Her Cold Revenge

Chapter 12

Grace broke eye contact and headed quickly for the door. She opened it wide enough to peer out but kept her gun concealed. Catching sight of her, Black Coat swaggered over.

"I was just admiring that beautiful piece of horseflesh there," he said, motioning over his shoulder with his thumb.

The man's smarmy voice grated on her, and the way he was eyeing her up and down made her furious, but she needed to lure him into her trap. She batted her eyelashes and added honey to her words. "Why, thank you. Can I help you with something, sir?"

"Well, little lady, is yer ma or pa at home? Or are you the mistress here?" The snide way he asked the question indicated he knew that she was alone.

"Oh, I'm not the owner. I'm just tending her horses until she returns."

"You? You mean your husband's caring for them?"

"Of course." Grace followed her smooth answer with a small laugh, hoping she sounded feminine and fragile enough that he'd consider her easy prey. Behind the door, she tightened her grip on her gun. "He had to ride into town, but he'll be back soon."

The man tipped his hat. "Earl Plimpton, here, ma'am. I apologize for intruding, but my horse injured his leg. I would be mighty obliged if I could let him rest a bit. Wouldn't mind sitting a spell myself." He twisted his hat in his hands as if he were nervous and shy about asking a favor.

If Grace hadn't known he truth, she might have been taken in by his play-acting. She hoped her performance would equal his. Making her voice soft and uncertain, she replied, "I'm not sure my husband would approve of me entertaining strangers in the house." She gestured to her right. "Perhaps you could sit on the porch? I'll bring you a lemonade."

"Well now, that sounds mighty nice, but —" He glanced at the sky. "I'm afeared another storm's coming."

"Oh dear." Grace looked in the direction he pointed. "Do you think so?"

"I know so." Plimpton's voice turned harsh, cruel. "Not the kind of storm you'd expect, though."

He lunged at the door, smashing it into her. Grace crashed onto her backside, cursing under her breath as the revolver flew from her hand and skidded across the floor. She scrabbled for the gun, but Plimpton fell heavily on top of her, and her breath whooshed from her body. Her ribs ached from the impact, and the odor of weeks-old sweat mingled with cigar smoke choked her. Pinning her hands against the wooden floor, he smirked down at her.

"So what's a sweet young thing like you doing with a weapon? You don't know how to use it, do you?"

"Why don't you let me show you what I can do with it?" she snarled.

The laughter that burbled from deep in Plimpton's chest chilled Grace to the core, and his lips twisted in an evil grin. "You're gonna show me what you can do, all right — but you won't need a gun."

Tobacco-stained teeth headed for her mouth, and Grace jerked her head to one side. Rough stubble raked her skin, and Plimpton growled and grabbed both her wrists with one beefy hand. His head descended again. Gagging and choking, Grace whipped her head from side to side, but he ground his lips and teeth against her mouth. Frantic, she writhed and kicked, trying to dislodge him, but his iron grip on her wrists tightened so much she squealed.

He chuckled. "Now, that is what I like to hear from a woman." His free hand fumbled for his belt. "Hold still, girl. This won't take long."

Anger surged through her, and Grace clamped her teeth together to prevent another sound from escaping. She twisted her body and managed to wrench one of her hands from his grip. Nails extended, she clawed at his face. He snarled and let go of his belt buckle. With his free hand, he struggled to recapture her wrist, but she flailed her arm, evading him. He emitted a low growl of frustration. Darting a hand under his arm, Grace jabbed him in the eye with her fingers. Plimpton howled and loosened his grip slightly, and she took the opportunity to yank her other wrist away, shoving at his chest, desperate to free herself.

His fist whipped through the air and crunched into her jaw, jarring her teeth and momentarily blackening her vision. Then Plimpton began to tear at her bodice. Though every movement of her head brought waves of pain so intense her stomach roiled, she again scratched fiercely at his face and hammered at him with her fists. Plimpton's fingers closed around her neck, but as they did, one hairy arm brushed past her mouth. She grimaced but then bit down — hard. Plimpton screeched and drew back, and Grace squirmed and bucked, managing finally to tip him to one side. She thrashed to keep him off balance, and Plimpton fought to grab her arms, but she evaded his grip. Gritting her teeth, she managed to smash her knee into his groin.

Plimpton cried out and doubled over, and Grace shook herself free of him and crawled for the gun. Shaky and with a throbbing head, she stood up and trained her revolver on him as he lay rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed over with pain. She reached down and slid his own gun swiftly from his holster, then stepped back to set it on the table behind her. When Plimpton finally focused on her and her revolver, his eyes widened. He shook his head. "You ain't gonna use that thing, woman."

"You a betting man, Earl? We could bet on that."

With a grimace, Plimpton pulled himself into a sitting position. "Aw, now, there's no call for getting angry. We was just having some fun."

"Fun?" Grace spat out the word.

"So maybe I got a mite rough, but you can't blame a man." The predatory gleam was back in his eyes. "You're so beautiful I had trouble controlling myself." Plimpton pushed himself up on one knee.

"Stay where you are or I'll shoot." Grace barked out the words.

Plimpton stopped for a second and looked at her, holding out a pleading hand. "Let's start over, sugar. I'll take it slow and gentle. I promise I won't do anything you don't want to do."

The man was a superb actor. Grace had to give him that, but his act sickened her. He was lower than a sidewinder and just as slithery.

When he made a move to rise, she snapped, "You move so much as another inch, and I'll shoot."

With a smarmy smile, Plimpton rocked back onto his heels. "Aw, sweetheart, you don't mean that."

"Try me." Her finger itched on the trigger.

In one swift move, he uncoiled himself and lunged.

Grace fired.

He flew backward, cracking his head on the hearth, and lay on the floor moaning and clutching his arm. Focusing through the black smoke at the end of her gun barrel, Grace prepared for another shot in case he rose.

"The next one's going through your heart."

Behind her, the door banged open so hard it shook the cabin walls.

She jumped and spun around, pointing the revolver at the intruder.