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miss?
    Race fired three more times, and again he never heard the slugs hit their mark. The muted thud of a bullet embedding itself in flesh had an unmistakable sound, and he always knew when he’d hit a man.
    Trickles of sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes. He blinked at the burn and swiped his shirt sleeve over his face. He had only one bullet left in the Colt, and no way in hell were the bastards going to give him a chance to reload. The minute they realized he was no longer returning their fire, they’d advance on him. The trunks and saddlebags would provide no protection when the sons of bitches were standing right on top of him. He’d be as defenseless as a duck in a barrel.
    The rapid spat of a six-shooter suddenly broke the quiet, a spray of slugs coming so close that Race ducked his head. Then a sudden volley of shooting erupted from the opposite direction. Bullets spattered into the trunks and pinged on the brass strapping.
    He cast a glance at the girl, knowing what he had to do. Blessed release, people called it. Race had heard tell of it all his life. In this country, sometimes a man had no choice but to kill a woman to spare her a worse horror. Until now, Race had always considered it a man’s duty to pull the trigger, if and when it became necessary. Onlyit didn’t seem so cut-and-dried when you were the poor son of a bitch elected to do the honors. He had killed more men than he wanted to remember, but only because he’d had no choice. Afterward, no matter how deserving his victim, he’d always felt sick to his stomach.
    How was he going to feel after taking the life of a golden-haired girl who looked more like an angel than a flesh-and-blood person?
    The rushing sound of footsteps brought Race’s head back around. He saw the shadowy figure of a man running toward him. Reacting instinctively, Race took quick aim. But, no. If he wasted his last round on that sorry excuse for a human, the girl would be the one who paid for it.
    He had only seconds left. Everything that was decent within him rebelled at the thought of what he had to do.
    The strangest sensation came over him. On the one hand, he felt as if the seconds were flying by in a dizzying rush, but on the other, he felt like an ant crawling through sorghum, every move he made taking an eternity. As he turned toward the girl, the killer’s movements seemed sharp and clear and separate, like sketches on the slowly turned pages of a picture book: bending his knee, pushing forward on the ball of his foot, thrusting out his opposite leg . The man dipped his head to sight in on Race, his jowls shaking with each footfall, his hat bouncing and then resettling on his head.
    Race could hear every beat of his own heart, every swish of his blood echoing against his eardrums like a loud whisper bouncing off canyon walls. He grabbed the girl. Her head lolled as he lifted her, the loosened strands of her golden hair gleaming like quicksilver in the moonlight and catching on his sleeve. Cupping his left hand over the side of her face, he drew her cheek to his chest. His hand started to shake as he pressed the barrel of the Colt to the underside of her chin.
    Never had she looked more like an angel. That perfect face, sweetness and purity in every line. When he’d first seen her that afternoon, he’d thought she was too beautiful to draw breath. And now she no longer would.
    Race hooked a thumb over the hammer spur, drewback, and curled his finger over the trigger.
    Do it , he ordered himself. But his hand refused to obey. His arm began to tremble as he strained to pull back on the trigger.
    Then another shot rang out. In his side vision, Race saw the man stumble and pitch forward in a sprawl. His hat, knocked from his head by the impact, rolled on its brim and landed just short of Race’s knees.
    Dead ? Race couldn’t stop staring at the blood on the back of the man’s shirt. Who had shot him? Race hadn’t done it. No bullets. No time to reload . His