“Don’t know. Let’s go see.”
Oh, God. Josie dared not move, but she couldn’t lie in the grass either, waiting for them to find that she wasn’t dead and finish the job.
She slid along her belly to put some distance between where they had seen her fall and where she now lay, and then poked her head up and stared at the inn.
Oh, God. It was so far away.
The back door was propped open, and a comforting plume of smoke rose from the chimney, but all the activity was in the front. Only the horses in the paddock near the stable seemed aware anything was amiss. She could see them prancing with agitated movements.
Her head was aloft for only an instant before she ducked back down, resting her racing mind on the hard ground.
It shook beneath her, and without even looking, she knew the men were closing in. She could hear the crunch of their feet on the brittle grass. Time was running out. If she did not act now, that very grass in front of her face would part, showing the scuffed black of their boots.
Quickly and carefully, she squatted. Her fear made her knees weak, but she’d rather die running than lying in the dirt, paralyzed with fear.
The sound of men moving came closer, and with a cry of terror, Josie launched herself from her hiding place and began to run. She moved in a zigzag pattern, hoping to make the shot more difficult. But behind her, she heard the men’s startled voices and knew it would not be long before she felt the hot sting of the bullet.
“Josie!”
She’d been running with her head down, but now it popped up. A man stood ahead of her and to the left. He was dressed in a voluminous greatcoat that swirled about him as he rushed forward.
Westman.
His hand scrambled beneath the coat, fumbled, and pulled out a pistol of his own.
Josie could have cried with relief.
“Get down, you fool!” he ordered, and she dove just as the pistol behind her exploded.
The acrid smell of gunpowder fouled the sweetness of the field and the spring breeze. Then there was another blast from Westman, and her assailants were retreating.
They went quickly and without grace, and when Josie popped her head up again, they had a good start. A moment later, Westman reached her and hauled her up and into his arms. His hands roved over her shoulders, arms, torso, and legs. “Are you hurt?” He cupped her cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
“A scratch.” She shook him off. “I’m fine. But they’re getting away!” She turned to follow the men, but she’d taken only a step before Westman hauled her back.
“What the devil are you doing?”
Again, she tried to shake him off, but this time he held on. With a frustrated push she freed herself, only to look again and find her quarry had completely disappeared.
“They’re gone!” she said, rounding on him.
“Good.” He took her wrist and began pulling her back toward the inn. “I suggest we follow their example.”
“But—”
“I’m not about to stand in the middle of a field and discuss the matter.” He was walking briskly, pulling her along, and Josie stumbled then trotted to keep up. “I don’t like being a target.”
“Neither do I!”
He snorted and kept pulling until they rounded the corner of the inn and came in sight of the servants in the yard. Westman’s men jumped to attention. He addressed the coachman. “Get us a room. Now.”
The man nodded and ran for the inn. Westman pulled her against the coach and stood in front of her, shielding her, she supposed, with his body.
The hard, cold coach against her back, Josie looked up at him. “What was that about?”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
She shook her aching arm. “By pulling my arm out of the socket and throwing me against the carriage?”
