McGraw’s hand was huge and covered Colin’s entire throat, squeezing him so viciously Colin yelped and dropped one of the crutches to remove the fingers from his neck.
A heartbeat later, Taron stood still too, clutching at the plank so hard the rough wood scratched his skin. In the ghostly light, the gun pressed against Colin’s vulnerable cheekbone shimmered as if it were a prop, not the real thing. But Taron knew exactly what kind of weapon it was and what would be left of Colin’s face if McGraw pulled the trigger.
He dropped the plank and put his hands up, still taking tentative steps toward them. His heart was a black hole of fear, and he regretted Colin hadn’t left him after all.
He let out a helpless grunt. If only he could yell at McGraw, tell him to let go of Colin, promise some kind of agreement about the land.
“Listen to me carefully, Hauff!” McGraw yelled, the gun all too close to Colin’s lovely skin. “Stay where you are or this fucker gets it. And then, you will—”
Something abrupt flashed in Colin’s eyes. The remaining crutch rapidly descended and dug into McGraw’s shin. Taron’s mind blanked when the gun went off, deafening him for a few moments when Colin dropped to the ground, his body moving into a convoluted twist. There was blood on his T-shirt, a red spray that looked eerily bright in the white glow of the headlights.
McGraw stalled, his eyes wide, as if he hadn’t meant to shoot. Taron wouldn’t wait another second. With a growl he hadn’t even known his throat could make, he charged McGraw’s way. Grit crunched under his shoes, and he was a one-man stampede when he smashed into the bastard with his whole weight. The gun dropped somewhere, but all Taron cared about were Colin’s cries.
As soon as they both dropped to the ground, he clenched his fingers around McGraw’s neck, thirsty for blood. The world trembled around him, sharp in its contrast between light and shadow. McGraw’s knee went all too close to his crotch, but Taron blocked him, numb to the discomfort of the fist continuously punching at his flank. His brain was fuzzy from the onslaught of questions, and he couldn’t focus on the fight without glancing Colin’s way.
His lover lay still, a bloodstained hand clutching at his arm, but his teeth were clenched, and his stifled moans were a sure sign of li—
Pain radiated all over the left side of Taron’s face and neck, but when he tried to pull away from it, he took McGraw’s face with him. Teeth dug into the flesh at his jaw so hard that if it weren’t for the beard, the bastard might have been drinking blood already. From the corner of his eye, he saw Colin crawl away.
Good. He couldn’t be an equal part of this fight. Not injured. Not ever. Taron didn’t want him hurt by the likes of McGraw.
He rolled over, and fortunately, McGraw was a coward. Instead of attacking again, he crawled the other way, gasping for air and choking. Taron pawed at him, dragging him back by the shirt, desperate to finish this, so he could take Colin to the hospital. How much was he bleeding? Had his bone been hit? It couldn’t have been a major artery, because Colin would have been done for already, and Taron could still hear him move, even through the noisy gasping right next to him, or the crunching of leaves and dirt.
McGraw punched his side again, in the very moment when Taron’s muscles relaxed, and the pain in his vulnerable ribs turned everything red. He struggled for breath, pushing on top of his opponent, but his gaze only met McGraw’s for a split second before something collided with the side of Taron’s head.
The world spun, and the unexpected stab of pain bubbled up until it filled his entire skull, pressing on the bone from the inside. The loud cry might have been Taron’s, but he dropped into the dirt, paralyzed by the sense of dread that came with the loud thudding in his ears. A shadow rose from the ground right in front of Taron’s face, menacing in the way it just loomed in silence. But before McGraw could have struck again, a gurgling noise and the creak of breaking wood snapped him out of his stupor.
Taron managed to roll to his side, still frenzied after the blow to the head, when McGraw dropped next to him like a log. Blood was foaming up in the twisted lips, but when McGraw tried to speak, his eyes wide and fixated on Taron, all that came out was a gurgle.
In Taron’s hazed mind, all was still a blur, but he grabbed at McGraw’s neck weakly, desperate to fight, to protect Colin. His hand went still when he realized where the blood was coming from. A pitchfork stabbed through McGraw’s neck in two places, pegging him to the ground. Above them, Colin heaved, supporting his weight on the wooden handle of the tool.