By Hook or By Crook
Page 23
An emotion he barely dared to identify rose in him: guilt. He quashed it ruthlessly. He had nothing to feel guilty about. His father had deserved that broken jaw.
Erin smiled slightly. “I don’t think he’s afraid you’ll come after him again physically. But he knows you’re angry with him.”
“Damn right I’m angry. I’ve got nothing for him but anger. Don’t you?”
Erin sighed. “I feel a lot of anger toward him, yes. But I think it’s important to let bygones be bygones.”
“Bygones?” He shot to his feet and was on the other side of the room before he turned to face her. “We’re not talking about a dad who missed some of your soccer games or lost his temper once in a while. We’re talking about a lifetime of abuse! If he wasn’t beating on us or Mom, he drank up his pay until we had to duck the landlord on rent day and get free lunches from school! Have you forgotten what that felt like?”
“No. I also haven’t forgotten that he’s the only parent we have left, and he seems to want to make amends.”
“Tough shit. I don’t want to give him any chances to ease his conscience.”
“I didn’t think you would.” The sadness shining in Erin’s eyes made him want to punch something. Preferably his father.
“So why bring it up then?”
“Because I’m probably going to invite him here to meet the baby in a few months, and I don’t want you to hate me for it.”
“Hate you?” The thought brought him up short. “I could never hate you.” He resumed his spot next to the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “How could I hate Erin-go-braugh?”
She rolled her eyes, even as she surreptitiously wiped a tear away. “I wasn’t sure.”
Her voice came out quavery, nearly sending Joe into a panic as he realized she was on the verge of sobbing. He never could stand to see a woman cry, but when it was his little sister...
He knelt and pulled her into his embrace roughly, pressing her face against his shoulder so he wouldn’t have to see her tears. “I could never hate you,” he repeated. “If you want to reconcile with the old bastard, go right ahead.” She chuckled through her tears, a good sign. “I can even understand how you might want to, I guess, since he’s going to be a grandfather and all.”
“Really?” Erin pulled back, wiping away her remaining tears on the sleeve of her long-sleeved tee. “So when you have kids, you think you might let him meet them?”
His eyes widened. “No! No, not at all. I mean, I’ll never have kids. Can you imagine me, as a father?” God, if he could ever screw something up, it was fatherhood. Imagine him, responsible for another human being. What a debacle.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I can totally see that.”
He shook his head. “It’s not for me. If you do something wrong, you mess up a human being, for life. And it’s not like I have a decent role model to follow.”
“You did okay with me without a role model, you know. You were like a father to me. Are you saying I didn’t turn out okay?”
He smiled. “You turned out great. But with such good raw material to work with, how could I go wrong?”
“You and Ivy would create some pretty good raw material, don’t you think?” The puckish grin on her face made him laugh.
“Erin-go-braugh, always trying to start trouble. What kind of mom are you going to be?” he teased.
He didn’t answer her question, but privately he thought that any kid that was half Ivy’s DNA couldn’t be all bad.
He couldn’t believe he had thought about himself, kids, and Ivy in the same sentence and not broken out in a sweat. How his life had changed in the few short weeks since he’d met her.
“I’m going to be a great mom, damn it,” she scowled with false anger. “But first I’m going to beat your ass at go-cart racing.” She clicked on the TV and turned on the video game with a remote.
“Dream on,” he scoffed, tossing her a video game controller and picking up one for himself. “You’ll never beat a cop at a driving game.”
It wasn’t until he was falling asleep that night in Ivy’s arms, peaceful and happy, that he realized he’d called himself a cop and no one had corrected him.
****
Scratching at the front door the next afternoon made Ivy smile when she discovered its cause: Snowdrop, one of the cats that lived in the foal barn. The foal barn, surrounded by a sizable fence, had a small door at one end that allowed the three cats to go in and out at their leisure. Erin and Anthony didn’t allow the cats in the house. They were mousers, not pets.
Ivy, who had never had a pet, had become slowly acquainted with the animals when she took on the job of feeding them each day. Snowdrop singled Ivy out as one of his favorite people early on, a distinction that secretly delighted her. His lean feline body could squeeze under the enclosure fence and roam the ranch at will, much to Anthony’s disgust. Today, he’d decided to pay her an unauthorized visit.
“Snowdrop!” she scolded. “What are you doing here? You know you’re supposed to be back in the barn. Anthony doesn’t like you in the house.”
That didn’t stop Ivy from bending down to pet him, however. She cast a swift glance around to see if Erin’s husband was watching. The men were all down at the barn today, and she couldn’t see them from the front porch of the house. Relieved, she had bent down again to rub Snowdrop behind the ears when a vehicle some distance away on the main road caught her eye.
Something about the dark SUV with deeply tinted windows made the breath catch in her throat. Clients came and went frequently, but none of them owned such an imposing vehicle. More than two hundred yards from the house, the SUV slowed and then stopped, idling in the middle of the road. After a moment, as Ivy watched, it made the turn into the long driveway. Sweat broke out on her forehead despite the chilled air.
Not ignoring her instincts any longer, she reached down and grabbed Snowdrop by his flea collar, eliciting a disgruntled purr. “Come on, sweetie,” she whispered to the cat.
The animal resisted her tug, so she scooped him up and brought him inside, shutting the door and locking it behind her. Feeling a tiny bit better with a solid doorway between her and the strangers, her calm shattered when she peeked through the glass window near the door and saw the SUV accelerating. It shot past the road that led to the barns and came straight for the house.
“Shit.”
“Ivy, is that you? What’s the matter?” Erin’s voice came from the back bedroom.
Frozen, Ivy panicked. She couldn’t run. That would leave Erin unprotected. Snowdrop picked up her fear and sought refuge under the table. Ivy grabbed the phone and dialed Anthony’s cell number.
“Anthony here.”
“Anthony, you’d better get up here. There are some guys...I don’t like it. They’re in a big SUV.”
She heard him relaying her words to someone in the background.
“Wait a minute. Slow down. What guys? Did they do anything to you? Are you hurt?”
She could hear Joe’s voice in the background clearly. After a moment of rustling, Joe came on the line.
“Is it Cantor?”
Ivy drew a deep breath as she fought panic. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have a bad feeling. They’re in a dark SUV that I don’t know, and they’re headed up here fast. I didn’t recognize the car, but they didn’t turn at the barns. Wouldn’t clients have gone to the barns?” She felt silly voicing her half-formed suspicions aloud.
“I’ll be right there. Don’t answer the door if anyone knocks.”
As she watched, the doorknob rattled. She stood, tense and silent, waiting. A second later, crashing glass startled a scream from Ivy.
“Ivy?” Joe shouted. “What’s wrong?”
From the back room, she heard Erin’s voice rising, a note of fear plain. Ivy froze as a hand appeared in the small window next to the door.
“They’re coming in,” Ivy whispered, backing away as the hand reached through and fumbled at the knob.
“Get off the phone, Ms. Smithson,” Cantor said with a wave of his pistol, “and don’t say a word.”
Ivy complied, feeling that connection with Joe evaporate as the line went dead. Foolish. An open line to Joe wouldn’t keep her alive, but she’d felt safer knowing he was on the line. Belatedly, Cantor’s words dawned on her. The peculiar emphasis he’d given her name didn’t bode well.
“Sit down before I put a bullet through you,” he ordered her.
She sat.
“Check the house,” Cantor ordered Ramirez, “and get everybody out here.”
“You can’t do that,” Ivy said. “There’s a pregnant woman in there who needs to stay in bed.” She started to rise from the kitchen table, but a sharp gesture from Cantor had her sinking to her seat again.
“Do I look like I give a shit?” Cantor spat. “Get her out here.”
Erin shuffled into the room in workout pants and a baggy T-shirt, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, looking confused. Daisy followed right behind her, with Ramirez on their heels, his gun drawn.
“What’s going on?” Erin asked. “Who are you and what do you want?” No one answered. Her hand cupped her swollen abdomen nervously, her eyes searching Ivy’s for an explanation.
Ivy only shook her head. Why had she brought this into Erin’s life? If anything happened to Erin or her baby, she’d never forgive herself. The same guilt was mirrored on Daisy’s face. Eager to forget their ordeal, she hadn’t told Erin the full story of being held hostage by Cantor and Ramirez.
The front door opened again. Ivy’s heart sank as Joe, Pock, and Anthony came in, held at gunpoint by two men she didn’t know. Her hopes for a rescue evaporated. The three men huddled in the corner. A streak of blood bisected Pock’s forehead.
Joe and Anthony seemed uninjured, thank God. Seeing the man she loved helpless at the end of a gun sent a shiver of ice through her body. Her fingers curled around the edge of her seat as she struggled to remain calm. Joe had gotten them out of danger before. He could do it again. After what they’d endured together, nothing could shake her faith in him.
She met and held his gaze. Hold on. Stay calm. He sent her the message silently, with his eyes and with every line of his body, tense and ready.
She tore her gaze away when she noticed Cantor watching the two of them. She couldn’t let Cantor and Ramirez know how important Joe was to her, that she would do anything to keep him safe. That knowledge could be very dangerous in the hands of a man like Cantor.
“These guys were trying to come to the rescue,” said one of the strangers, a squat man with a ponytail and beard.
“Get out there and keep an eye out for anyone else coming in,” Cantor ordered the other gunman. “You got any more employees on this ranch?” he asked Anthony, who shook his head. “Good. Stay put and do what we say.”
“What do you want?” Anthony asked, voice taut. “My wife is sick and pregnant. If anything happens to her—”
“If you’re unhappy, talk to Pock here,” Cantor interrupted. “He had an idea that he could break a promise to me and get away with it. He’s going to find out that nobody does that.”
All eyes shifted to Pock, who said nothing. His huge shoulders slumped under the hooded sweatshirt he wore against the autumn chill. He looked like a sulking child who’d just been sent to time-out.
Ivy remembered the look on her sister’s face when Pock had told her he’d wanted the money to feel worthy of her. No matter what Ivy thought, her sister loved this overgrown man-child, and that wouldn’t change.
“Pock doesn’t have any money,” Joe said. “What’s the point of coming after him? If he fights again, maybe he can win for you and help you recoup your losses.”
“Don’t be stupid. Pock will never fight again,” Cantor vowed, his face white with vehemence. “And Pock might be broke, but Daisy and Ivy Smithson aren’t.”
She exchanged a long look with her sister. Cantor knew their father’s identity. Now what would he want?
****
As soon as Cantor’s men secured the house and made sure the ranch was otherwise deserted, they locked the doors, pulled the shades, and herded everyone into the living room. The small room had only one large window, which looked out to the back of the ranch. From his position against one wall, Joe kept a careful eye on the group, watching for any opening.
When Ivy’s call had ended with shattering suddenness, he’d advanced to the house, wishing for the gun he’d left in his belongings there. Surprise, surprise, he hadn’t thought he’d need it to muck out the stable that morning. Cantor’s gunmen had surrounded them quickly. Pock had tried to put up a fight, having at least fifty pounds of pure muscle on his attackers, but had been subdued with a pistol butt to the head. Fortunately, they’d used the gun only to whip him, Joe thought grimly, rather than put a bullet through him. Pock had guts but no brains.
Anthony, unarmed and slight, had cooperated after he saw Pock dazed and bleeding.
Joe’s heart had sunk when they entered the house to see Cantor and Ramirez holding Ivy, Daisy, and his sister at gunpoint. He had underestimated their determination and their ability to track them. Now, they might all pay for his error of judgment with their lives.
Fury tightened his stomach, but he wouldn’t let it rule him. He had to keep his mind sharp and react to the situation as he found it.
Ramirez drew the curtains and stationed himself to one side of the window, keeping careful watch through a small crack in the drapes. His weapon drawn, he leaned against the end of the couch where Ivy sat. His thigh brushed against her arm. She shrank away from the contact, and Joe’s anger nearly boiled over.
Ramirez hadn’t forgotten the way she and Joe had left him on the side of the road. The grudge he held shone in the coal-dark hardness of his gaze. Would he stay cool and keep his mind on the money he could make if he kept them alive, or would he settle for a more personal revenge?
With great effort, Joe remained motionless and silent against the wall. This wasn’t the time to fight back. These people had guns trained on a group that included three women, one of them pregnant and ailing. He would watch and wait for an opportunity to develop. Ivy’s eyes met Joe’s. He tried to send her a message with his gaze. Keep calm. He would get her and the others out of this, whether he survived or not. That much he could promise.
Seemingly reassured, she shifted to allow Erin a little more room on the couch. The thugs at least allowed Erin to lie down after they’d confined everyone in this room. Daisy and Pock sat cross-legged on the floor, arms draped around each other.
They all seemed to be waiting on Cantor, who had left the room a minute ago. When he returned, he tossed something into Ivy’s lap. Joe flinched, but relaxed when he realized he’d only tossed a cell phone. Cantor’s next words made him tense again.
“Call your father,” he ordered Ivy.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked.
Cantor gave her a don’t-be-stupid look. “Tell him that if he gives us what we want, we’ll make sure that he and his family all get together for a family reunion. And if he doesn’t…” Cantor gave a shrug that spoke volumes.
“And what do you want?” Ivy asked.
Cantor scoffed. “What do you think? Money.”
He didn’t need to worry, Joe told himself. Her father would do anything necessary to save his girls. Wouldn’t he? Richard Smithson was a tightfisted son of a bitch, which, Joe supposed, explained how he’d become a self-made multimillionaire real estate magnate in the first place. But as much as the thought of being hit up for ransom would hurt Richard Smithson’s pride, he wouldn’t allow any harm to come to his daughters.
Joe hoped not, anyway.
****
Ivy tensed as the phone rang. What if her f
ather didn’t pick up? After what seemed like an interminable number of rings, he clicked on the line.
“Ivy! What the hell is going on? I haven’t heard from you in days, and then when I do, I can’t get a straight—”
“Dad, I don’t have time for that now.” Focused intently on carrying out Cantor’s instructions, she barely noticed her father’s hiss of displeasure at being interrupted. “We’re in trouble, Dad. Big trouble.” She quickly related the entire story, including her failure to prevent the marriage, ending with Cantor’s demands for cash. Her rushed narrative ended in a jumble of words, which her father met with silence.
Cantor motioned for her to give him the phone. “Cantor wants to talk to you,” she said. Ivy handed over the phone before her father could object.
“This is what we want—”
Before Cantor could continue, Smithson cut him short with a flood of noisy invective. Ivy couldn’t make out the words, but her father’s fury was clear. Trust her father to not take even a ransom demand lying down. Cantor’s brows rose as the stream of abuse continued. Ivy, exchanging a carefully blank glance with Joe, tightened her lips to hide her amusement in spite of it all.
Looking discombobulated, Cantor backed out of the room, clearly not wanting his captives to hear him being taken to task by his supposed victim. Seeing Cantor get a dressing down from her father amused her, but she couldn’t afford to laugh at the man holding them at gunpoint. A stupid man could pull the trigger as easily as a smart one, maybe more easily. She had to remember that.
After a few minutes, Cantor returned, an unreadable look on his face. After a moment, Ivy recognized the expression—a ghost of a smile played upon his lips. He had clicked the phone off and pocketed it. “And I thought my family was fucked-up.” He shot a look at Pock. “Your father-in-law really doesn’t like you, you know that?”
“What do you mean?” Daisy demanded. “Did Dad give you what you want?”
“Sort of. He had some...other suggestions, though.” Cantor shook his head, an odd grin playing on his lips. Ivy thought it looked almost like reluctant admiration, but why would that be? “He’ll pay the ransom, but he’s got a condition.” Cantor paused, a gleam in his eye. That gleam made Ivy feel like she might throw up.