by Lori Wilde
Savannah’s heart sank. She could expect no help from Joe.
“You’re in something of a fix, sister.”
Where was the other thief? Savannah wondered. Matt had said there were two. What if the other outlaw had somehow gotten to Ginger and Cody? The thought drove spikes of horror through her lungs.
Please, God, let Ginger stay in house. Let them be okay.
“Now, I’m gonna let go of your mouth, but don’t you scream or the gun goes off. And I want you to keep facing forward, don’t look at me. Get my drift?”
Savannah nodded. Her chest muscles were tight. Sweat drizzled down her neck, pooled in the hollow of her throat. Her knees wobbled. She’d never been so terrified.
The beefy palm lifted. Her lips felt crushed, bruised.
“What do you want from me?” she whispered.
“No talking, remember?” The man trailed the gun from her temple down her cheek, then clamped a hand on her shoulder. “My, you are a pretty one. I like your yellow hair. I can see why that detective keeps sniffing ’round here. Too bad he ain’t here to save you now, though.” The creep emitted a harsh bark of sadistic laughter. She could smell the strong stench of alcohol on his breath. “I’d enjoy putting a bullet through him.”
Savannah stiffened. Had Ginger called the ambulance? Was it on its way? What about Matt? Had she beeped him. Where was that man when she really needed him?
“Yes, indeed, you are one fine little heifer.” The corrupt hand at her waist inched up under her shirt. Cruel fingers grabbed at her breast, squeezed hard. He mashed his mouth to her ear, ground his hips against her back in a lewd gesture. “What say me and you have some fun?”
Savannah remained rigid, silently infuriated but unable to act on her rage. She had to remain calm, retain her wits.
“Oh, you’re one of them cold-blooded types, huh? Too good for the likes of me.” He leaned closer, jamming the gun into her tender flesh. “Well, I’m gonna make you be nice to me, one way or the other.”
Savannah gulped and willed herself not to faint.
Matt did not pull into the driveway of the Circle B. Instead, he parked a few yards down the road, unholstered his duty weapon and crept through the pasture, dodging behind mesquite trees and sagebrush in an attempt to stay out of sight.
He sought out Joe’s hiding place across from the ranch and discovered the abandoned police car. Swearing under his breath, Matt scanned the area and spotted Joe beneath a tree.
“Joe,” he said, running over and squatting next to the downed man. Joe groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “You okay?”
“Matt? That you? I can’t see so good. My vision is blurry.”
Matt helped Joe to a sitting position, squeezed his arm. “It’s going to be okay, buddy. What happened?”
“They ambushed me, boss.” Joe grimaced, raised a hand to his head. “I heard a noise, went to investigate and bam, they got me from behind.”
Matt assessed the large goose egg blossoming on the back of Joe’s head.
“Can you stand up?”
“I can try.” Joe struggled to dig his feet into the sandy soil, but when he tried to stand, his knees buckled. He groaned. “I feel dizzy.”
“Okay.” Matt stroked his jaw with a thumb and forefinger. “Forget standing. If I drag you over to the car, do you think you can call for backup?”
“Yeah. I can handle that.”
Grunting with the effort, Matt laced his arms under Joe’s upper torso and tugged him over to the police cruiser. “It’s up to you to get me some help, buddy. I’m going after Larkins and Thompson.”
“Right.”
Leaving Joe behind, Matt turned toward the Circle B. Every instinct he possessed screamed calamity.
He was so damned stupid. How could he have ever left her alone, even with Joe on watch, knowing Thompson and Larkins would come back to the ranch? He’d underestimated those two, and his lapse in judgment could cost Savannah her life.
No. Not as long as breath inhabited his body.
The thought accelerated his sense of urgency. He moved faster, crouching low, until he arrived parallel with the driveway. He caught a glimpse of Savannah’s compact car, saw the passenger door hanging open. The sight alarmed him further.
He wanted to burst forth, guns blazing, Savannah’s name on his lips, but he had to be smart, size up the situation. Evaluate the circumstances.
Quickly, he glanced at the house, saw a face pressed against the window. Savannah’s?
His fear dissipated a bit. Had he overreacted?
Uncertain of what awaited him, Matt proceeded with caution, circling the house. He saw Clem’s pickup sitting at the west pasture gate, but no sign of the ranch hand. From his vantage point, he could see the back of the bam and part of the farmyard.
He hunkered behind an outcropping of rocks, watching, waiting.
No movement. No noise. No anything. He didn’t like this one bit. The whole atmosphere was definitely suspicious.
He ran a hand along his jaw, anxiety corkscrewing through his stomach. Even if Savannah didn’t love him, he still loved her with an intensity that frightened him. For five years, he’d tried to convince himself he’d gotten over her, but the bare truth was he would never get over Savannah Prentiss Markum. They might not ever solve their problems and build a life together, but he would never be free of his desire for her. She was as much a part of him as his own flesh and bone. And he would die for her if necessary.
Shifting his weight, he consulted his watch. Only ten minutes had passed since he’d first walked onto the ranch. Ten minutes of prolonged agony. Should he go to the house or stay put?
He muttered a curse. Every tissue of his marrow cried for combat, to vanquish an enemy, but such rash compliance to action might prove to be a fatal mistake.
Still undecided, he crept closer. His gaze swept the area. A breeze rustled the trees. He looked down, saw a chewed red cocktail straw lying in the sand.
Fear torqued him. The muscles in his hand strained as he clasped his gun tighter. If they’d harmed one strand of Savannah’s lovely honey hair, Matt would hunt them to the ends of the earth.
He had to act, but what was the right thing to do?
Rising to a standing position, he skirted a clump of cacti, sidled up to the barn, pressed his body against the corrugated tin. With his gun drawn, he inched along the side until he came to the comer. Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, he sprang around the corner, his 9 mm firearm clutched in both hands.
That’s when he saw Clem’s body.
Brent Larkins’s dirty fingers clawed at her blouse.
Frantically, Savannah tried to think. She wanted to scream but her tongue seemed welded to the roof of her mouth. Where was Hootie Thompson? Had he cornered Ginger and Cody in the house? Was that why neither the ambulance nor Matt had shown up yet?
Not knowing, she couldn’t count on being rescued. She had to save herself.
“Oh, you’re a hot one,” Larkins groaned, rubbing his slimy hand along her skin.
Savannah shuddered, repulsed. Her gaze raked the area, desperately seeking a weapon, racking her brain for some hint of a plan.
And then she saw it. The muzzle of Gary’s shotgun pointing out from its place behind the door. She caught her breath, afraid to hope. How could she get away from Larkins and make it across the barn to the gun?
Clearing her throat, Savannah wet her lips. “I could get into this a little more if you weren’t holding a gun to my head,” she said.
“Ah, no, babe. I ain’t that stupid. Besides, I like making love with a gun in my hand. It’s real exciting.” He traced the cold, hard nose of the gun against her chin.
She bit her tongue to choke back the sarcastic retort rising in her throat. She wanted to spit in his face but she couldn’t risk incurring his wrath. He reeked of whiskey and she didn’t know what this low-life snake was capable of.
“Where... where’s your friend?” she asked hoarsely.
His
raucous laugh grated her nerves. “I suppose he’s in the house, making the acquaintance of your little sister.”
Savannah moaned as he voiced her worst fear. ‘‘ Please, ’ ’ she begged. “Do what you wish to me but leave my son and my sister out of this.”
Vicious images of what could be transpiring in the house fled through her mind like raging forest fires. For an answer, Larkins turned her around to face him, one hand on her shoulder, the other loosely gripping his gun.
“I’m gonna do what I want, either way,” he said, then dipped his head and sucked on her neck.
Savannah took advantage of the only opportunity she might have. With one swift movement, she plowed her knee into his groin. Larkins’s grunt of pain brought her a moment of satisfaction. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his wounded pelvic region.
Spinning away from him, Savannah ran for the bam door and Gary’s gun.
The outlaw cursed her. She heard him cock the hammer of his gun. She stopped, her arm inches from the door, blood strumming madly through her veins.
“You’re gonna pay for that,” he growled, staggering to his feet.
Should she go for Gary’s gun and risk getting shot?
Larkins lurched forward, his ugly face twisted into a mask of rage, his pistol pointed right at her head.
“Drop the gun, Larkins.”
Matt’s voice cut through the roaring in her head. He’d come! Her heart sang with joy. She turned to stare at him. Her savior.
But Matt’s full attention was trained on his quarry. His eyes were narrowed, harsh, demanding. His gun was trained on Larkins. He looked substantial as a rock—powerful, immovable. Savannah’s heart swelled with love for him. No matter what, Matt Forrester was one hell of a lawman.
“Damn you, Forrester!” Larkins shouted.
“Put the gun down, Larkins,” Matt ordered, his voice hard, serious steel. “Don’t make me kill you.”
The timbre of Matt’s voice quaked Savannah to her toes. Her man was fierce, protective, a regular mountain range of strength and power. No wonder he’d been unable to abandon his career even for her love. His job defined him—ambitious, fair, bold, loyal—excellent qualities for either a lawman or a husband.
She’d been so young, so naive, so blind when she’d asked him to choose between her or law enforcement. She might as well have asked him to stop breathing. In that second, Savannah saw everything clearly. If she ever wanted to repair things with Matt she had to accept him just the way he was, dangerous career and all. If they managed to survive this showdown.
Larkins kept his gun leveled at Savannah’s head. “You’re bluffing, Forrester. You put your gun down or the lady gets it.”
Matt hesitated.
He stood behind Clem’s prostrate body, feet wide apart, gun gripped in both hands like a lifeline. He wanted nothing more than to rid the world of Brent Larkins forever, but Savannah was in his line of fire. Could he get off a shot before Larkins did? Did he dare take the chance?
“Who’s got the upper hand now, lawman?” Larkins taunted. “Looks like you didn’t think this one through. That little wench got you rattled. Screwed your thinking.”
Matt clenched his teeth. Larkins was right. His concern for Savannah superseded good sense. He’d burst in, prepared to save her, only to find the tables turned for lack of proper planning. He’d made a serious error, worse than any rookie, by reacting to his emotions.
Savannah’s eyes widened in fear as she realized the implications of the standoff. Those beautiful gold-green eyes should never have to experience the ugly side of life. She deserved to be shielded, protected. Instead he’d perpetrated this showdown. She’d trusted him and he’d failed her. Just like he’d failed her that night in Kelly’s bar, when his ego had him rushing to Jackie Spencer’s defense and getting himself shot in the process.
If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the expression now reflected on Savannah’s face. She’d lost her faith in his ability to save her. Anybody could see that. What kind of lawman was he, that he couldn’t safeguard the one person he loved most in the whole world?
“Throw down your gun, Forrester,” Larkins repeated.
“Where’s Thompson?” Matt asked, stalling for time. His mind raced, quickly reviewing and discarding his options. How to solve this dilemma?
“Right here, Detective.”
Matt whirled to see Thompson approaching from the house, a rifle in his hand. “I think you’d better do as Brent asked and put your gun away.”
Faced with the inevitable, Matt tossed his firearm to the dirt, raised his hands above his head.
“Yahoo. Ain’t that a pretty sight, Brent? A defeated lawman without a gun and completely at our mercy,” Hoo- tie Thompson gloated.
“You got them cows loaded in the trailer?” Larkins asked, stepping across the bam to grasp Savannah by the elbow. She tried to shake him off, but he clung to her like a grass burr.
The sight rankled Matt. He clenched his jaw. How he wanted to wrap his bare hands around Brent Larkins’s disgusting throat and squeeze until the man turned purple.
“Yep,” Thompson answered Larkins. “Got six Gerts loaded and made a good haul in the house, too. Three hundred dollars and a pair of diamond earrings.”
“What did you do to my son and my sister?” Savannah shouted.
Matt glanced at her. All fear had fled from her lovely face. If anything, she looked indignant.
Hootie Thompson strolled over, leaned down, picked up Matt’s gun and stuck it in the waistband of his pants. “I didn’t do nothin’ to your precious family. Your little sister is tied up and the kid’s asleep,” Thompson drawled.
“You ought to be more concerned about yourself,” Brent Larkins said, leering at Savannah and gesturing toward her with his pistol. Matt fought to keep from lunging the distance and attacking Larkins. “Looks like we’re gonna have to take a hostage, and I prefer you to the lawman. You smell better.”
Hostage?
The word sent a stab of fear knifing through Matt’s body. He would not allow them to take Savannah away from the Circle B. He would die first.
“Yeah.” Hootie giggled. “She’d make real sweet company.”
“Come here,” Larkins said to Thompson. “You take the girl while I deal with the lawman.”
“Don’t hurt him,” Savannah pleaded.
Her eyes met Matt’s, desperate, scared, but struggling hard to be brave.
Impotent rage coursed through his blood. He wanted to make them pay for what they were doing to her. Larkins and Thompson would never get away with this. If only he could disarm them. But how? Matt cast a glance around, trying drastically to devise a plan.
“Keep your hands up,” Hootie snarled. He walked past Matt on his way to join Larkins in the bam, his rifle pointed at Matt’s midsection.
From the comer of his eye, Matt saw Clem move ever so slightly. A flicker of hope leaped in him. Was the old man conscious? Had he been listening? On the off chance Clem might actually be able to help, Matt moved, lowering his arms to divert Hootie’s attention.
“Hey!” Larkins hollered, one arm around Savannah’s neck. “Hootie, watch your prisoner. Don’t let him put his arms down. Search him for another gun.”
Hootie stalked forward, eyes on Matt. He never looked down.
Clem reached out a hand, tripping Hootie as he walked
by-
Thompson fell flat on his face and the rifle flew from his arms.
Matt plunged on top of the downed man, crushing him under his weight.
Savannah screamed.
Larkins cursed.
Chaos ensued.
Chapter Ten
The minute Clement Olson tripped Thompson, Savannah-vigilant for any opportunity to turn the tables and escape—sank her teeth into Larkins’s arm.
The man cried out and lost his grip on the handgun, it clattered to the ground. Savannah kicked it across the floor.
“Run, Savannah, run,” Matt shouted
from outside the barn door, where he grappled with Hootie Thompson.
She refused to abandon her man. Determined to protect Matt to the death if necessary, she lunged for Gary’s shotgun behind the bam door.
Abruptly, her head snapped back and pain shot down her neck as Larkins grabbed her ponytail and jerked. But Savannah would not be deterred from her goal. Like a bobcat, she turned on him, arms and legs flailing. She scratched, kicked, spat.
Larkins stared, shocked.
Twisting free from his grip, she lowered her head and butted him in the stomach. The big man grunted and sank to his knees.
Savannah sprang for the shotgun once more, and this time came up victorious. She aimed the muzzle at the ceiling, pulled the trigger. The resounding boom captured everyone’s attention. Bits of roof rained down around them.
“Nobody move,” she shouted.
All four men looked at her. She was the only one standing. The only one with a weapon.
“You.” She glared at Larkins and swung the shotgun around to point it at him. “Facedown on the floor. Arms on the back of your head. I’m sure you know the position.”
Larkins sneered, but obeyed her.
Clem moaned, rolled over and tried to get to his feet.
“Stay put, Clem, I’ll get an ambulance.”
“One should be on the way,” Matt commented, climbing off Thompson. “Joe called for backup.” He dragged the outlaw to his feet, pulled handcuffs from his back pocket and snapped them around his wrists.
“What happened to Joe?”
“These bushwhackers got him, too,” Matt said ruefully.
The wail of sirens brought a smile to Savannah’s face. “Here comes the cavalry.”
“Late as always.” Matt grinned. “Guess you fellas tangled with the wrong girl, eh?”
While Matt handcuffed Larkins and read the thieves their rights, Savannah returned the shotgun to its spot behind the door. “I’m going to check on Ginger and Cody,” she said. Suddenly, she felt invincible. Not only had she survived the ordeal, she had triumphed. Was this the heady feeling that possessed Matt each time he made an arrest? Perhaps she could understand his penchant for law enforcement, after all. Tossing her head, she marched past the men and into the farmhouse.
