Hideout at Whiskey Gulch

by Elle James

  “Me too.” Matt tilted his head toward the child sleeping on his shoulder. “If she didn’t have an uncle waiting for her and her sister, I’d be tempted to adopt them.”

  “We could ask the uncle if he’s interested in letting the girls come live with us.” Aubrey winked. “That is, if this dating thing pans out.”

  Matt stared at her with a crooked smile. “You would do that?”

  She nodded. “The thought of these girls being motherless breaks my heart. My Katie would have loved sisters to play with.” Tears welled in Aubrey’s eyes as she laid a hand on Isabella’s hair. “They are as different as night and day, but they want and need the same things—a safe home, love and family.”

  “A family with a mother and father who care about them,” Matt said, his gaze going to the child in his arms and then up to connect with Aubrey’s. “You just made me love you even more.”

  A big sigh sounded from the front of the SUV. “You two are making me think my life isn’t as good as it could be. Could you cut it out before you make me go all soft?” Deputy Jones shook her head. “You’d think the only way to be happy around here is to be in love and have a dozen kids. I like being single and doing my own thing.”

  Aubrey laughed and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Dallas, you do you. It’s what you do best.”

  “Whew,” the deputy said with a sigh. “I was worried I’d be held to another standard.”

  “Not at all. You just haven’t met the right one,” Aubrey said, staring over Isabella’s head to Matt. “When you do, you’ll be willing to move heaven and earth—”

  “Or reconsider your single status,” Matt concluded with a smile. “I know I am.”

  “I’ll say. Going footloose and fancy free to having a woman and two children is a huge step,” Deputy Jones said. “I don’t know if I could handle that much change all at once.”

  “You’ll know when you know.” Matt reached for Aubrey’s hand as the SUV turned into the gate at the Whiskey Gulch Ranch.

  Aubrey knew, and by the look in Matt’s eyes, he did, too.

  Epilogue

  Matt sat on the porch swing at his home at Whiskey Gulch Ranch with Aubrey beside him, holding baby Marianna in her lap. Isabella sat on the floor of the porch with a kitten they’d found in the barn, teasing it with a feather. The dark-haired little girl giggled when the kitten grabbed for the feather and missed.

  For a child who’d lost her mother days earlier and had been abducted and shoved into a dog crate, she was adjusting better than could be expected.

  Her uncle had asked to be given time to think about what to do with Isabella and Marianna. He had five children of his own to support and was living paycheck to paycheck. He’d loved his sister, but he knew the children were better off where they were. They’d have a roof over their heads and wouldn’t have to share a room with three or four other kids.

  Every once in a while, Matt thought it was a huge step, taking on two small children when he wasn’t even married and didn’t have a house of his own. But he’d started working with a local architect on house plans. And he’d been in discussions with Trace about a location for that house on the Whiskey Gulch Ranch. Since they’d inherited the huge ranch together, they’d come to an understanding and were building mutual respect for each other.

  Matt and Aubrey had found a beautiful spot on a knoll overlooking a small lake not far from the original homestead where Trace and his mother lived. They’d have their privacy and be close enough for Rosalynn to spoil her bonus grandchildren, as she called Isabella and Marianna. With her big heart and open arms, she was well on her way to loving the beautiful baby girls.

  And Aubrey had taken to the orphans so quickly, it was obvious she was a natural.

  Today they were celebrating Isabella and Marianna’s uncle’s decision to let the girls stay at the ranch while he considered whether he could shoulder the extra responsibility. Trace and Lily were manning the grill, cooking large steaks from the beef they raised on the ranch. Irish and Levi were throwing horseshoes on the lawn and smack-talking about their skills in everything from sharpshooting to poker.

  Rosalynn was busy in the kitchen preparing her famous potato salad and baked beans to go with the steaks.

  Sheriff Richards and his wife arrived with their little girl, bringing along Deputy Jones with them. Another vehicle arrived behind them and FBI Special Agent Mitch McCall and DEA agent Will Knowlton emerged.

  “Just in time for dinner,” Trace called out from the grill.

  Mrs. Richards laughed. “My husband has impeccable timing when it comes to steak.”

  The sheriff set his daughter on the ground and rubbed his flat belly. “A man’s got to have his priorities.”

  His wife patted his back. “I know, dear. And tuna casserole isn’t one of them.”

  “Did I say that?” The sheriff hugged his wife. “You make the best tuna casserole of any I’ve ever tasted.” He kissed the top of her head. “Can I help it that after twelve years of marriage, I still don’t like tuna casserole?”

  The sheriff’s daughter settled on the porch with Isabella and the kitten.

  Matt chuckled and pulled Aubrey close. “Is that what we’re going to be like when we’ve been married for twelve years?”

  “I don’t know. We have to be married before we can start the countdown to twelve years,” she said.

  “You’re right. We do.” He looked over at her and opened his mouth to ask her to marry him.

  Aubrey held up her hand before he could. “Don’t. Not yet. Ask me in two weeks.”

  “Careful, brother. Two weeks might give her time to change her mind,” Trace said as he walked up the steps carrying a tray loaded with juicy steaks. “She might decide she doesn’t like riding around on the back of a motorcycle all the time.”

  Aubrey shook her head. “No. I know what I want and what I’m getting into. I’ve been married and know what it takes to raise children.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Matt needs at least two weeks, maybe more, to change his mind. Taking on a woman with the baggage I have, plus two little girls is a lot for a confirmed bachelor to manage. He needs to think hard on it before he commits.”

  “Darlin’, I’ve thought on it. I know what I want.” He kissed the top of her head. “I want you.” Then he touched the baby in her arms. “And Marianna and Isabella.” He sighed. “But I’ll give you the time you need to be sure that I’m sure.” He winked.

  “That will give him time to find a ring and do it up right,” Lily said.

  Levi and Irish joined them on the porch.

  “What do you hear from Morrison?” Levi asked.

  “In a plea bargain, he confessed to everything, including his role in the death of Lynn Hennessey,” said FBI Special Agent McCall.

  Matt’s lip curled. “What kind of plea bargain is he getting?” The man deserved the death sentence.

  “He won’t get the death sentence as long as he helps identify the cartel members he’s worked with in the US and the women and children they’ve sold in their trade dealings.” The sheriff held up a hand. “We will push for life without parole. The man has no business being on the streets. Not with all he’s done and the lives he’s impacted. But if we can stop the flow of human trafficking in this area, we can save so many more lives.”

  “He gave us a lead we’ll be following on his US connection.” Deputy Jones tipped her head toward agents McCall and Knowlton. “We’ll be working closely with the FBI and DEA to bring those guys down.”

  “Deputy Jones will be working the case,” Sheriff Richards said.

  “I’d like to be involved, if you could use some assistance,” Irish said.

  “We’ll keep you in mind,” Agent McCall said. “Waiting to see if Morrison’s information leads to anything.”

  “Keep us in mind,” Trace said. “I’m bringing on more of the
men I served with on active duty. We plan on taking on more than just ranch work. Me, Matt, Irish and Levi are just the beginning of a team of former military men who can work to help others.”

  The sheriff frowned. “We don’t need vigilantes running amok.”

  Trace smiled. “We’re not vigilantes but we want to help where we can. And we’re willing to augment or assist other agencies in their efforts, at no cost to those agencies.”

  “Good to know,” Sheriff Richards said. “Now, where’s that steak?” He gathered his daughter and carried her inside.

  Irish held the door open for Deputy Jones, laughing at something she said as they entered.

  Matt remained in the porch swing with Aubrey. He tipped his head toward Irish. “Think those two could work together?”

  “I don’t know them well enough to say. Irish seems to enjoy Dallas’s company. He was pretty quick to volunteer to help out on the case.”

  “Are you hungry?” Matt was perfectly happy to sit there with the three women who were going to be his family, but he had to take care of them and see to their needs.

  “As much as I love sitting here with you and Marianna, I could stand a bite of steak and Isabella needs to eat. She could use some meat on her little bones.”

  “Then let’s get our girl something to eat.” He pushed to his feet and helped Aubrey and the baby out of the swing. He held her in his arms and kissed her forehead, the baby pressed lightly between them. “You’re my own angel from the house of angels.”

  “What are we going to do about your mother’s house?”

  “It’s gone. The fire destroyed it.”

  “Are we going to rebuild it?”

  He shook his head. “I have what I need from the house in my memories of my mother and you. If not for that house, we wouldn’t have Isabella and Marianna. I’ll never forget it, but we have an entire life ahead of us here on Whiskey Gulch Ranch. And as long as we have each other, we will be okay.”

  Aubrey leaned up on her toes and kissed his lips. “More than okay.” She smiled. “Did I tell you that Mrs. Blair is going to be the fourth in the ladies’ poker games?”

  “Ol’ Mrs. Blair?”

  “I asked Marge and Barb if they would be willing to invite her to play, and they said yes.” Aubrey frowned. “Do you think Mrs. Blair can keep up with them?”

  Matt snorted. “Keep up? Are you kidding? She’ll be beating the socks off them in no time.”

  He bent to scoop the little girl into his arms. “Isabella, are you hungry? Tienes hambre?”

  “Si. Muy hambriento.” She laughed as she settled into his arms.

  Matt couldn’t remember a time he was happier. He smiled all the way into the house with his three girls at his side.

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Witness by Nichole Severn.

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  The Witness

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  Chapter One

  Pineapples.

  Deputy United States Marshal Finnick Reed shoved his SUV into Park, cut the engine and hit the pavement of the house’s driveway. Unholstering his weapon, he kept low as he approached the lakeside home from the south. He scanned what he could see of the property, the soft lapping of water at the shore loud in his ears. The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago. Shadows shifted as spears of moonlight filtered through the ring of trees that surrounded the property. His heart pounded at the base of his skull. No other vehicles. No lights on inside the house. Everything was exactly as it should have been. Aside from the single word he and the only surviving witness of Chicago’s most notorious serial killer had agreed to use in case of emergency that’d been sent less than twenty minutes ago. Pineapples.

  She wouldn’t have messaged him if she hadn’t needed him. She knew better than to put herself at risk after all these months. Finn closed in on the front door of the rambler-style river house, pressing his shoulder into the frame before testing the handle.

  The door swung open without his help.

  Warning prickled at the back of his neck as he stepped over the threshold. His own shallow breathing cut through the silence, and he raised his weapon shoulder level. Heel-toeing through the small entryway, he kept his boots from echoing off the hardwood, then swung into the open-concept kitchen and living area. Faint hints of light penetrated through the bay windows along the opposite wall, casting shadows through the slats of the dining-room chairs onto the floor, and Finn reached over to flip on the overhead light.

  No power.

  “Where are you, Red?” Camille Goodman, formerly Camille Jensen, had relocated to the sleepy coastal town of Florence, Oregon, with the help of the United States Marshals Service a year ago. As long as her attacker was awaiting trial for the murders of the six women he’d bound, strangled and carved up with his knife back in Chicago, she was Finn’s responsibility. And he wasn’t going anywhere until he found her. He moved deeper into the house, the slight hint of lavender in the air. Camille. She’d always had a soothing quality about her that he couldn’t seem to fight, but her text message brought him to the exact opposite of calm.

  She was supposed to be safe here. Protected.

  He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her.

  He took another step. The crunching of glass filled his ears, a hard edge of something embedding in his boot. Peeling his foot away, he recognized the phone he’d given her to contact him when she’d first been transferred into his custody. Left in the center of the living room. Dropped during a hasty escape?

  Shuffling drew his attention down the hall, toward the bedrooms at the back of the house, and Finn swept his arms in that direction and took aim. He followed the sound past a room filled with large flat boxes and frames. Clear. The bathroom door had been shut, and he twisted the knob and pushed inside. Nothing. There was only one more room left in the hall. Camille’s bedroom. She had to be there.

  Dark spots peppered the hardwood in front of the closed bedroom door, and ice crept up Finn’s neck. He slowly reached down to test the texture, but what he thought was blood shifted under his touch. His gut clenched. Red rose petals. Exactly like the ones recovered from each crime scene left behind by the Carver when he’d finished with his victims. “Camille!”

  He shot upright, hauling the heel of his boot into the space next the doorknob. The door slammed back into the wall behind it as he rushed inside. The shadowed outline of a masked intruder blurred in his vision a split second before the bastard rammed him back out into the hallway. Finn caught a mere glimpse of a pair of bare feet—motionless—as he hit the wall. Air whooshed from his lungs. The attacker went for Finn’s gun, twisting the barrel down until the SOB ripped the weapon from his hand. The gun slid across the floorboards toward the other end of the hallway. Out of sight.

  A fist landed a hard right hook into his jaw. Lightning flashed before his eyes as another gloved fist catapulted toward him. Finn threw out his forearm, blocking the shot, then knocked the attacker back and kicked out. His heel connected with solid muscle, but it didn’t slow the masked intruder long. Finn ducked as the assailant lunged, but the man’s shoulder smashed into the softest part of his gut. Pain exploded through his major organs, and a groan tore from his chest. He slammed his elbow into the base of the guy’s skull. Once. Twice. The grip around the back of his thighs loosened, and Finn hauled his knee directly into the attacker’s face.

  The man collapsed at his feet.

  Fighting to catch his breath, Finn swiped at the blood dripping from his mouth and nose, then leveraged both palms on his knees to process what the hell had
just happened. Son of a bitch. Someone had broken into her house. Someone had come for her. Damn it. Pulling a set of cuffs from his belt, he secured the perp’s wrists behind his back. Whoever he was, Finn would make sure the man in the mask paid for coming here tonight. He stumbled over the unconscious body at his feet and latched onto the door frame to pull himself into the bedroom. “Camille.”

  She wasn’t moving.

  He collapsed to his knees beside her. Red hair spilled out all around her as Finn lowered his ear to her mouth. Wrists and ankles bound together, she was lying unconscious between the side of her bed and the wall. She wasn’t breathing, but her pulse still beat faintly against his fingers at the column of her throat. Setting his clasped hands below her sternum, he had to ignore the patches of blood across her T-shirt and count off chest compressions. Camille’s blood. Get her conscious, then worry about any other injuries. He rocked forward on his knees to blow oxygen into her lungs. Her chest rose with the added air he’d given her, but even after two rounds she still couldn’t breathe on her own. “Come on, Red. You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

  Her gasp pierced through the pounding in his head. Her back arched off the floor, and his heart rocketed into his throat. Finn threaded his hand under her lower back and pulled her into his chest. Pulling a blade from his ankle holster, he cut through the binds behind her back. He brushed her hair out of her face for the smallest chance of glimpsing those incredible aquamarine eyes. “Guess there is something to this third-time’s-the-charm philosophy after all.”

  Her coughing jolted through him, and his insides jerked with each wheeze. Long fingers clutched onto his arm. Her soft frame molded against him as he instinctually wrapped his arms around her. At barely five foot five, Camille Goodman had fought off a serial killer who’d been a hell of a lot closer than she’d realized. Now, exactly a year later, someone else had come for her while Jeff Burnes, also known as the Carver, was awaiting trial. Finn studied the crisp lines of blood surfacing across her chest as Camille struggled to take a full breath. Red splotches spread around the collar of her shirt. The SOB had bound and strangled her, then cut into that sacred stretch of skin above her left breast to etch his claim on his victim.