Peaceful, Texas -- 1870

THE SMOKE-FILLED air of the cantina made Christopher Goodwin's eyes burn. His growing sense of unease prompted him to try the questionable liquid forced on him by his unwelcome companions. Reluctantly, he finished the whiskey in his glass and grimaced in distaste as the rotgut seared a path to his belly.

"Gentlemen, please, as you can see I've nothing left with which to wager. Perhaps we can call it an evening. I, for one, have to rise early tomorrow to proceed on my journey." Christopher kept his voice steady, but couldn't stop the slight tremor of his hands as he stood.

He glanced from the men surrounding him to the unsavory group's leader, Rico. The man's beady eyes stared back. Rico's short, fat form reminded Christopher of a well-fed rat.

The men grumbled. The sound made Christopher think of a pack of wild dogs closing in for a kill. Apparently, winning all his money wasn't enough to satisfy this group. Fear gripped Christopher. Fear, not for himself, but for the one sleeping in the room above the cantina. Only he stood between her and this pack of animals masquerading as men.

Rico grabbed Christopher's arm. "No, my gringo friend. You must stay. Sí? Drink with us. Miguel, get our friend a drink."

Rico swung his arm at the small, wiry man. Miguel ducked the blow and scurried off. Unlike Christopher, the barkeep had wisely vacated the cantina when Rico and his men first arrived.

Moments later, Miguel returned with a whisky-filled beer mug. The whiskey sloshed onto Christopher's arm.

"Estupido!"

This time Miguel was not quick enough to dodge Rico's blow. He fell. Glass shattered. Spilt whiskey soaked quickly into the dry wooden floor. Swearing, the little man rolled away.

"Forgive his clumsiness, amigo. Come... drink with me."

Christopher glanced around the room. Hidden in the shadows under the stairs, a bit apart from the other men, only one man didn't seem eager to finish what Rico had started. His feet propped on the table in front of him; his hat pulled low over his eyes the man appeared to observe without any interest in participating. Christopher didn't expect any help from that quarter.

Slowly Christopher sat down. "Well, maybe just one more drink. Then I really must go." A chill crept over him. Unarmed, outnumbered, what chance did he stand? If he fell, what would become of Christina?

Why had he let Christina convince him to flee the Rocking A Ranch? He should have faced his stepfather with what Christina had overheard. He should have forced the man whom he'd hated since childhood, to leave the ranch the same way he'd come to it years ago, empty-handed. Instead he'd let Christina's tears and pleas sway him. Why?

Because you lacked the confidence or the courage to face Anderson with his plans, afraid you'd fail again. The answer crept into his head, eroding what little remained of his equanimity.

He tried once more. "I assure you, I've nothing left."

"Amigo, you must have something of value to wager." Rico turned toward another man. "Esteban, go to our amigo's room. Maybe you will find something, sí?"

Esteban nodded and started up the stairs.

"No!"

Christopher bolted out of his chair. Somehow, he had to protect Christina.

He shoved past Rico. The chair tipped, dumping Rico onto the floor. Christopher's only thought was for Christina, asleep and helpless. He couldn't allow these men to find her.

"You will pay for that, Gringo!"

Christopher ignored Rico's threat. He darted up the stairs after Esteban.

Christina's scream nearly drowned out the sound of the shot. Something hit him between his shoulders. He froze. Sharp, blinding pain exploded across his back. He felt himself falling into a deep well of darkness.

"Christina," he rasped. Then he knew nothing more.

Copyright © 2000 by Elysa Hendricks