Dalton Delaney was a fraud, and now his deception was coming home to roost.
He’d had no idea when he walked into the Flatrock Bank that a robbery was in progress, but one look at the patrons facedown on the floor and the six gunmen with bandanas over their faces had left no doubt.
“Something is wrong here,” he whispered.
Before he could really register what was happening, though, six shots rang out, and six bandits fell over -- dead.
Floorboards creaked behind him, and Dalton whirled toward the front of the building just in time to see a blond man in a tall black stetson disappear into the midday sun -- but not before he turned to wink at Dalton.
What happened next was an explosion of shouts and tears and, ultimately, gratitude.
Folks in the bank assumed Dalton had dropped the bad guys, and he did nothing to dispel that notion. Finally, he was somebody. A hero.
And he couldn’t very well backpedal the next week when citizens of Flatrock demanded that Sheriff Baxter deputize him.
Then Deputy Jones was shot dead in a second attempt on the bank that left the jail overflowing.
So, when a lookout tore into town on horseback yelling about a hostage situation on the outskirts of town, Baxter had little choice but to send Dalton.
“Prolly just a false alarm,” the sheriff said.
Dalton hoped so, because he could barely handle a gun without shooting himself.
As he followed behind the scout, though, it didn’t take long to realize they were heading toward the Delaneys’ homestead.
His stomach dropped when they got there ...
Pretty Molly stood on the front porch, gun at her temple.
Blond James Shreveport smiled from under his stetson.
“I ain’t leavin’ without my girl this time, Dalton.”
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