by Pam Crooks
Her lips curved downward. “The rest of me is, too.”
Jack had taken plenty of risks in his life, but few were as precariously sweet as pulling Grace Reilly into his arms. To warm her, he told himself. She was new in town and didn’t know much about him, but she had to realize by now she had nothing to fear from him. From the moment they’d first met, he’d had only her best interests in mind.
Jack inhaled the clean scent of her hair and took note of how the top of her head just reached his jaw, too. He slid his hand down her back and up again, over her knitted shawl, his senses attuned to the coolness of her body against his chest. She kept her arms folded and her back straight, but her soft exhalation revealed she wasn’t completely immune to the comfort he provided.
“Sounds like you were out there longer than you needed to be,” he said quietly. “Considering you were just bringing in firewood.” He kept talking, rubbing her back, delving for clues into what upset her. He had a strong suspicion whatever it was had something to do with that piece of paper she kept clutched and all but hidden in her hand. “Did you lose your way to the back door?”
“No,” she said into his shirt. “Of course not.”
Jack waited for more, but no further explanation followed. He’d done plenty of interrogations in his lawman days, and any lawman worth his salt would know by her glib response she was hedging on the truth. Buying time until she could figure a way to dig herself out of the corner he’d boxed her into.
“Someone was out there with you. Isn’t that right, Grace? And whoever it was, gave you some sort of message.”
Grace stiffened and stepped away from him. “It’s none of your business, Jack.”
He moved quickly to pluck the paper from her grasp and hold it between two fingers, out of her reach. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped in surprise, but as if she considered it futile to try, she made no attempt to take the folded note back.
“No one I know would bring a piece of paper out to a woodshed,” Jack said. “Hell of a lot easier to have both hands free to haul the wood inside, don’t you think?”
Her chin lifted. “I suppose it would, yes.”
“So who gave it to you?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me it does.”
“The note is mine, not yours.”
Impatience sharpened his voice. “I want to know, Grace.”
The long-haired stranger who’d attempted to kidnap her still troubled him, and his curiosity about the circumstances surrounding the note refused to be banked. Might be there was a perfectly logical explanation for it, but who would be acquainted with her besides Margaret, his mother and himself? Especially since Jack was pretty damned sure she’d never been to Great Falls until last night.
“Don’t forget innocent people are living in this house.” Jack went for a different angle to get her to talk. “Including my own mother. I have to make sure the person who sought you out doesn’t have intentions to hurt someone around here.”
She appeared taken aback. “No. He wouldn’t. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”
“Yeah? Then who is he? And how can you be sure?”
Her throat moved in her indecision, and she glanced toward the window, as if she hoped to find guidance beyond the panes. Finally, she returned her gaze to his.
“The man who delivered the message was the same man who delivered my trunk.” The information came grudgingly. “But someone else wrote the note.”
Jack hadn’t factored in the railroad agent as someone who knew Grace. He should have, and a new hornet’s nest of questions buzzed in his mind. Like why the note-writer chose to work through the train station agent instead of approaching Grace himself, for one. And why the train station agent contacted her at the woodshed and not at the front door, like any other messenger would, for another.
“The man who wrote the note—what does he want?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Her chin kicked a fraction higher. “I haven’t read his message yet.”
His brow arched. What woman wouldn’t have given into curiosity by now?
“I admire your restraint,” he drawled with a touch of sarcasm. He extended his arm toward her, the note still tucked between his fingers. Though he had damned little restraint himself, he succumbed to the courtesy of allowing her to read her own message first. “Here you go. Read away.”
“I will. When you leave.”
Again, impatience spiked through him. “I’m not leaving until I know what the message says, Grace. I need to make sure everything’s all right for you and everyone else around here.”
She swallowed. Abruptly, she swung away from him to move with thoughtful steps along the width of the room, clearly stalling until she figured out how to proceed next.
Jack’s gaze hooked on the blood-warming way her hips swayed when she walked. After she halted and pivoted back toward him, his glance lifted to find her watching him. Had she known how much he enjoyed watching those hips of hers move? Seducing him with every calculated step?
Yeah, he decided. Beautiful women like Grace Reilly always did.
“I was told the note concerns a man I was recently associated with,” she said quietly. “Like Allethaire, he’s under critical scrutiny for his work with the Literary Aid Society.”
Jack’s interest sharpened. He mentally sifted through the short list of names Allie had given them to help the investigation. “Who is he?”
She regarded him for so long that Jack was on the brink of repeating the question.
“You’re trying to help Allethaire prove her innocence, aren’t you, Jack?” she asked in her soft voice.
“Yes.” He nodded slowly. “Me, Mick and a whole posse of lawmen.”
“Then perhaps I can trust you.”
It rankled to see her hesitating. She should know by now how cow-eyed she made him whenever he was with her. Should be clear as rain to her, too, that she could rely on him to do just about anything to help her. What else did he have to do to prove it?
“Listen to me, Grace.” He worked hard to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Mick is one of the best friends a man could have, and Allie means the world to him. She means a lot to me, too. Someone is going through a hell of a lot of trouble to destroy her, and none of us knows why.”
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“One thing we do know is she’s innocent. We’re all doing our damnedest to help her prove it.”
“So am I, Jack.” Grace appeared offended he might think otherwise. She thumped a finger over her heart. “Allethaire isn’t just a best friend to me. She’s the sister I never had. I’ll do everything I know how to expose whoever’s incriminating her. I can only imagine the nightmare she’s going through right now. For her sake, justice must be served.”
He nodded in grim satisfaction. There was little in his life that pleased him more than sweet justice against those who deserved it.
But then, no one knew that better than his father, dead in the ground from Jack’s own gun. Sam Ketchum had suffered from justice, all right. He’d died, leaving Jack to a different kind of suffering. A whole wagonload of regret and second-guessing the price justice had cost him.
The ugly memory no sooner came back to haunt him than Jack beat it down with a harsh reminder of that was then, and this was now. Sam Ketchum was notoriously guilty of a whole string of crimes. Allie Gibson wasn’t. Because of her, the thirst for justice had been resurrected in Jack all over again, leaving his throat parched with determination to see it done.
“Well, then, Miss Reilly,” he drawled. “I’m glad we’re in agreement on that, at least.”
“Justice must be done for Charles, too. I fear he’s as guilty as Allethaire is innocent.”
“Charles?” Jack’s brain hooked on the name.
“Why don’t you read the note for both of us, Jack? Then we’ll know exactly what it says.”
He couldn’t yet figure what game she played, dropping all pretense of secrecy between the
m. Trusting him. Allowing him access to the note before her.
But Charles—with a last name of Renner—was a name Allie had on her list of those deeply involved in the Ladies Literary Aid Society library endeavor. A name Paris had pushed to the top as being suspect, due to some troubling business dealings the two had had years earlier in Minneapolis.
“I’ll do that,” he said.
He unfolded the paper and read aloud the words written in surprisingly precise penmanship.
“I must meet with you immediately about a serious matter concerning Charles. You know the one.”
The color drained from her cheeks. “Read it again, please.”
For a moment, Jack debated giving her the slip of paper to read herself, but she looked so worried, he just did as she asked. She listened with a rapt expression, as if she committed the words to memory.
“Thank you,” she whispered after he finished.
He turned the paper over. “It’s not signed.”
“No. I don’t suppose it would be.”
“Then how the hell are you supposed to know who wrote it?” he growled, impatient again. “And how will you know where to meet him?”
Yet the demanding questions were no sooner out of his mouth when it hit Jack. The train station agent. Of course, he’d know the man who gave him orders to contact Grace. He’d likely been given instructions on where to take her, too, for the rendezvous if and when she agreed.
The soft planes of her face showed her preoccupation. Grace pulled the shawl off her shoulders and dropped it carelessly on the foot of the bed. She crossed her arms under her breasts and meandered to the window to stare into the yard below.
“Boone,” she said quietly. “The man who wrote the note is named Boone.”
Sweet saints in heaven.
Boone?
Like a fighting mule, the word kicked into him.
Jack knew the name, knew it well. So did Mick. And the police chief. And each man in the posse just back from hunting for the outlaw gang who had robbed Allie of a packet jammed full of money, every dime stolen right out of the Ladies Literary Aid Society’s bank account.
Jack’s gut insisted the news went beyond coincidence to the biggest lead they’d gotten so far. Key evidence Boone and his partner were still around and closer than any of them realized.
And they’d made Grace their accomplice, whether she realized it or not.
Something Jack had to find out for sure.
“You have any idea who he is?” Jack asked in a low voice.
She turned from the window. “Boone?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze remained steady, but he sensed she worked at it. “He’s an outlaw, from what I understand. The savage who tried to kidnap me yesterday.”
The revelation rolled through him. “How did you find that out?”
“The person who delivered the message told me Boone wanted to talk to me. That’s why he did… what he did.” Her throat moved. “Do you know him? Boone, I mean.”
“Yeah, I know him.” Jack decided to lay all the cards on the table. She had to know who she was up against. And what. “He’s part of a three-man gang who jumped onto the train bringing Allie to Montana a couple of weeks ago. Their leader was a known criminal named Reggie who was killed soon after, on Christmas Eve, thanks to Allie’s determination and Mick’s gun.” Jack’s mouth quirked at the memory. Their courage had been exemplary; their need for justice equally so. “But Boone escaped into the hills where the third member of the gang holed up. Another lowlife named Carl.” Jack paused, watching her cheeks pale. “I’m guessing the ‘serious matter’ Boone mentions in his note has something to do with the stolen loot.”
Her sigh revealed distress. “Yes. I’m sure it does.”
“Which makes me more convinced than ever that Charles Renner is involved. Any idea how?”
She glanced away. “I’m sure Allethaire has told you all we know about him.”
“Tell me your version.”
Some of the color returned to her face, as if just thinking of the man moved the blood in her veins. “He was highly involved in our plans for the library project. In fact, I don’t know how we could have done as well as we did without him. He’s a shrewd businessman and highly regarded in the Minneapolis community.”
But not so well regarded by Paris Gibson, whose opinion mattered to Jack and everyone else in the Great Falls community.
“If the man who delivered the note is Carl, then he’s guilty of robbery. A felony.” Jack’s mouth hardened. “With grounds for arrest.”
She moved from the window, as if beset by sudden restlessness. She stepped past Jack, gifting him with the scent of her clean skin and the sight of those swaying hips. When she reached the far side of the bed, she spun back toward him.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t be so quick to assume this partner of Boone’s—Carl—is as guilty as you say he is.”
“The hell we can’t.”
“I think I should talk to him first. Before you do anything.”
“Talk to him?” he demanded, taken aback. “Why?”
“For information.” Her voice grew stronger, as if her thoughts took root and fueled her determination. “He trusts me well enough. I can glean information for you about Boone.”
Jack moseyed over to the window to stand where she’d been just moments before. His glance latched onto the lone figure, seated on a horse in the shadows. The train station agent. Waiting with the collar of his coat pulled up to his ears, his hands plunged into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
Carl?
Grace would’ve seen him, too, Jack knew. She would’ve been checking up on him, same as he was.
Protecting him.
He turned back toward her. Noted how she wore blue again, an elegant shade of sapphire from her hems clear to her throat. The rich color accented the creaminess of her skin and lent her hair an even deeper shade of sable.
She looked exquisite standing there, watching him. Untouchable when he wanted nothing more than to touch her all over.
Jack gritted his teeth. Her future had nothing to do with a scar-faced ex-lawman who was finding himself more and more smitten with her, with every minute he spent in her company.
He called himself all kinds of a fool for allowing himself to fall under her spell. But he wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t blind.
There was something she wasn’t telling him.
Something about Carl.
If he was working with Boone and Charles Renner—and Jack had a strong suspicion he was—then Jack would use every trick in his lawman’s book to throw them all into the cooler for good.
But for now, he’d stay right where he was and ignore the need to race outside and nab the outlaw. Jack had to find out if Grace was involved with him first. And if she wasn’t, well, hell, her idea of using Carl for information to capture Boone was worth considering.
Jack’s feet moved from the window toward her, until he stood in front of her. Close. Maybe too close.
He didn’t care. Boldly he curled his fingers around her warm, creamy-skinned neck. With the pad of his thumb, he gently tilted her chin back.
“Yeah, we’ll work together to capture Boone,” he murmured. “But you’re not going to meet with him until I say so.”
Her brow lifted to a perfect arch. “Oh?”
“You’ll play by my rules, or the deal’s off.”
She stood without moving, allowing him to touch her. Bold and beautiful and a little reckless, too. “And what might those rules be, Jack Hollister?”
An assortment of stipulations marched through his head, none of them appropriate with a woman who his gut insisted was involved with the outlaw’s scheme. Somehow.
“We work together,” he said. “You don’t do anything, say anything, or go anywhere for this case without me.”
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it again.
“All right.” The agreement sounded reluctant.
“Within reason, of course.”
Reason? Jack wasn’t sure he could ever be totally reasonable when it came to Grace Reilly.
The urge to feel her mouth under his proved it. She was off-limits, at least until he was sure of her innocence, but that didn’t stop him from wanting her. To taste her, just this one time….
His head lowered. Her breath hitched, and her body fell still. Then, amazingly, her dark lashes drifted closed, and against his thumb, still against her chin, she eased toward him ever so slowly….
Triumph rolled through him, and he drew back, ending the kiss before it ever started.
Jack had always been a man who lived by the rules. Most of the time. He knew how to fight, and he knew how to win. Maybe, just maybe, he had a fighting chance to win Grace for himself.
But he had to get rid of Charles Renner and Boone first. Likely Carl, too.
Only then would Jack know if he could trust her.
Chapter Seven
He didn’t know how much longer he could go on living like this.
Boone threw down his pencil and plunged his hands into his hair. His teeth gritted against a roar of frustration and pure unadulterated rage.
It was killing him, waiting for the Revolution to begin. He did nothing but spend his days writing letters that never garnered responses. He lived in squalor, hiding out in an abandoned shack while his stomach knotted in hunger. He spent his nights wondering if the next day would bring recognition and charges of treason. He craved comforts and respect, yet he lived no better than an outcast, as if he were the vermin of the earth.
Viciously, bitterly restless, he bolted to his feet with such force his chair crashed backward. He kicked it aside and grabbed a broken piece of mirror off a narrow shelf.
He stared at his reflection. Disgust welled within him at what he’d become.
An American outlaw on the outside, but inside, he was the Canadian activist, Alexandre Thibault. A name he was proud of, for Alexandre meant “defender of mankind.”
It was why he was born. To defend and care for his people in Canada.
He couldn’t bear to think what his papa would say if he could see him now with his hair long and unkempt, his once carefully trimmed moustache lost in unshaven bristle, and dirty fingernails and a stench on his body from too many days without soap and water.
