Explaining Herself Read Online Free PDF Page B

brother dangling and kicking and soiling themselves. And he'd heard laughter.
    Later, people had said the Lauranovic boy did it to keep from hanging. But at that moment, Ross could not have cared less whether he lived or died. What he'd wanted, needed with every beat of his wounded heart, was to save his family. Part of him already knew it was too late, but that part was no longer in control. He'd squirmed loose of hard, gripping fingers and he'd grabbed Deputy Buder's shotgun —not a rifle, as reported, but a double-barreled shotgun —and he'd made them slowly, finally stop laughing.
    At that moment, a shotgun held in his shaking young hands against half a dozen armed killers, Ross had found a power he would never, never forget.
    "Cut them down," he'd said, and when the men just stared at him, he'd raised his voice. "Cut them down!"
    And at that, old man Ward —Boris, not his bully of a son—said, "Sonny boy, they's already dead and in hell, where they belong." And he'd laughed again.
    So Ross shot him.
    He'd set the shotgun against his shoulder, and he'd pointed it, and he'd squeezed the first barrel's trigger slow and gentle, just like Phil had taught him. It spat out a dreadful explosion, and kicked something awful, but Ward stopped laughing. The rancher's chest darkened wetly, and he crumpled onto the rock-strewn ground in the moonlight and the firelight.
    And it had felt good.
    That's when Ross guessed he really became a killer, because although he should have regretted taking another man's life, that moment freed him. It wouldn't save his poppa or his brother. It might not even save him. But he hadn't been scared anymore after that.
    At that moment he'd wanted to kill all of them. He longed to shoot them, one after another. He knew it would feel good, better than anything he'd ever known.
    If only he'd had more than one round left.
    God only knew what he might have done if he'd gotten hold of a thirteen-round carbine instead of a shotgun.
    He'd aimed at Bram Ward, who'd dropped to his knees beside his gunshot father, his face crumpling in horror. Then he saw that the man was crying.
    The full-grown bully was crying because Ross had shot his father, and all Ross could do was point that shotgun and want to kill them all —not looking at the bodies still swinging from the tree branch—until he'd heard horses approaching and knew he was losing his chance.
    The rest of the posse arrived then. Later, people would say that Ross surrendered to Sheriff Howe because Howe had promised him a fair trial. He had not. Ross had surrendered to Jacob Garrison, because Garrison —looking over the carnage in the box canyon— had done two things right.
    First, he'd shaken his head at the sight of the two hanging bodies.
    Then he'd looked at Ross and said, "You don't want to do this." Somehow, as the moment passed, the rancher had been right. Ross might be a killer —but it had been a momentary bloodlust.
    Even back then, Garrison was considered a stand-up man. So Ross had given him a small, frightened nod. The rancher had crossed the canyon to where the boy stood, walking right into the line of fire. And when he'd held out a leather-gloved hand, Ross had given him the shotgun.
    The rest of the posse had started to surge in on them then, but Garrison had spun, the shotgun upraised. "Promised a trial," he'd drawled firmly.
    Some of the others had protested, especially Bram Ward. "He killed my pa!" the bully screamed, pointing his own rifle at both Ross and the cattle baron.
    But Garrison didn't flinch. He merely said, "An' you kilt his. Built the jail and courthouse for a reason."
    Ross had ended up with his hands tied, mounted on the horse that had helped hang Phil, taken to jail to await trial. He hadn't cared what happened to him after that.
    A whole lot of other people had, though.
    Of course, he'd been locked up, alone, for three days before he learned that he hadn't been deserted — the sheriff just wasn't letting his momma