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.“Harry?” Whitney mouthed.Paddie nodded, her face white.Whitney could feel the blood draining out of her own face, but she steadied herself, placing a hand on the trailer.Harry Stagliatti had been shot! Now, of all times, she couldn’t fail him.She had to think clearly.She had to reason.She had to get him out of there!Paddie held up two fingers.Then she held up one finger.Two men.One gun.Whitney nodded.Unparalleled musician that she was, Paddie had a finely tuned sense of timing and the ability to communicate to other musicians with a look and a movement.Now, as never before, she drew on those skills.She looked at Whitney the way she would the second before a horn solo was to begin.Then a move of her hand, a slight widening of her eyes.and they acted.Paddie was out first, screaming like a banshee and flailing her poker, and then came Whitney, calmly pointing her revolver at the two men.One was balding and heavyset, with a mustache that needed trimming.The other wore overalls with no shirt and was one of the largest individuals Whitney had ever seen.He was the one with the gun.A man built like Harry Stagliatti lay face down in the sand, but Whitney forced herself not to look at him.“Drop it,” she told the huge man.He stared at her.“What the hell—”“The gun,” she said stoically.“Drop it.”The words came just as she realized that if she hadn’t mentioned the damn thing, he might not have remembered he had it until too late.As it was, he looked at the gun, grinned, and pointed it at Whitney.But it was the balding man with the mustache who spoke.“No one wants any trouble, ladies,” he drawled patiently.“So why don’t we just be on our way?”His comrade in thuggery and Paddie both protested, but Whitney and the fat man knew a stalemate when they saw one.“For all I care, she can go on and kill you, and you can go on and kill her,” the balding man said.“I’m leaving.” He spread out his palms in a gesture of innocence and an appeal for common sense.“Ladies?”“We don’t care about you,” Paddie said.“Go.”Whitney nodded curtly, her gun and her eyes focused on the fat man.“Let’s go,” his friend said, patting him once on his massive shoulder.“We’ve done enough damage for one night—no point in getting ourselves killed, too.” “I can take both of them”“Do what you like.I’m getting out of here.”Then he walked toward the truck.The big man looked at Whitney.She wouldn’t have met his gaze if she could have avoided it, but she didn’t dare avert her eyes for a fraction of a second.What good was one bullet going to do? The man was massive! If she could bring herself to pull the trigger, if her aim was accidentally on target, there was no guarantee—not even the likelihood—that a single shot from her gun was going to topple him.At least not before he had a chance to pump her slim frame with bullets.But, muttering obscenities, he finally heaved himself up.Whitney didn’t move.Her gun was shaking, but she couldn’t help that.Keeping his gun trained on her, the fat man backed toward the pickup, where his comrade had opened the door for him.The truck roared to a start.He climbed in, and they sped off, kicking up sand and dust in their wake.“That was a close one, Victoria,” Whitney said.“Too close,” Paddie said.“Did you get the license plate?”“Of course.”They lowered their weapons and stooped beside the squat, unmoving figure lying half under the trailer.“Harry?” Whitney said softly.“Don’t touch me, you maniacs,” came the blunt, sarcastic voice of Harry Stagliatti.“Those sons-of-bitches shot my muting arm.”Paddie and Whitney understood at once.Harry didn’t have a right arm and a left arm.He had an arm, which coincidentally was his left, that held the horn up to his mouth, and a hand, also his left, that operated the three valves and a fourth valve to switch from F horn to B-flat alto horn.He had another arm, his right, that controlled the famous bell of the horn.Just by positioning his hand in the bell, he could adjust to every nuance of pitch and tone, from a soft buzzing mute of a stopped-bell to the loud bombastic sounds of an open bell.Harry Stagliatti was a master of these nuances.They were what gave his instrument some of its incredible versatility and was one reason for its being an integral part of both wind and brass ensembles.So Harry had been wounded in his right arm.Moaning, he sat up, refusing any assistance from Paddie or Whitney.Blood had soaked through the sleeve of his shirt and was oozing down his hand, but he swore he’d bite the first one who tried to touch him.He called them names and said he had had everything under control.“Ha,” Paddie replied.“They were going to kill you.”“Moron,” Harry snapped.He was not a handsome man, but he had a nice, straight nose and a face that he said had character.Like Paddie, looks did not interest him.“I was playing dead.”“Humph,” Paddie said.“Then why were they discussing whether to kill you?”“I was crossing one bridge at a time and— Ouch! Damn it.Whitney, don’t look at me like that.I’m not dead yet, no thanks to you two.Thought you were a goner for sure, you nitwit.Whatever possessed you to start acting like Wyatt Earp—and where in hell did you get that thing? Looks like a goddamned elephant gun.”Whitney started to laugh.Shocked, Harry muttered in disgust.He was a cantankerous, salty-tongued, lovable man, but if it weren’t for his arm, she’d have hugged him.“You’re not dead,” she said.“Not for anyone’s lack of trying, minx.” He attempted a feeble grin.“What were you doing out here?” Paddie demanded.“You have much to explain, Mr.Stagliatti.”“You want me to talk before or after I bleed to death?”“Harry’s right, Victoria.We have to do something about his arm.I suppose I could go back to the cottage and get your car— She stopped and stared.So did Paddie.Harry cocked his head around and laughed gleefully.“Ha-ha! Here come your just desserts, ladies.Will the real Wyatt Earp please rise?”Daniel Graham had stepped out from behind an orange tree, one rifle slung over his shoulder, tall, masculine, and not pleased.He clapped his hands three times.“Marvelous show, ladies,” he drawled sarcastically.“Marvelous.”“He’s the other reason I wasn’t too worried about our poacher friends,” Harry explained.“Has a capable look about him, doesn’t he?”“The three of you,” Daniel said darkly, “ought to be dead.”Paddie sniffed.“I suppose we just spoiled your fun?”“No.You ran off two men, one of whom was armed, with a poker and an unloaded gun.Believe me, it was not fun to watch.I thought for sure I’d be forced to shoot one of them.”“Shoot.” Whitney mumbled, suddenly feeling dizzy as the memory of the huge man with the gun came rushing back to her.“I wouldn’t have let the bastard shoot you, darlin’,” Daniel said with his most seductive grin.“Operas,” Paddie muttered.Daniel ignored her.“I had my rifle pointed tight at ol’ Fats Gillibrew’s gut.Didn’t think he was the violent type, but you never can tell about poachers, especially when they’re cornered.”Whitney gulped in air and fought the wave of dizziness.“Why didn’t you say something.”If possible, his grin broadened.“Wanted to see if you could pull it off, sweetheart.”The dizziness vanished, and in its place came an unreasoning, cold anger.“I could have been killed!”“I’m a good shot, m’love.”With that, Daniel ambled over and squatted down beside Harry.“Well, Harry,” he said, “I guess we ought to get you to a doctor.In much pain?”Harry’s answer was a series of expletives
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