Broddock-Black 05 - Force of Nature

by Susan Johnson

  “Not for long,” Flynn murmured and nudged his paint forward.

  The six men met midway between the armed ranks.

  After destroying the trap that had been set for them, Flynn had only come to the parley to give a final warning. Or, depending on the circumstances, finish the job. “Those machine guns weren’t part of the deal,” he said, his dark gaze bland. “Other than that, I’m not sure there’s anything to discuss.” “Perhaps one small thing,” Hugh replied, silkily.

  The fat Englishman sat his horse like a greenhorn, stiff and awkward, but his air of confidence was unmistakable.

  “If you’ve got something to say, say it.” Flynn tipped his head faintly. “Otherwise, we’ll be getting back.”

  The two troops were twenty feet apart, lined up like cav-airy, flanking wings left and right, everybody alert to any movement.

  Hugh smiled, an oily, malevolent smile. “I have a friend of yours visiting.”

  Flynn looked at him, his dark eyes unwavering. “I don’t play games.”

  “Very well. Her name is”—Hugh paused for effect—“dear me, I forgot to ask, but she was staying in your house in Helena when she accepted my invitation to visit. I believe she’s a relative of Mr. Black.”

  Flynn slanted a glance at Hazard, a barely perceptible interchange.

  “You must want something then.” Flynn’s voice was flat. “Quite a lot actually.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I want you off your land immediately. I want you in Helena by noon tomorrow. And if you do what you’re told, you might see the bitch I have tied to my billiard table alive. Is that clear? Do you have any questions?”

  “No.” Flynn nodded. “We’ll see you in Helena tomorrow.” Easing his reins to the left, Flynn turned his paint and rode away, Hazard and Trey falling in beside him.

  “What the fuck was that?” Langley exclaimed. “Why doesn’t someone shoot them when we have the chance?” Fumbling for his revolver, he tried to draw it from his holster.

  “For Christ’s sake, you idiot,” Hugh cried, putting his hand out to arrest Langley’s fumbling. “Don’t you see we have what we want? And everything fell into place, simple as can be. We have his damned land!” he crowed. Turning to Nigel, he offered him a superior look. “Now do you see how it’s done? How a true aristocrat orders the world to his wishes?”

  “You fucking idiot. Do you actually think Flynn Ito’s going to turn over his land to you?”

  “He will if he wants to see that woman alive again.”

  “What makes you think he gives a shit. Scores of women come to his ranch.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t care, certainly her father will.”

  “Hazard Black isn’t known for his benevolence to those who provoke him.”

  “Then, we’ll have to persuade him. Maybe we’ll send them her finger first if they don’t comply. And then another finger and another if necessary, until they eventually see the merit in doing as they’re told. It shouldn’t be too difficult. You simply have no understanding of how to handle the lower orders, Nigel. That’s your problem. You have to make it plain who’s in charge, as the Mortimers have done since the time of William the Conqueror,” he declared with an overbearing swagger. “My father will be pleased to learn we’ve added twenty-thousand acres to our holdings.”

  “Hear, hear,” Langley intoned, even in his drunken stupor having recognized the words twenty-thousand acres. “I guess we’ll show our families that we can manage a ranch and turn a profit.”

  “We’ll send a telegram from Helena tomorrow,” Hugh declared, his strutting satisfaction in direct proportion to the level of alcohol in his blood. “I expect our allowances will be increased accordingly.”

  ❧

  While the two honorables were gloating over their victory on their ride home, Nigel was wondering whether he’d reach the ranch alive. He wasn’t alone in his apprehension; Smith had already given orders for his men to be on full alert. Flynn Ito wasn’t about to give up his land to God himself after fighting to keep it for so long. As for Hazard Black—he only hoped Hazard’s vengeance didn’t single him out as foreman to these idiots.

  As soon as they reached the ranch and his employers were deep in their cups, he was packing his bedroll and hightailing it out of the territory. He’d heard the Holloways were looking for a foreman for their Colorado spread. Hopefully, that would be far enough away to escape Hazard’s wrath.

  Nigel kept looking over his shoulder, his plans having to do with a swift return to England, disgraced or not. He’d promise to stay on his parent’s country estate and never go near London again if he survived this disaster.

  ❧

  It required only the briefest of discussions once Flynn, Hazard and their troop were out of sight.

  “I’m going in for Jo,” Flynn said. “My men and I know the layout. Hold the Empire crew in the breaks just west of their ranch. They have to come in slow and strung out there.”

  “We’ll hold them,” Hazard replied, each word unequivocal.

  “Dead or alive,” Trey said with a smile. “Although I’m thinking that fat little fart who likes to give orders would be better off—”

  “Save him for me.” Flynn’s voice was sharp. “Don’t forget.”

  And spurring his horse, he rode away with six of his men.

  ❧

  Flynn rode flat-out, his mount responding without benefit of whip or spur, as though understanding the urgency of their mission. The paint’s ears dropped back; his stride lengthened and he flew over the rough ground. His men kept pace, their ponies prime bloodstock, their loyalty to Flynn absolute.

  The Empire ranch was as familiar to Flynn as his own after years of surveillance. He even knew where the billiard room was, and he prayed during the seemingly endless ride, when he hadn’t prayed in years, when cynical and impious, he’d given up asking the gods for help. He prayed to any god who would listen: Please, please, please, keep her safe.

  It was well known that Hugh Mortimer had been sent abroad because he’d killed a woman, by accident it was said. But rumor had it he liked violence with his sex and he’d been warned off twice in Helena for hurting the girls in the brothels.

  If he'd dared hurt Jo, God help him, Flynn vowed.

  He would cut Hugh Mortimer into little pieces.

  ❧

  After deploying their forces in the thickets surrounding the breaks, Hazard gave orders to leave the Englishmen for Flynn. The rest were fair game.

  “Although, I’d prefer the hired guns be eliminated first,” he added. “We don’t need their kind in the territory.” It was a time of rough-and-ready vigilante justice, when the populace in the West looked askance at hired killers and dealt with them in a swift and summary fashion. Judges looked the other way and the army stayed clear of internal disputes, particularly if prominent citizens were involved.

  ❧

  Flynn heard the first shots faintly as he and his men approached the ranch from the low ground behind the stables. Screened by a stand of cottonwoods until they were within twenty yards of the buildings, Flynn dismounted at that point and said simply, “Follow me.” His men knew what to do. They followed close behind as he sprinted across the stable yard. The shooting suddenly escalated in the west as they reached the back porch of the ranch house, indication that the battle was fully engaged.

  Opening the door without pausing to reconnoiter, Flynn entered the house, his Colt poised. The back hall was deserted, not surprising with the number of men the English had brought with them to the parley. And household servants weren’t a concern. Signaling his intent with a nod of his head, he loped down the hall, his men fanned out behind him.

  He and Frank saw each other at the same time, but Flynn didn’t slow his pace; he only tightened his finger on the trigger of his Colt.

  The old man standing before a door as though guarding it, threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot, for God’s sake, don’t shoot!” Panic rang through his voice. “I did
n’t do nothin’.”

  “Where is she?” Flynn already knew the answer, the man’s fear patent, his last remark exposing his involvement.

  “I didn’t touch her, I swear.” Frank pointed at the door. “She’s in there.”

  “Is she alone?” If someone was guarding Jo, his entrance could endanger her.

  “Yes, just her. They all left.”

  “If you’re fucking with me, I’ll kill you.”

  Frank knew he meant it. He also knew this was Flynn Ito glaring at him sure as hell. “I swear, she’s alone. Tied up, sir. I didn’t dare help her, but I was hopin’. It’s a long story, sir; she’ll be glad to see you.”

  Flynn’s surprise showed for a flashing moment. How did the man know what Jo would like? But already shoving the door open, he dismissed useless speculation.

  When he saw Jo trussed and naked, flagrantly on exhibit for the loathsome English, he came to a dead stop, inundated by a surge of fury so powerful he couldn’t breathe.

  Having turned at the sound of the door opening, she recognized him instantly, tears welling in her eyes. “Flynn!”

  She was undeniably naked. Worse, she’d been naked, her legs spread wide, for who knows how long with those sadistic bastards. Quickly shutting the door, he told himself to breathe as though his brain required instructions in the presence of such heinous depravity. As he approached the table, he took note of the billiard ball, saw how wet it was and with what, observed the handle of the discarded pool cue, still dark with her essence.

  She reeked of whiskey; she didn’t like whiskey and her gaze was unfocused. He told himself they’d made her do what she did. He rationally understood that she hadn’t been willing. But the ball was drenched, sticky and wet, and he knew why.

  Forcing down the bile rising in his throat, he spoke as moderately as he could, as clearly with her understanding possibly compromised. “Your father’s holding the Empire crew in the breaks. No one can hurt you now. You’re safe.” And then he quickly moved forward, carefully cut the ropes from her wrists and ankles, reddened and raw from her bonds. “Can you move?” He was almost afraid to ask, not sure he could deal with the answer.

  She didn’t immediately answer as though trying to understand what he’d said, and then she nodded and shutting her eyes, she suddenly began shaking.

  “They’re gone. It’s over,” Flynn whispered, gathering her into his arms. Gently raising her to a seated position, he quickly unbuttoned the top buttons on his linen shirt, jerked the garment off and dropped it over her head. Helping her to slide her arms into the sleeves, he lifted her off the table and holding her steady, set her on her feet. With relief, he saw that his shirt fell below her knees. He’d never realized he was so prudish. Scooping her up into his arms, he moved toward the door.

  “I can walk.”

  “No.”

  The grim timbre of his voice alarmed her, her senses minutely attuned to male displeasure in the wake of her torment. “Are you angry?” she asked as a child might, anxious and fearful.

  “No, not at all.”

  But she was conscious at some level of the effort it required for him to answer with grace.

  “I just want you out of danger as soon as possible.”

  Again, that terrifying undercurrent of restraint in his voice.

  His men were standing guard when he opened the door, Frank hovering nearby. Without pausing, Flynn nodded his head in the direction from which they’d come and swiftly moved away.

  Frank ran to keep up. “Sir,” he quavered, the uncertainty in his voice palpable. “Could we ride out with you?”

  Not breaking stride, Flynn shot him a look. “We’re moving too fast. But the English won’t be back if that’s what’s worrying you. Although, I’d suggest you get out soon. I’m burning the place down.”

  The cold ruthlessness in Flynn’s pronouncement brought Frank to a standstill, all the stories he’d heard about Flynn Ito suddenly brutally clear.

  Jo plucked at Flynn’s shoulder, her mind somehow distilling what was important from the brief conversation, Frank’s pitiful expression jarring her senses. “His wife can’t ride. She’s too old. Flynn! She can’t ride!”

  Scowling, he came to a stop. “You trust him?”

  She shook her head, as though clearing her thoughts. “Yes, yes ... he helped me.”

  Flynn half-turned so he could see Frank. “Take the carriage!” he shouted. “The English won’t be needing it! And head north—it’s safer!”

  “Thank you, sir!” A sudden smile wreathed Frank’s face. “Thank you very much!”

  But Flynn was already on the move, running.

  The sound of battle had cleared the ranch of the few gun hands left behind and Flynn and his men rode away unmolested. Holding Jo across his lap, Flynn gave a wide berth to the hostilities, asking her the few questions he required answered, although cautious in his interrogation. He didn’t wish to remind her unduly of her ordeal. When the small party was well past the breaks, he brought his horse to a halt. “Can you ride?” he asked her, finding the question repugnant but necessary.

  She nodded, understanding what answer was needed to wipe the scowl from his face.

  Without comment, he slid backward, deposited Jo in the saddle and dropped to the ground.

  “My men will see that you get back to my ranch.” He wanted to say, I wish I had proper clothes for you, but couldn’t bring himself to refer to the circumstances of her near-nakedness. “It won’t take long,” he said instead.

  She nodded, any attempt at framing thoughts into words difficult.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Be careful,” she blurted out and childlike, she reached out to him.

  He patted her hand and set it back on her reins. He wasn’t in the mood to be careful. He wanted to kill the English an inch at a time. Lifting his carbine from its scabbard, he smiled at her. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

  Then he slapped his paint on the rump and ran in the direction of the gunfire.

  Chapter 28

  When Flynn joined the battle, the Empire crew had been significantly reduced, their exposed position at the bottom of the ravine lethal to anyone who lifted his head above whatever hasty barricade they’d been able to throw up. There wasn’t a man in Flynn’s or Hazard’s crew who wasn’t a marksmen, their weapons first class. It was just a matter of time before the hired guns were picked off one by one.

  The Empire had been harassing them for so many years, Flynn’s crew harbored a real sense of personal vengeance. And this opportunity to shoot their paid mercenaries like fish in a bowl was gratifying.

  Most of the Empire’s local cowboys had managed to slip away, or perhaps the Sun River Ranch boys let them slip away. But the hired guns weren’t faring as well, and of course, the English were being saved.

  With fewer and fewer men left alive, the shooting eventually became sporadic, allowing Flynn the opportunity to find Hazard and assure him of Jo’s safety.

  Coming up on Hazard’s makeshift redoubt, Flynn squatted down behind the fallen timber. “Jo’s on her way to my ranch with six of my men. She needs rest.”

  “How badly was she hurt?” Hazard’s voice was guarded; he knew about Hugh Mortimer—who didn’t.

  “Not too badly.”

  Flynn had taken a moment too long to reply. Hazard looked at him squarely. “Meaning what.”

  “She was tied up like they said.” Flynn’s expression turned grim. “I don’t know the details, but she seemed reasonably calm, considering.”

  “We’ll have to see if they’re as calm when we deal with them,” Hazard said, his voice chill. “You want Mortimer, I suppose.”

  Flynn nodded.

  “And the others?”

  Flynn shrugged. “It’s up to you. I asked her”—he blew out a breath—“she talked some about what happened,” he went on, tersely—“and I saw”—he grimaced—“you don’t want to know. But the one called Nigel opted out, she said.”

&n
bsp; “One for you and one for me, then,” Hazard declared. He didn’t need any further details.

  “I’m burning down the Empire tonight, so whatever that fellow Nigel wants to do . . . he’d better make up his mind fast.”

  “I’ll see that he leaves Montana.” Hazard’s dark gaze was implacable.

  “Good.” The single word was softly uttered but infused with a brute finality. Flynn glanced toward the breaks. “I’m going down there. I’ll see you when this is over.”

  Hazard quickly checked the rounds in his Colts. “I’ll go with you.”

  ❧

  By the time Flynn reached the boundary of the brush line, he and Hazard were no longer alone. Their men rimmed the alder-brush perimeter, weapons poised.

  “Everyone but the English,” Flynn ordered, the murmured command going down the line from man to man. Shortly after, he raised his hand, moved it forward in a swift arc and took off in a running zigzag. Launching himself over the rim of the ravine in seconds, he leaped and slid and plunged down the side of the dry gully, his Colts blazing, his men at his back.

  The hired guns who tried to run were cut down. Those who stayed buried in their makeshift bunkers were ferreted out and killed. The rattle of small arms, the smell of gunpowder, the yells and screams of slaughter and command, the violent movement and milling free-for-all battle suddenly coming to a stop as abruptly as it had begun—every mercenary dead.

  “We got ’im here, boss,” McFee shouted. Pulled from their horses as they tried to flee, the English stood huddled together, guarded by a dozen men.

  As Flynn walked up, he wondered if he was capable of killing a man in cold blood. The English looked desperately out of place, overdressed and flaccid, their silk shirts an incongruous note in the rugged landscape.