She was making Jericho madder than a cornered skunk, but if she could save their lives, it didn’t matter. “After all the kissing, I reckoned you were done bossing me around like I’m nothin’ more than a child. But I guess I was wrong.” She’d raised her voice with each word until she was practically shouting.

At the mention of kissing, she could feel Otis’s grip slacken. The other two men shifted to look at her, something changing in their eyes, something hungry and dangerous.

Maybe she shouldn’t have spoken so freely about the kissing, but it was too late now. She was causing a ruckus and had to keep going. Even Hance was getting distracted by the arguing. “All along you were just hankerin’ to get me in your bed before riding away, weren’t you?”

“Blast it all, Ivy!” Jericho sat back on his heels, scowling.

It was the perfect moment to strike. With Hance’s knife wedged in the stone, Jericho had a fighting chance. She just had to get Otis’s gun first. With a firm nod at Jericho, she squared her shoulders.

“No!” he shouted.

But it was too late—she slammed Otis backward and in the same moment wrestled for his revolver. His grip was loose, and though he fumbled to keep hold of it, she had it out and in her grasp an instant later.

With the rope constricting her hands, she fought to find the trigger. Otis lunged at her, but she dove out of his way.

The crack of a gunshot came from somewhere near Jericho. She glanced his direction to find him on his feet with a gun in his bound hands. Where had he gotten the weapon?

With the knife still wedged in the stone, Hance cursed and reached for his holster. He cursed again as his hand came up empty. Jericho had Hance’s gun and was taking aim at one of the other men.

Only then did she notice the man was pointing his revolver at her.

“Shoot her now,” Hance called irritably.

But the man was too late. Jericho had already pulled the trigger and the bullet hit the fella, knocking him backward.

Otis caught his balance and came after her again, his face red and perspiring.

She easily sidestepped him. Then without a moment’s hesitation, she aimed the revolver. She wasn’t a sharpshooter like Dylan, but she knew enough about guns to hold her own. She had no intention of killing, only causing him enough pain that he’d be disabled from the fight.

She squeezed, and the gun blasted. As the bullet tore into him, he shouted and fell back, grasping the arm she’d shot.