Before she could squeeze the trigger, a deafening shot rang out.
An animal-like cry tore through the night.
She spun to face Logan. He’d planted his feet in a firing stance, his revolver steady in his hands.
His first shot had hit its mark.
Eyes glassy with shock, the cur who’d lurked in the shadows stared down at the blood streaming from his arm. A bowler hat lay on the ground. His coarse features were all too familiar.
The man at the bar.
Did the envelope he’d received from John Niles contain a payment—a payment to kill them?
“You bloody bastard,” the burly man bit off between his teeth.
“Drop the knife. Now.” Logan’s gaze was hard as granite. “If I pull this trigger again, I’ll blow yer hand off.”
“You may as well kill me now.” The man’s response was shockingly calm. “Hawk will see me dead.”
“The only reason I have not killed ye yet is to spare the lady from the sight.” Logan tapped his finger against the trigger for emphasis. “Now drop the damned knife.”
Despite the misery in his eyes, the attacker scowled. Defeated, he opened his hand. The dagger clattered to the cobblestones. “Your luck will run out, MacLain. I guarantee you that much. The woman... she’ll be the death of you.”
*
Forcing himself tokeep a cool head, Logan stared down at the man who’d tried to kill him. God only knew what the bastard would have done to Amelia if the dagger’s strikes had landed with lethal skill.
“Who sent ye here? Was it Hawk?” Logan demanded.
Murray and Tim charged out of the tavern, armed and ready for action. The men stopped in their tracks. Tim’s gaze darted to the bloody knife on the pavement. “Ye should’ve killed him.”
Logan shook his head. “A dead man cannot tell us anything.”
“I won’t... tell you...” The bastard who’d tried to kill him grated out the words between his moans of pain.
“Summon the constable,” Logan instructed Tim. “I need to see Amelia safely home.”
“Aye.” Tim took off running.
“I could not help but hear the gent at the bar speaking to ye.” Murray trained his gun on the attacker. “I take it ye go by Frank.”
“Frank, eh?” Logan pinned the man with a cold stare. “Tell me, Frank. Who the hell is the man called Hawk?”
“Not a bloody . . . damn . . .”
“He paid ye to come after me? Why?”
“You already know the answer.”
“He’ll see ye dead. Ye said as much.” Logan pressed. “Ye’ve nothing to lose by talking, do ye?”
“Go to . . . hell.”
Logan slanted Amelia a glance. Standing beneath the lamp, she’d gone uncharacteristically quiet, her features drawn.
“Dear God, you’ve been wounded,” she said softly, her gaze settling on the blood-stained slash on Logan’s coat.
“Nothing to worry over,” Logan said, keeping his tone cool even as pain rippled down his arm.
