The Lawman's Redemption (Wells Cattle Company Book 3)

by Pam Crooks

  A scant inch. Less than that, probably, and the bullet would have catapulted into his brain. He would’ve died instantly….

  Of its own traitorous accord, her gaze drifted lower, from his scar and all its unpleasant insinuations, and settled onto his mouth.

  The firm, sensual shape held her transfixed and turned her heart sideways. Her thinking, too, toward lips not too thin, not too full. His mouth would be hard, but likely masterful. Seductive, drugging. Meant to ply a woman’s.

  Hers?

  She shouldn’t want to kiss him, but Grace flirted with the notion. It would be so easy to. Just once. Raise up on tiptoe, tilt her head back and find out what it would be like to kiss a man like Jack Hollister, a man with outlaw blood in his veins.

  Like herself.

  Her body leaned toward him, against her will, ever so slightly. Her pulse quickened, and she dared to taunt the fantasy, to see it through….

  He went still, as if every muscle inside him stiffened in resistance.

  “I’ve got a score to settle, Grace. Just so you know.”

  His low voice turned her a bit dizzy, and she blinked.

  “I’m hoping you’ll help me do it,” he murmured.

  Beneath thick lashes, his gray-green eyes regarded her intently. Had he seen what she was about to do? Had he known how he affected her? Didn’t he care?

  She scrambled to gather her wits about her. Her dignity, too. She pushed away from him, needing air.

  “What?” she said, too breathless. She fought bitter disappointment that he didn’t care about her any more than her mother did. “Help you how?”

  “Tell me everything you know about Alexandre Thibault.”

  Chapter Nine

  Alexandre Thibault. Alexandre Thibault.

  The words hammered inside Grace’s head. She stepped away from Jack while her brain tried to pull the name out from the fringes of her memory.

  “Do you know him?” Jack asked.

  She’d always prided herself on her ability to recall details, names, faces. Grandmother had called it a gift, but this one, this Alexandre Thibault, remained elusive.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She kept her tone cool. His rebuff still stung. Hadn’t she been attractive enough for him? Feminine? Appealing?

  “Are you sure?” He sounded vaguely desperate.

  “No. I’m not. What do you know about him?”

  Jack rubbed his jaw. “He’s Boone.”

  All thoughts of the kiss fantasy vanished. Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “I don’t have proof. But I’d stake my life on it.”

  Grace struggled to comprehend. “I already told you I’d never seen Boone before yesterday, when he tried to kidnap me. Why would I know him or Alexandre Thibault?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me that.”

  She made a sound of impatience. “You’re not making sense, Jack.”

  “I’ll start from the beginning.” He shut the oven door and reached for the coffeepot. But he didn’t pour. “George and I met a Jesuit priest this morning who thought he knew Thibault. But it was Boone who triggered the thought.”

  “How?”

  “The priest saw him, at the post office.”

  Alarm rippled through Grace. She recalled Carl and the note Boone had written. “Boone was at the post office? This morning?”

  “Afraid so.” Looking grim, Jack filled the china cup, then reached for a second. “Seems we just missed him. Anyway, the Jesuit claims this Thibault had some political aspirations and lived in Minneapolis for a time.” He glanced up from his pouring. “Which is where you come in.”

  Alexandre Thibault.

  The more Grace repeated the name in her head, the more the walls of her memory shifted and cracked.

  “Boone is affiliated with Charles, Grace. We know that. Which means Thibault would be, too.”

  Alexandre Thibault.

  Vague and ghostlike, a strain of familiarity crept in….

  “According to the Jesuit, Thibault was French, with ties to Canada.” Jack continued talking, beating down the stubborn wall. “We saw the mail he’s sending up there. Whatever he’s involved in, whoever he’s contacting, he’s doing so under his real name.”

  Alexandre Thibault.

  Suddenly the wall crumbled and crashed. She gasped, and like water rushing through a dam, she remembered.

  Jack went still. “What is it?”

  “I’ll be right back.” She lifted her skirts and dashed past him, out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

  The coffeepot clattered back onto the stove. The china cup followed.

  “Where are you going?” he called.

  She fled up the stairs. Heavier footsteps followed, taking two to her one. She flung open the door to her room and darted to her satchel, going for the hatbox and the manila packet tucked away inside.

  Jack fell to a knee beside her. Fingers fumbling, she pulled the photograph out of the envelope, and stared, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

  Except it wasn’t Charles she stared at, but the man with him.

  “Alexandre Thibault,” she breathed. “It’s him!”

  Jack stared, too, with a deepening frown. “Doesn’t look much like Boone, does he?”

  She leaned closer, and her shoulder inadvertently pressed against Jack’s, hard with muscle beneath his shirt. “Look at his eyes. See how wide-set they are? Boone’s were that way.” Except she remembered how fierce they’d looked in the alley’s shadows. A devil’s eyes, not gleaming and bright as depicted in the picture. “And his cheekbones. High and angular. Just like Boone’s.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it’s him!”

  Jack grunted. “It’s circumstantial evidence at best.”

  “The similarities are there, though, aren’t they? Suggesting they’re the same man?”

  “Yes, but they’re only similarities. Granted, he’s got some Indian in him, likely some French, too. Trouble is, the characteristics are shared by a whole bunch of people.” Despite Grace’s growing convictions, Jack appeared more cautious. The lawman in him, slow to make judgments without facts. “A man can change his hair. He can add a beard or shave one off. But there’s one thing he can’t change.”

  Intrigued, Grace met his glance. “What is it?”

  “His smile.”

  Disappointed, Grace frowned. “I never saw Boone smile.”

  “Neither did I.” Jack pointed to the photograph. “But look, Grace. See that left eyetooth? It’s a little longer than the right one. And it’s crooked. Remember the angle of it, then you’ll know for sure if Boone and Thibault are one and the same.”

  His logic was sound, intelligent, and she took his advice to heart. She wouldn’t forget to look at Boone’s teeth the next time she saw him.

  And she would, she knew. It wouldn’t be long before he came looking for her again.

  “This is Renner with him, isn’t it?” Jack asked, his voice quieter.

  Her gaze slid across the photograph, from Alexandre to Charles. Her thoughts sobered.

  “Yes.” Grace heaved a vexed sigh from the trouble the man had caused. “It’s Charles.”

  “Where did you get this?” Jack indicated the photograph.

  “I took the picture, shortly after I met him. Allethaire threw a party for the Ladies Literary Aid Society and introduced us. She was acquainted with him because he’d been a business associate of her father’s.”

  “Did she know Thibault?”

  “No, I don’t think so. At least, she’d never mentioned him before or since. But then, there were so many of Charles’s friends there that night, both within the community and his political circle. It was difficult to remember who was who.”

  Not that it would’ve mattered. She’d been soundly smitten by Charles and quite excited to know he’d be working with her and Allethaire on their prized library endeavor. But then, in time, when she’d learned the kind of man he truly was, capable of embezzlement and destro
ying their hard-won plans for a new library, her infatuation had died, and her need to make him atone for his crimes took over.

  “You’re a fine photographer, Grace. I’ve seen few more professional than this.” Jack flipped the picture over.

  She shrugged. “I dabble in it.”

  Engrossed with reading the penciled notations she’d made, he didn’t respond. Grace peered closer to read the words, too. It had been so long since she’d written them. She narrowed her eyes in concentration.

  29 SEP 1885

  ALIXNDR THIBO AND CHRLS RENR

  Grace’s cheeks flamed in growing mortification, and she snatched the photograph away from Jack. She abhorred spelling words as much as she abhorred reading them. She was inept at both, and now Jack would see just how stupid she could be.

  But, as she’d long ago learned to do, she buried her humiliation behind the smile she planted on her lips.

  “My goodness, what was I thinking? I must’ve been in a terrible rush when I wrote that.” She forced a laugh, the one she’d practiced many times over, and busied herself stuffing the photograph unceremoniously back into the manila packet. “Who knows why I was so careless?”

  Jack furrowed a brow. “Thibault is a hard name to spell. You wrote it like it sounds. Doesn’t matter.”

  To me it does. It matters more than anything.

  But then, she didn’t expect Jack to understand. No one did except Allethaire and Grandmother. Although Carl knew, he only used her humiliating secret against her.

  “Main thing is it’s proof that Renner was affiliated with Thibault,” Jack said.

  “I suppose.”

  Grace didn’t care anymore. Her head hurt, and her heart hurt, and she wished Grandmother was here. Allethaire, too. The two people in the world who knew the truth and loved her anyway, in spite of it.

  Jack wondered if it was something he said.

  He could see the play of emotions on her face. She was fighting tears, and what was that about?

  His gaze latched onto her while she shuffled things about in her satchel, more to keep from looking at him than anything else.

  “Grace.” He gently grasped her chin and turned her toward him. “Everything okay?”

  Beneath the crescent of her lashes, her gaze lifted to his. Those eyes of hers—an incredible shade of blue. He’d never seen anything to compare.

  But that blue was darker now. Troubled. Confirming his suspicions she was upset about something.

  “It’s all quite overwhelming, isn’t it?” she said.

  Her lips curved, as if to make light of her response, but the effort seemed to cost her. A sheen of moisture welled in her eyes.

  Jack released her chin. He recalled how everything was fine until he flipped over her photograph and read what she’d written. He had to concede her handwriting was messier than most. Sure, she misspelled the words. Might be she was just embarrassed since females tended to take a little more time with such things. But hell, his own handwriting took some deciphering most days. Who was he to judge?

  It was a little thing, besides, and her upset had to go deeper than that.

  “If they’re guilty of breaking the law, there’ll be serious consequences for it,” Jack said, mincing no words.

  “Charles and Alexandre?”

  “Carl, too. All three of them.”

  Grace sat back on her heels. She cocked her dark head, as if in her mind, she tried to string the jagged pieces of the puzzle together into one neat and tidy line.

  “I can certainly understand how Boone and Charles came to be involved in this scheme, but I’m quite baffled how Carl could be so devious.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. Carl? He hadn’t expected her to defend him.

  “My impression is that he’s simply a pawn in their plan,” she added.

  “A pawn.” Jack scowled. “And yet he was on that train, robbing Allie of her money, quite willingly, I might add, and just as guilty as the rest of his gang.”

  She nibbled her lip. “There’s a sensible explanation for it. We just need to find it.”

  “Try greed for an explanation,” he snapped back. “And plenty of deceit, with some political subterfuge thrown in for good measure.”

  He didn’t even mention betrayal—of her, Allie, the entire Ladies Literary Aid Society, and who knew what else besides?

  Damn, the whole thing had turned complicated. What kind of conspiracy was the gang involved in? Something in Canada? And why would Grace have a shred of sympathy for Carl? Who the hell was he and how did he fit into the scheme?

  Her mouth curved into a pout. “Don’t be angry with me, Jack.”

  He shifted, resting an arm on one knee to face her. “Not angry. Just itching to shake some sense into you. You’ve got blinders on, Grace. That worries me. Worries me a lot.”

  “Blinders?” She appeared surprised at that and laughed, a softly amused sound that curled through the cavern of his chest. “I think you’re exaggerating, but I’m touched by your concern.”

  Behind her, sunlight beamed in through the room’s only window and shot sparkles through her hair, like tiny diamonds tossed over sable satin. Sheer willpower kept Jack from satisfying another itch—to pluck out every hairpin on her beautiful head and watch that glorious mane fall….

  Yet the light made her seem small, too. Vulnerable. Somehow. Maybe it was her position on the floor, perched back on her heels. Or maybe it was because she’d traveled so far by herself and ended up alone in Great Falls.

  “You need someone to watch over you,” he said roughly. “I’m making sure it’s going to be me.”

  Her amusement faded. The sheen returned to her eyes.

  The avowal had touched some inner part of her that needed touching, he suspected. Which made him want to touch her, all right. Hold her hard, in his arms.

  He gave in to the need. Gripped her shoulders and leaned her back, so far back she had nowhere else to go but on the floor beneath him. He straddled her, ignoring the alarm that flared in her expression, and held her with his gaze.

  “You’ve done a fine job of taking care of me, Jack.” She spoke in a voice hardly above a whisper. “That means the world to me. No matter what happens. I want you to know that.”

  Her hand lifted, and the feel of her palm against his cheek distracted him from an appropriate response. The cheek that bore the scar he despised.

  No one had touched him like this before. Without revulsion. Without staring. Without averting their eyes, pretending his disfigurement wasn’t there.

  No one. Not even his mother, at her most compassionate.

  It was as if Grace was oblivious to the ugliness. Like she didn’t even know it was there.

  But she did, and still it didn’t matter.

  It didn’t matter….

  A slow heat slid through his blood, a steady and growing lust for a woman who laid beneath him, as close as a lover, her body pliable and unresisting, while the awareness between them built higher. And higher still.

  She’d wanted to kiss him. Earlier, in the kitchen. Jack had sensed it, but he’d resisted it. Any red-blooded man would’ve taken what she was ready to give, but Jack had held on tight to honor. He was a stranger to her, a woman new in town, with only Allie and a robbery crime to bind them together.

  Well, Grace wanted him now.

  Again.

  It was there, in the quickening of her breathing. The faint heaving of her breasts. The way her hand had slipped over his shoulder and around his neck, tugging him downward….

  He took her mouth with a fierceness that left no room for questions, no need for answers. He didn’t think of justice. Or revenge. He didn’t think of Renner or Boone or Carl, of what was wrong or what was right.

  He thought only of Grace. How her mouth moved beneath his with an unrestrained need Jack never expected but couldn’t refuse. Grace was passionate, purely female, more perfect than he ever dreamed a woman could be.

  He angled his mouth and kissed her harder, d
eeper. A tiny sigh of primal yearning emerged from her throat, and her lips parted. His tongue delved inward to curl with hers in a seductive dance that set him on fire.

  Blazing, sweet fire.

  She stoked in him a need to have her, all of her, right here on the floral-carpeted floor. He ran a hand over the front of her dress, searching for buttons, ribbons, anything he could tear open to expose the ivory globes of flesh he ached to suckle….

  Until the ominous sound of a rifle cocking stopped him cold.

  He swore. And spun off her.

  Boone loomed in the doorway, a madman with his long, tangled hair and fringed coat, and a gun aimed right at them.

  Chapter Ten

  Grace yelped in horror and scrambled to sit up.

  “You’re no better than your mother, are you, Grace?” Boone taunted coldly. Feet spread, weapon pointed, he leveled her with a scathing stare. “A whore, just like she was.”

  “Shut up,” Jack snapped.

  If he was perplexed about why Boone would say such a thing, he didn’t show it. His fingers banded Grace’s wrist, and his body shielded hers as he slowly, carefully, stood up. She rose with him, her heart in her throat.

  The insult about her mother burned and came perilously close to revealing why Boone knew Bess Reilly, but Grace had to think more of how precarious their situation had become. Jack intended to protect her, but he’d be powerless against a bullet.

  Boone’s piercing black eyes latched onto Jack. The rifle jerked. “Take off the gun belt. Throw it under the bed.”

  “I want Grace out of here.” Jack made no move to obey the command. “She’s innocent of everything you’re involved in.”

  “She’s dead if you don’t do what I tell you.”

  “What do you want?” Still holding onto her, Jack unbuckled the holster with his free hand, each movement methodical. On edge. “You already have the library money, don’t you? Thousands of dollars in cash. What else could you want?”

  He dropped the gun belt to the floor. With the toe of his boot, he kicked it into the dark shadows of the bed frame. Grace swallowed at the loss of his only defense.

  “I want Grace,” Boone said softly. “Hand her over to me.”