provide her with some cover, and make her position a mystery in this stygian darkness, too.
But even as she moved, she heard the soft, careful shuffling above her. A board creaked, and then the building was still again.
Shannon waited.
There was no further movement. Time seemed to tick on endlessly.
All of a sudden she realized what she had to do. Move the ladder.
She ran for it with an impetuous burst of speed, determined to capture the intruder atop the loft.
"Hold!" a voice commanded.
She ignored it and continued racing for the ladder, then wrenched it away from the opening. It rattled to the ground, leaving no means of escape from the loft above.
A shot rang out. It whizzed high over her head and was imbedded into the wall far behind her. Was it a warning shot? Or did the man in the loft have extremely bad aim?
She shot back, aiming for the voice. She heard a low rasp of swearing, and knew then where her target was.
If you shoot, she had been warned, shoot to kill.
She had seen blood and death in wanton numbers…
And still she hesitated. The man was trapped in the loft. What could he do?
Even as she asked the question of herself in silence, the answer came to her, and in a most unexpected manner.
He leaped from the loft like a phantom in the night and landed softly in the hay.
Shannon screamed, whirling around and lifting her Colt, aiming toward the bales of hay. She could not see him. He had landed hard, but he had rolled in a flash, and now he hid behind the many bales.
She took aim and fired at the first bale. The shot exploded, loud and crystal clear, in the night.
Why had nobody come from the house? Surely they had heard the shots. But perhaps the noise was muffled by the barn walls and the hay.
And neither could she seem to hear anything from the house or from beyond the stables. She was pitched into a desperate world where she was on her own.
No noise had come from the intruder. No thud, no cry, no gasp of fear or anger or dismay. There was nothing at all.
Had she killed the man?
Shannon stepped forward, moving as silently as she could upon the earthen floor. She moved slowly, pausing with each step. She must have killed him. She heard nothing, nothing at all.
She took another step toward the hay, peering around the side of the tied bale. There was nothing there. She thought she heard something from the stalls. She swung around and realized that it was only the horses moving restlessly.
Then she sensed a movement in the corner. But that was impossible. No one could have gotten by her, not even in the darkness…
It was a mouse in the corner. A mouse, and nothing more. She had shot and probably killed the intruder, and he lay there, somewhere in the hay.
Shannon moistened her lips and tried to still the fear that swept along her spine. She still sensed danger. He wasn't dead. He was hiding, lurking in the darkness. She wanted to shriek and scream and turn and flee in terror. She didn't dare. She had to find him before he found her.
She turned once again and hurried to the next stack of hay, piled higher than the first. She looked to the rear and each side of it…and then a rustle came from just above her head.
She inhaled and jerked back, looking up, trying to aim her Colt. It was too late.
He leaped upon her.
They fell to the ground together. Shannon's Colt went flying through the darkness. He fell hard upon her and she was assailed with the scent of leather and fine pipe tobacco. His hard-muscled arms held her and a wire taut body covered her. A scream bubbled and rose within her.
His hand clapped hard over her mouth.
"Stop," he hissed.
She interrupted him with a savage kick.
He swore in the night, but his hold went slack.
She shoved against him with all her might, and found her escape. She leaped to her feet and dashed toward the door, inhaling for a loud, desperate scream.
"No!" The voice thundered behind her. He caught her by an elbow, wrenching her around. Her scream died in her throat as they crashed to the ground again. This time, he held her with force. He thrust his frock coat back and straddled her prone and dazed form. Shannon lashed out madly with her fists, thudding them furiously against his chest.