The Last Cahill Cowboy

by Jenna Kernan

  “And I’ll see that you pay for this,” promised Chance.

  Van Slyck dropped his chin once more and the bean counter continued his hunt. Chance kept guard and watched the door, visible from the owner’s offices. Bowie returned, and from the expression on his face, Chance knew the news was bad.

  Quin parted ways with Bowie outside the jail.

  Bowie was going right, toward the doctor’s offices with his deputy and then on to the bank to ask Chance to hide Van Slyck in his room at Hobart’s. Both hoped that Chance would consent to this task, but you never knew with him.

  Quin had left, heading to Leanna’s gaming hall, but as he turned the last corner, he found Leanna hurrying down the street in his direction, gripping the hand of the ferryman. Beside her, Cleve stretched his long legs to keep pace. Quin recognized the posture and the determined set of her jaw. Leanna was up about something. It was just how she’d looked when she’d suggested they break up the 4C. How he wished he could go back to that day. Looking back he saw himself as a scared kid, stepping into very big shoes and trying to bully his way through. And he’d stumbled ever since, especially with Leanna.

  Things were still strained, although they were better. Misunderstandings had led him to believe she had caused a town scandal and she still wouldn’t tell him who the father of her baby was. He assumed it was Cleve, though he didn’t know for certain.

  She’d spotted him now. But instead of slowing, she broke into a graceful run, forcing her husband to break into a lope. Quin met her halfway.

  “You’re back!”

  Was that relief he saw in her eyes? She released Muddy and threw herself into Quin’s arms. She hadn’t done that in years. Quin closed his arms about her and his eyes slipped shut at the sweetness of having his little sister back.

  He pulled her gently away, so he could see her face.

  “We found out who it is, Leanna. The man who planned the murder was—”

  “Don Fitzgerald,” she said, finishing his sentence.

  “How did you—?”

  “Newt.” She motioned toward the ferryman. “He fell asleep in the jail and woke up in the morgue, for some reason.” She gave him a hard stare and Quin couldn’t meet her gaze. “It scared him and got him thinking. Right, Newt? Go on, tell him.”

  The ferryman had obviously been crying because his face was wet and his eyes puffy and sore looking.

  “He won’t yell at me. Will you, Mr. Cahill?”

  Quin frowned. Why would he yell at an old drunk?

  “He was there that day at Ghost Canyon,” said Leanna. “He was on foot and that was as far as he’d gotten the night before. The shots woke him. He saw three men attack our folks. They clubbed Papa and sent the wagon over with Mama still alive.” Now Leanna was weeping. “Newt described everything, right down to the color dress Mama was wearing and what was in the wagon. He crawled down there to check on them…but…”

  Quin gathered her up in his arms again. “Okay, Annie. I understand.”

  Quin handed Leanna off to Cleve and then reached out to grab Muddy, but Leanna dashed his hand down.

  “No.” She turned to Newt, sobbing now.

  “She wasn’t dead,” he whispered. “So one of them climbed down and hit her with a rock. I seen them, but they didn’t see me. I heard them say Don Fitzgerald would be worth a fortune now, and they could hit him up for more, because the town would be his now that Ruby and Earl were dead. But the railroad never changed its mind.” Cleve was holding Leanna now. Quin felt as if he might throw up.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” he asked Muddy.

  “Scared. Booze blind and scared, most days since that one.”

  Now that Quin thought back he realized how much worse Muddy’s drinking had become after his parents had passed.

  “I just can’t take that to my grave. That Don Fitzgerald needs to pay for what he done and I’m not scared no more.”

  Quin turned to Cleve. “Who else knows?”

  “Nobody but us.”

  “Can you keep him out of sight?”

  Cleve nodded, drawing his wife to his side. She still clung, but the sobs had lessened.

  “What’s wrong, Quin?”

  He told them. “Chance is guarding Van Slyck and I need you two to guard Newt. Don’s boys escaped and are slapping leather back to his spread. They killed Jose Martinez because he witnessed them murdering his son. He was at the jail giving a statement to Bowie’s deputy.”

  “Is Whitaker dead?” asked Leanna.

  “No, just cracked him on the head.”

  Leanna pursed her lips, her brow now knit in confusion. “Why didn’t they shoot Glen?”

  “What?”

  “They killed Jose, because he was a witness. Now Glen is a witness to them killing Jose. That’s still a murder. So, why didn’t they kill him, too?”

  Quin felt as if river water was pouring down his back and his skin went prickly with fear.

  “He’s in on it,” he whispered. “That’s how they got out.”

  Quin turned tail and ran back the way he had come.

  Quin reached the jail, out of breath and scared clean through. He hadn’t been this frightened since he’d found out his wife was kidnapped. But now it was Bowie who was in danger and his brother didn’t even know it. His own deputy had betrayed him.

  Quin charged in through the jail’s front door to find Bowie with Druckman, the undertaker, who knelt beside Jose’s corpse.

  Quin sagged with relief. Seeing Bowie unharmed took away the terror and he could draw breath again.

  “Where’s Whitaker?” Quin asked, his gun still out and ready at his side.

  “What the hell, Quin?”

  “Where?”

  “At Doc Lewis’s office having his head stitched.”

  “Come on,” said Quin.

  Bowie fell in with him as Quin told his brother what Leanna had said.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Bowie, but his voice held a note of pain that told Quin that he just might.

  They reached the doctor’s office and charged up the steps. “That’s why he didn’t back Chance when that kid drew on him. I thought Whitaker was just stupid.”

  “He was on the payroll,” said Quin, reaching for the knob.

  Bowie drew up short, a stunned look on his face. “He knows about Van Slyck. He knows we’re stowing him at Hobart’s. Chance is there and he doesn’t realize.”

  The two stood, stilled by indecision.

  Quin pushed open the door. “We’ll check the doc’s first.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chance approached the second floor of the Hobart Hotel, gripping Van Slyck’s arm. The banker was now wearing Bowie’s duster, Bowie’s green kerchief and a wide-brimmed black hat that belonged to one of the bank tellers.

  The smell of stale beer clung to the sticky stairs that no one had bothered to wash. The second-floor hallway contained eight rooms, four on each side. The four-pane window at the end of the hall gave little light.

  Someone stood before his door. He pushed Van Slyck behind him and drew his guns. The figure stepped away from the wall, and he saw she was small and female. As she moved in his direction, Chance recognized her quick, methodical step.

  “Ellie?” Chance holstered his gun. “You shouldn’t be on this side of town.”

  “I had to speak to you.” Her gaze flicked past him and then she did a double take, her confusion clear from her wrinkled brow. “Mr. Van Slyck?”

  Chance reached his room and opened the door, pushing Van Slyck inside.

  “Move and I shoot you,” he growled at Van Slyck.

  Van Slyck didn’t move. Ellie hovered in the hall.

  “Sit,” Chance ordered Van Slyck, and waited while he complied. Then he turned to her. “Get out of here before someone sees you.”

  Her chin began to tremble. “It doesn’t matter. They know, everyone knows, that I was in your room.”

  He stilled at the prickling warning blanketing h
is back. The rumors had reached her already. Chance met her eyes and saw the shame there.

  Chance hung on the hooks of a devil’s choice. Marry Ellie or leave her behind. He wanted to do what was right, but either way seemed wrong for Ellie.

  Chance heard the pounding of footsteps coming up the stairs. Ellie paused and looked back. Chance pulled his guns. But it was Glen Whitaker, Bowie’s deputy, who appeared. Chance holstered his pistols.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Bowie said I’m to guard him. He sent me to fetch you.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about going after those two prisoners.”

  Chance stepped aside and allowed Glen to move past him into the room. Then he glanced at Ellie, who was peering at Whitaker. The look on her face and the odd expression brought Chance’s attention back to the deputy, who had stopped with one hand on the open door. Something was wrong.

  “There’s blood on his neck. And he’s shaking.” Ellie tugged at Chance’s arm and whispered, “Look at his head.”

  Chance glanced at the trickle of blood escaping from beneath the deputy’s dusty brown hat.

  “What the hell?”

  Glen slammed the door in Chance’s face.

  “No,” screamed Van Slyck.

  Chance drew his gun and kicked open the door at the same instant he heard the shot. The door flew off the hinges to reveal Whitaker, his gun drawn and smoking. Van Slyck crumpled to the floor as the deputy swung the pistol in their direction.

  Chance acted on instinct, everything slowing as it always did in that last critical moment, but instead of reaching for his gun, he reached for Ellie. His dive carried them past the doorway and into the hall. He covered her with his body as the rush of fear crashed over him like a thunderclap. The second shot sounded, striking the adjoining door, followed by a third. Chance imagined Ellie, there in that exact place only an instant earlier, and felt his insides ice over. Chance sprang to his feet, his hands still pressing Ellie to the floor.

  “Stay down.”

  “You, too!”

  But he didn’t. He crouched beside the door, gun drawn and the pistol upright as he prepared to fire. The sound of feet pounding on the stairs caused him to turn. Bowie and Quin, crested the stairs, coming at a full run.

  “In there,” said Chance. He took one quick glance into the room and found it empty except for the body of Van Slyck. “Gone!”

  Bowie charged past him and into the room. Quin followed.

  “Out the window,” yelled Bowie, firing a shot.

  Quin poked his head out, as well, both brothers firing at their fleeing target. Chance felt dizzy and sat beside Ellie, dragging her against him as he stared after his brothers. Bowie crawled out on the roof. Chance glanced at Ellie, looking her over.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, but her white face said otherwise. That was twice now that connection to him had brought her into the middle of gunplay.

  “He’s mounted. Go after him!” Bowie yelled, and he and Quin charged back out the way they had come, taking the stairs at a run and disappearing from sight.

  Chance staggered to his feet. Ellie sat, drawing her knees to her chest.

  He pulled her up, cradling her close, not sure if he was trembling or if it was her. Her heart beat fast as a sparrow’s.

  “What just happened?” she asked.

  He squeezed his eyes shut against the rush of gratitude. Ellie was safe. “I don’t know.”

  She peered up at him with those big soulful gray-green eyes. “You didn’t draw.”

  “I know. I don’t know what happened.”

  Her eyes widened as if she beheld something wonderful. “You avoided danger instead of charging into it. Chance, you saved me again. Only this time without risking your life.”

  That’s not what happened. Because of him, Ellie had almost been shot. It only proved what he’d been saying all along. He was no damn good for her. Her ridiculous hat now lay on her back, tethered by the black ribbon beneath her chin. He cradled her beautiful head in his hand, feeling so damned lucky he hadn’t got her killed.

  He couldn’t bear it if anything happened to this woman. Despite all his admonitions and denials she had somehow wheedled her way into his heart. He stilled, pressing her close to his chest, and dropped his cheek to the top of her head, letting the relief wash him clean.

  Gunfire sounded in the street.

  Bowie’s voice reached him from the window.

  “Chance!”

  He raised his head, recalling his duty to his brothers, to his family, to his parents. He set Ellie aside and he followed Bowie and Quin, just like always.

  He scrambled out of the window and crouched on the roof. Both his brothers standing side by side, looking up at him. Bowie had thrown his hat.

  “Whitaker?” asked Chance.

  Quin shook his head.

  “Is Van Slyck dead?” called Bowie.

  Chance recalled the banker now, ducked back into the room and rolled the body, curled like a dead spider on the floor. The former embezzler sprawled out upon his back. Whitaker’s bullet had left a hole over his heart that still oozed blood.

  Chance returned to the window. “Dead. You going after him?”

  Bowie collected his hat. “Eventually. Who was that with you?”

  Chance looked at the crowd gathering below and then back at Ellie. “Nobody.”

  Ellie narrowed her eyes on him.

  Chance drew back into the room. “We have to get you out of here.”

  “If you are thinking of my reputation, it’s already gone.”

  “Come on.” He didn’t wait for her reply as he took her out the back.

  Chance managed to get Ellie over to the proper side of town and to the Château Royale, by way of the service entrance. He stopped when they reached the porch and Ellie halted beside him.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, concern etching a line between her dark brows as she reached for him.

  He dodged her hand, drawing back. Her mouth gaped in surprise as her arms dropped limp to her sides. She looked at him as if he’d kicked her. Chance knew what he had to do.

  “Back to my brothers. And you keep clear of me. You understand? You keep following me like a stray cat and you’re gonna get shot.”

  Her chin began to tremble, but he held on to the last shreds of his resolve. He’d keep her safe, no matter what it cost him. Chance aimed a finger at her pretty nose.

  “I mean it, Ellie. Stay away.”

  Chance spun on his boot heels and left her behind. It was for her own damn good. For a smart girl, she sure had a knack for finding trouble. His blood still coursed cold as seawater when he thought of that bullet missing her by inches.

  He retraced his steps and didn’t stop until he reached Hobart’s. There he found the hotel owner, Jonathan Hobart, and Bowie and Quin and Druckman, the undertaker, who was wrapping Van Slyck in a sheet.

  “Here he is,” said Bowie at Chance’s appearance. “I told you he didn’t go after them alone.”

  The comment told him exactly how crazy both his brothers believed he was. It stopped him, because he recognized that the day he’d ridden into town, he would have done just that. But now he questioned his actions, his reflexes and his desire. Why had he gone for Ellie instead of his gun?

  And then it came to him, illuminated like the silver edges of a cloud before the sun. If he had taken the shot, Whitaker would be dead, but Ellie might have been hit by the deputy’s bullet. And he couldn’t have let that happen because he loved her.

  Him, a roving bounty hunter with a death wish, had somehow fallen in love with a woman who dreamed of putting down roots so deep they would nourish generations. Ellie was an oak and he was a tumbleweed.

  “What’s wrong, Chance? You sick?” asked Bowie.

  Yes, he thought. But he shook his head, denying that the world now tipped beneath his feet so dangerously that he thought he might fall off.

  The hotel
owner looked none too pleased to see one of his bedsheets stolen from the mattress.

  “You’re paying for that,” he said to the undertaker.

  “Mr. Van Slyck was a leading citizen. I’m certain his estate can cover the cost of a sheet.”

  Chance and Quin exchanged knowing looks. Van Slyck’s estate was not as healthy as everyone believed, but neither felt compelled to say so aloud. All that would come out in the wash.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Chance.

  “Get our men together,” said Bowie. “And then go after them.”

  Chance had been prepared to go after their parents’ murderer. But he had planned to go alone. Bowie and Quin had families now and women who loved them.

  “I don’t fancy riding out after them only to get picked off along the way. Fitzgerald has plenty of men and they’ll do as he tells them. Plus, he knows every inch of that ranch,” said Quin. “For all you know he has an armory of weapons and men just waiting.”

  “I’ll go out and see,” said Chance.

  “No,” said both brothers simultaneously.

  “I’m the only one with no woman. Makes sense.”

  Quin made a sound in his throat. “You got a woman. You just haven’t claimed her as you should.”

  Quin was still bossing him. Only this time he was right. He should claim her and would if he believed he could do right by Ellie, which he didn’t. “You leave her out of this.”

  “How? She’s in it, brother. You put her there.”

  “Ellie needs a man with roots.”

  Quin gave a half shrug. “That could be you.”

  “I’m not coming back to the 4C.”

  “Who asked you to? But you ought to marry Ellen.”

  Chance should be riding out to the Fitzgerald spread, guns blazing. Instead, he wondered what it would be like to marry Ellie. He knew they were good in bed, but that didn’t mean he’d be a good husband. He looked at his brothers. Quin had married. Bowie was about to. Did they ever get scared right down to their heels that they’d be a disappointment as a husband? That they wouldn’t be able to provide for a wife and children?