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“If you don’t know how to use that thing, you’d better put it down, sugar.”

The pistol shook in Marielle’s hands. The unfamiliar weight threatened to drag her arms down, but her determination kept it upright and pointed at the man in front of her.

“I will not let you rob this stagecoach. Turn that pony around and ride on out before I put a hole in you that you didn’t have yesterday.” She was proud of the fact that her voice didn’t break. God knows her heart beat fast enough to make her ears hurt.

The masked man on the huge sorrel leaned on his saddle horn and turned his head toward her. She couldn’t make out much information about him, other than the fact that he was big and his clothes hadn’t been washed in a dog’s year. Fortunately the wind blew toward him or the stench might have forced her to surrender.

“You’re a sassy little thing,” he drawled. “You know there’s no way in hell I ain’t robbing this stage so just drop that peashooter and play nice.”

The cowboy she’d initiated a flirtation with in the coach stood next to her. It had been enough to make her warm just looking at his smiling face. He had even smelled nice, a rarity in the West. When the robber stopped the coach, he’d been sleeping, or at least dozing. Marielle had been enjoying the view when all hell broke loose, and he had sat there like a bump on a log.

The cowboy leaned in close. “I think he’s right, ma’am. You’d do best to just give him the pistol. Don’t know why you took it from me anyway.”

“Because you did nothing, you coward. He shot that poor driver and made Mrs. Philpot cry and now he wants to take my bag. I absolutely refuse to hand over my things.” This time her voice did shake—with fury. “I’ve worked too hard over the last seven years to surrender so easily.” She narrowed her eyes at the bandit. “What have you done besides kill people and steal their belongings? You’re obviously not a Christian man, and maybe neither was your mama. Does she know what you’re doing?”

The longer she talked, the angrier she got.

“Shut up,” the cowboy hissed.

“I will not.” Marielle kept her aim straight and true at the lone bandit. “You get your sorry hide out of here with what you’ve already taken, but I refuse to give you one damn cent.”

“Oooh, you cuss too? I might have to take you with me.” He cocked his rifle in a blur of movement and pointed it at the unconscious Mrs. Philpot lying on the dusty road in her purple traveling dress. The older woman had fainted dead away when the bandit reached into her corset for her valuables. “Your choice, sugar, you put down that gun or the old hag gets it.”

Marielle pursed her lips together and sighed long and hard. The bastard. “I’ll take my chances.” She pulled the hammer back on the pistol. “You decide to take yours. Maybe I’ll shoot you before you can shoot her.”

The air around them grew heavy and time seemed to slow to a crawl. Marielle kept her gaze trained on his trigger finger. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bead of sweat snaking down his temple. She hoped it was from anxiety and not the warm June weather.

“Ma’am,” the cowboy whispered.

It was all the distraction the bandit needed. She knew he was going to shoot so she fired off a shot just as his finger squeezed on the trigger. Her shot hit the barrel of the rifle. His went wild and slammed into the stagecoach next to her head. The cowboy grabbed her and threw her to the ground as the bandit’s horse reared and screamed.