by Pam Crooks
He studied Reggie’s accomplice. He had some Indian in him, but he wore the clothes of a white man. Mick committed him to memory. The police chief would need to know as many details as possible to help with his investigation.
Reggie grasped the grouse by the legs and straightened. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Hold on. I’ll tie the bird to my saddle. He’s too heavy to carry.”
“Hurry it up.”
Reggie stood facing the other man’s horse, his back to Mick. Mick knew he had to do something and do it fast. He couldn’t just let the two ride out. They had to account for their crimes, for stealing Allie’s library money, especially, and who knew how long it’d be before the law would catch up to them?
But Mick was keenly aware he wasn’t armed, and the outlaws were. Second after valuable second passed while Mick debated the two simple weapons he did have...
Using more guts than brains, he stepped out from behind the ponderosa with the lariat swinging in his hand. He’d learned how to rope plenty of ornery calves during the past few years. Throwing the hemp around a man standing stock still and unaware only a few yards away was going to be as easy as pie.
The loop found its mark, and Mick jerked the rope hard; the noose tightened around Reggie’s torso, pinned his arms to his sides, and knocked him flat on his back in the snow. He yelled out an enraged oath. Mick held the rope taut with his boot clamped against the slack.
The other outlaw went for his revolver, just like Mick expected.
“Drop the gun, and or you’ll have an ax in your chest by the time you take your next breath,” he snarled. “And it’ll be your last.”
The outlaw froze. His eyes locked on the lethal tool Mick held up, aimed and ready to throw.
“Do it, Boone,” Reggie said, his glance jumping between them. “Drop the gun like he says.”
“The hell I will,” Boone said, but he looked as nervous as a prostitute in church.
“We got to figure he’s not alone.” Reggie’s voice hissed. “Even if he is, you fire that gun again, and this place’ll be crawlin’ with WCC cowboys in no time.”
Boone licked his lips. But still he didn’t move.
“I got a deal to make with him,” Reggie added, sounding more desperate than he did before. “And I can’t hardly talk when I’m all laid out like this, can I? So do what I’m tellin’ you, Boone, and do it now.”
Mick took plenty of comfort in knowing Reggie didn’t have an inkling of Allie being out here, too. Mick prayed she had the sense to stay away, even though she would’ve heard the gunshot, same as he did...
The weapon dropped into the snow, and Boone’s expression revealed he wasn’t too happy in letting it go. Mick didn’t like he was still on his horse, but Reggie had started clawing at the rope around him, and Mick had his hands full keeping him tied up and under control.
“Stand up, Reggie. Real easy. Then take that holster off and throw it, as far as you can.” Mick took a step toward Boone’s half-buried revolver, the urge running strong in him to be armed. “I’m not interested in any kind of a deal, so save your breath and just do what I tell you.”
The outlaw managed to get to his feet; he carefully unbuckled his holster. “Listen, Mick. You and me, we got cheated out of that ransom money three years ago. Remember? With Woodrow?”
Mick’s lip curled at the ugly memory of their combined stupidity. “I remember.”
“The Gibson woman, she got lucky, that’s all. The posse got to her before we could get our money.”
“I remember that, too.” The law, saving Mick and Reggie from themselves.
“Yeah, well, we could do it again, you know,” the outlaw said. His holster dangled from his fingers, then fell to the ground. “We can do it right, just the two of us.”
Mick narrowed an eye. “You asking me to gang up with you on another heist, Reggie?”
“Something like that.”
Boone stiffened. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Shut up!” Reggie snapped, shooting him a look that would melt coal.
“Seems to me you got plenty of her money the other day, Reg,” Mick said coolly. “When you stole it from her on the Manitoba.”
A slow grin curved Reggie’s mouth. “And there’s plenty more where that came from. If you’re interested.”
Interested?
Mick was interested, all right. For reasons Reggie was too brainless, too greedy, to fathom. Before Mick could peel any more information from him, movement from the trees stopped him.
Allie stepped into the clearing, looking like she’d come to life right out of the pages of some high-fashion magazine. Only the rifle against her shoulder destroyed the illusion; the steadiness of her grip and the determination in her expression revealed she hated Reggie enough to use it.
“You’re going to give that money back to me, Reggie,” she said with a calm that raised the hairs on the back of Mick’s neck. “You’re going to tell us who you’re working with, too.”
The outlaw paled, but recovered fast from his surprise. “I ain’t tellin’ you nothing.”
“Then you’ll die right here.”
She issued the warning with cold-blooded intent. Knowing it, hearing it, scared the hell out of Mick.
Wasn’t right a woman should have to avenge the wrongs done against her like this. That she planned to do so with his own rifle while he stood by and watched stuck in his craw even more.
“Come over here, Allie,” he said softly. “Give me my gun.”
“I can do this,” she said, not taking her eyes off Reggie. “Your job is to not let them get away.”
Therein lay the trouble. Mick couldn’t keep Reggie hogtied with Boone still on his horse, ready to bolt any minute, and it didn’t matter neither of them wore their shooting irons. What mattered was that Mick was at more of a disadvantage than they were.
Worse, Allie couldn’t shoot both outlaws at the same time. If it came to that. And it likely would, any second now.
A fierce need to feel a weapon in his hand surged strong within him, and he dared another step toward Boone’s, still half-buried only a few feet away.
Reggie’s attention followed him.
Understanding flickered in his venomous eyes.
Then... like twin bolts of lightning, they both dove for the guns--Mick for Boone’s, Reggie for his own. The rope fell loose. Reggie twisted and kicked out, making a vicious connection with Mick’s jaw. Pain exploded like liquid fire through his bones; his head snapped back, and he rolled backward in the snow.
From the feathery fringes of consciousness, through the flames of pain, a gunshot registered in Mick’s brain. Hoof beats rumbled across the earth... and everything fell silent.
He didn’t know how long he laid there, all sprawled out in the snow, but when he came to, Allie’s face swam into focus.
“I think we should call Doc Shehan,” she said, sounding worried.
She laid a hand against his cheek; the cool leather from her gloves soothed the throbbing in his jaw. He wanted to tell her he was fine and not to bother the good doctor. After all, it was Christmas. Christmas Eve...
But the blurred shape of someone else’s face distracted him. All around him, low voices rumbled.
“He’s coming to.” Trey. He was here, with Allie? “Looks like he’ll live.”
Damned right he was going to live. Mick groaned and tried to sit up. Jack slid an arm around his shoulders and saved him the trouble of doing it himself.
“Take it easy, Mick. Is your jaw broke?” he demanded.
Mick opened his mouth to find out. Closed it. Wiggled it. Did everything all over again, only faster. He hurt like the dickens, but the jaw seemed to work the way it should.
“He’ll live,” Trey repeated, but he sounded more relieved this time.
“Oh, thank goodness.”
Mick swiveled toward Allie’s soft voice. He wondered how long she’d been kneeling beside him, hanging onto his hand in a d
eath grip. For the time it took the WCC outfit to come running?
His arms ached to take her against him, but a few matters needed clarifying first.
“Where’s Reggie?” he asked, sounding hoarse.
“Dead.” She gave him a solemn nod of assurance. “Over there.”
Mick turned. The body lay within reaching distance; blood stained the snow crimson.
“I killed him,” she said, matter-of-fact.
He frowned. “I figured.”
“But the other one got away.” Allie shifted her glance toward the horizon and sighed in obvious regret.
“Boone,” Mick recalled.
“Yes.” She turned back. “Boone.”
Mick marveled at what she’d done. The courage she’d shown. The strength. “Couldn’t be helped, Allie.”
Her mouth curved downward. “We still don’t know where the money’s at, though, and that’s what I wanted most. The money back.”
“The police will find them.” Mick was convinced of it. “They’ll get the answers we need. The money, too.”
And whoever set her up, Mick added silently. If it was the last thing he ever did, he intended to find the mastermind behind the theft.
“I hope you’re right.” But she looked unconvinced.
“I am. Come on. Let’s go home.”
He stood, shakily, bringing her with him.
She bit her lip. “What about Reggie?”
Trey rose, too. “Jack and I will take care of him.”
She appeared relieved. Then, she cocked her head toward Mick. “But we can’t leave yet.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“We still have to find a tree. Remember?”
Damn. He hadn’t.
“I’ve found the perfect one,” she said. “I know right where it is.”
How could he deny her? It was Christmas, after all.
Twining her fingers with his, she led him out of the clearing and deeper into the pines.
Chapter Ten
Later That Night
Wrapped in the golden glow of a single lamp, Allie sat nestled in the corner of the parlor’s velvet couch with her knees pulled up and her hands curled around a cup of warm mulled cider. A thick woolen afghan covered her lap. Her belly was still full from the festive dinner Zurina had served earlier: roasted lamb--cordero asado, she’d learned--with potatoes and all the trimmings, followed by a delightful Basque almond candy called turron for dessert.
It had been a Christmas Eve she would always remember. The exotically different foods, the laughter, the exuberant songs--all were Basque traditions that had given her special insight into Mick’s life. They helped shape him into the man he’d become.
Afterward, when the table was cleared, they decorated the tree, and the fragrant scent of fresh-cut pine still lingered throughout the room. Ribbons and strung popcorn draped the stately branches; strands of cranberries glistened like rich jewels in the lamplight. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a tree more beautiful.
Now, the Wells household had retired for the night, but Allie couldn’t sleep. Not after such a glorious and tumultuous day.
Who would’ve guessed she’d ever kill a man in her lifetime? Who could’ve known?
But pull the trigger she had, and with few regrets. Reggie would’ve killed Mick if she hadn’t kept him from it. He might have killed her, too...
But oh, when word of what she’d done sailed across the miles to Minneapolis, her already shredded reputation would never be the same. The gossips would smack their lips, rub their hands together, and the scandal would catch fire all over again.
Allie Gibson, outlaw killer.
Allie. Not Allethaire.
She stared down into her cooling cider. Funny how she’d come to think of herself as a new person. A stronger one. Tonight, the wine flowed freely, but she’d had no desire for its numbing effects. She had no pain to chase away. No fears to bury, if only for a little while.
She had Mick to thank for that. She had only to look into his dark eyes and feel his power, his strength. Somehow, knowing he was near, his strength became hers, too.
Even more important, though, never once had he considered her guilty of stealing the Ladies Literary Aid Society’s money. Instead, he’d protected her and vowed to find the truth, and she trusted he would one day soon. He showed her what a safe and happy life in Montana Territory could be like. The friends that could be made. She’d seen, too, the closeness he enjoyed with his family. The loyalty the entire WCC outfit paid him and Trey.
He’d built a simple but powerful life, without the pretenses of the big city. And, at some point during the time she’d been with him, a longing had bloomed inside her to share his happiness with him.
Yet what right did she have to want such a thing? Because her life in Minneapolis was over?
Or because she’d fallen in love with him?
At some point, that had happened, too. The realization filled her heart with hope and warmed her blood, leaving her not at all sure what to do about it.
The cheerful chimes from the clock on the mantle struck once, twice, announcing Christmas Day was already two hours old, and what had she done to prepare for it? She had no gifts for anyone. Not her father. Not Zurina or Trey. Not even Mick.
Especially Mick, who had given her so much. Tenderness and caring and kisses that filled her with a hunger the likes of which she’d never before experienced.
Therein lay her restlessness. A disturbing and frightening uncertainty of where to go from here.
If not for the hard work she’d spent formulating her plans for a beautiful new library, she had nothing to show for her accomplishments the past several years. Nothing to share, to give to the people who deserved it most...
Her heart skipped a beat.
Her eyes widened.
Slowly, she put aside her cider and sat up.
Or did she?
The library was her greatest effort. Her pride and joy. When before had she been able to give a finer gift?
To those who deserved it most!
Filled with a sudden rush of excitement, of renewed anticipation for Christmas, she flung back the afghan, scrambled off the couch and fled upstairs to her room.
Mick frowned at the light peeking out from beneath Allie’s door. The dawn of Christmas Day would crest along the horizon soon. Time for his usual routine of morning chores, but he couldn’t fathom why she’d be up at this early hour.
Curious, he nudged her door open and found her seated cross-legged and barefoot on the bed, looking feminine and appealing in her pink nightgown and robe. Her blond hair flowed loose and easy down her back. Papers covered the quilt in a neat crescent in front of her, and she wielded her pencil with an intense concentration that kept her from noticing he was there.
He could no more stay away from her than not breathe, and he stepped inside, carefully latching the door closed. The muted click pricked her attention, and her startled glance lifted.
“Mick!” she gasped.
He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. You’ll wake Catalin.”
She held up a hand in mute command to keep him from getting closer.
“Go away,” she said in a loud whisper, but something about the light in her eyes belied the words.
“Why?” His curiosity raged. He kept coming.
“I don’t want you to see what I’m doing yet.”
He halted at the side of her bed. “When then?”
She splayed her fingers over the papers, hiding them from view. “Soon. I’m just not ready to show you yet.”
Gently, firmly, he removed her hands. “Show me what?”
He deciphered sketches of something. A building. He tilted his head to see it better. A very intriguing looking building, three stories high and cathedral-like.
She swept her hair behind one ear. Tapped her pencil in obvious procrastination to keep from answering.
“Your Christmas gift,” she said finally.
He blinked d
own at her in stunned surprise.
“Come. Sit beside me. I’ll show you.” She patted the mattress, her excitement clearly growing.
He sat, and the bed dipped from their combined weight. Allie lifted a set of blueprints from beneath the pile of sketches.
“This is the library that the Ladies Literary Aid Society intended to build before--all the trouble began.”
So this was the project that meant so much to her, he marveled. Damned shame she couldn’t see the job done. His gaze soaked in the details of the structure. Handsome details, professionally drawn.
“And this”--she lifted a single sheet--“is an idea I had. To honor my father.”
Mick studied that drawing, too. Noted the similarities to the blueprint. Saw her talent, the beauty of her vision.
“For Paris?” he asked, amazed, knowing the man couldn’t help but be honored.
“Yes. I’ve modified the Minneapolis design, just quick changes, really. I know how much he’s respected here in the territory for his work with the hydro-electric plant and all. Because of him, Great Falls is growing, but there’s no school for higher learning here, and I thought that--that the town could use one. Named after him.”
“It’s a damned good idea, Allie.” He meant it. Paris Gibson was fast proving himself an icon in the territory. Folks would fall over themselves in their haste to revere him in such a way.
She lifted another paper. And gently laid it on his lap.
“And this is for you,” she said softly.
For a moment, Mick didn’t move. “Me?”
“And the Basque people.”
He stared at the penciled outline. A striking four-sided clock tower, incorporated into the school’s design.
“The tower will be a symbol that will reach out across the territory for all to see. It will be a part of the school, a reminder that all are welcome. It will represent the time has come for Montana to prosper. My father’s hydro-electric plant will be instrumental in that.”
Emotion lodged in his chest. He stared and stared.
“Do you remember when you told me that change begins with the young?” she asked.
