Excerpt of Loving Libby by Robin Lee Hatcher

Chapter One

May 1890

Blue Springs Ranch, Idaho Territory

"Not again, Bevins," Libby whispered to herself as she
peered at the horseman's approach through the latticework
of sunlight and shadows. "Not as long as I've got breath
in my body."

Obscured by the thick grove of cottonwoods and pines, the
rider stopped his horse. Libby had difficulty keeping
track of him as dusk settled over the barnyard. Whatever
he was up to, it wasn't good. It never was with Timothy
Bevins.

She stepped back from the window until certain she
couldn't be seen, then moved to the front door, checking
to see if it was tightly latched. It was.

A small sigh of relief escaped her. But her relief was
short-lived. Bevins wouldn't break into her house. No,
that method was too direct and could get him in trouble
with the law. He would take an underhanded approach.

Well, you can't scare me off.

She pressed her lips into a determined line. She wasn't
going anywhere, frightened or not. And she wouldn't wait
for Bevins to make the first move either. She wouldn't
give him a chance to do his dirty work. Not this time.

She grabbed the double-barreled shotgun that rested
against the wall. Then, fortifying herself with a deep
breath, she walked to Sawyer's bedroom, peeking inside at
the boy lying on the bed.

"Sawyer, something's got the horses worked up. Probably
another coyote. I'm going out to run it off. If you hear
anything, don't be scared. It's just me."

"I don't scare so easy, Libby." He raised his scabbed-over
chin to a brave tilt.

"I know you don't." And neither do I.

She hurried through the kitchen to the back door, opened
it silently, and stepped outside. Evening had changed the
colors of the earth and sky into varying shades of gray
and black. The trees were threatening silhouettes, looming
overhead, their scraggly arms reaching toward her.

Bevins could be anywhere. Perhaps he watched her even now.

She sidled along the side of the house, making her way
toward the wide clearing at the front, searching every
shadow.

You can't scare me, you yellow-bellied snake in the grass.
You can't run me off my land.

Libby quit running over six years ago. This was her home,
her land. Aunt Amanda had entrusted the ranch to Libby,
and she meant to protect it and everyone on it. She
wouldn't let Timothy Bevins run her off, no matter what he
did, no matter what he threatened to do. And he wouldn't
get another chance to hurt Sawyer either. Spooking the
boy's horse was the last straw. Absolutely the last straw.

She heard the snap of a twig off to her right. Startled,
she turned and, in the waning light, saw him stepping out
of the trees. More important, she saw the rifle in his
hand.

She reacted instinctively, raising the shotgun and firing
before he had a chance to do the same. The kick of the gun
slammed her back against the side of the house as she
squeezed off the second shot.

She gasped for air, her ears ringing, her shoulder
throbbing. Had either shot hit Bevins? She hoped not. She
only meant to scare him. As her vision cleared, she looked
across the yard and saw him lying in the dirt.

He didn't move.

Oh, Lord. Don't let him be dead. Don't let me be guilty of
murder. Gulping down panic, she dropped the shotgun and
cautiously made her way toward him, uncertain what she
would do if he was dead, uncertain what she should do if
he wasn't.

She reminded herself that Bevins was to blame for the
death of Dan Deevers, Sawyer's father. Dan, her ranch
foreman, had been out in that January ice storm because
Bevins ran off more of her sheep. He'd been stealing them
a few at a time for the past year. She knew it was him,
but she couldn't prove it. Just like she couldn't prove
he'd spooked Sawyer's horse on purpose yesterday. The boy
could have broken his neck in that fall.

The Good Book said not to hate a man, but Libby had a
problem with that command when it came to Bevins.

Reaching him, she steeled herself against a bloody sight,
then looked down.

Father God, what have I done?

Libby dropped to her knees and stared at the man she'd
shot. It wasn't Bevins. It wasn't one of Bevins's hired
thugs. It was someone she'd never seen before.

God forgive her. She'd killed an innocent man.

* * *

The stranger groaned.

With a quick prayer of thanks that he wasn't dead after
all, Libby sprang into action. She had to stanch the
bleeding. No time to wonder who he was or what he'd been
doing, sneaking around her place at this time of evening.

She raced to the house, wishing for once that she hadn't
forsaken her long skirts and petticoats for the freedom of
denim britches. Cotton petticoats made good bandages.

As soon as she opened the door, she saw Sawyer, bracing
himself against the jamb of his bedroom.

"What happened, Libby? What's out there?"

A heartbeat's hesitation, then she hurried forward. She
couldn't stop and explain. "Go back to bed, Sawyer."

"Libby-"

"Now!"

Before Sawyer turned away, Libby caught a glimpse of tears
in his eyes, but she knew better than to apologize. Sawyer
was every bit as proud as his father had been and wouldn't
want her to see him crying.

She grabbed a blanket off her bed. It was almost dark and
the temperature was dropping. She had to get the stranger
inside. In another few minutes, it would be black as pitch
out there, not to mention bone-chilling cold.

(Continues...)