“With the boy.”
“Let’s get her safely home,” Bragg said decisively. “Rathe?”
Rathe stepped forward. “I’d rather stay—”
“I have enough trigger fingers on hand,” Bragg said. “Please see Chrissy and Joel safely home. Kennedy belongs to the Cahills,” he added wryly. Only Francesca would have found a way to move the entire Kennedy family into her home.
Rathe hesitated and nodded. He gripped Shoz’s arm. “Whatever you are thinking, do not do it,” he said. “You have a wife waiting for you, a wife who adores you, and three children who dearly need and love their father.”
Shoz said nothing. His expression was at once implacable and impossible to read.
Rathe looked at his son. “Rick, don’t let him do anything foolish.”
“I won’t.”
Rathe nodded and strode out.
Shoz glanced toward Farr, who was pretending to observe two of his men as they herded the poker players outside; in fact, he was clearly eavesdropping. Bragg took his arm and they stepped closer to the stairs. Bragg couldn’t help glancing up them. Of course, Francesca was all right; Craddock wanted two things, money and his freedom. Murder would not help him now.
But he was a vicious criminal, and he had already committed murder at least once. And most important, what he really wanted was revenge.
“Let them come out. I can pick off Craddock when he steps out of the saloon and before he gets into the carriage,” Shoz said softly.
“No,” Bragg said, in unison with Hart. His half brother had come over to stand with them.
“It’s too risky,” Bragg said, meaning it.
“You might miss or, worse, hit Francesca,” Hart added darkly.
Shoz gave them both a disparaging look. “Why the hell do you think I brought that fancy English rifle of yours? I can position myself across the street, on that little balcony above the milliner’s. I won’t miss. I never miss.”
“No,” they said again in unison.
“I simply cannot allow it,” Bragg added. “Besides, we are supposed to apprehend and try Craddock, not kill him.”
Shoz’s expression, already hard, hardened impossibly more. He walked away, pausing beside Rourke and Nicholas.
Hart faced Bragg. “What if he doesn’t release Francesca?”
Bragg hated the look in his half brother’s eyes. It was the first time he had ever seen fear there, and he supposed it mirrored his own expression exactly. “He has nothing to gain by keeping her.”
“She is his ticket to freedom,” Hart said harshly. Then, “God damn it.”
Bragg laid a hand on his arm. “I need you to stay calm, Calder.”
“I am calm. Calm enough to go up there and kill.”
“You know that would only get Francesca killed. I am going to try to convince him to release her.”
“He won’t. He’s going to use her to get safely in that coach,” Hart said.
Bragg had opened his mouth to speak when a shout came down the stairs. “You got my carriage ready yet?” Craddock yelled.
Bragg strode to the bottom of the stairwell and saw Craddock on the top step, using Francesca as a shield, his gun against her temple. She was very white, but Bragg saw instantly from her eyes that she was basically calm and in complete control of her wits. He tried to send her a signal of encouragement; he was thankful that she was thinking clearly.
She understood, because she smiled a little at him—and then sent a similar smile to Hart.
He must not think of that now. “Your carriage is directly outside of the saloon door,” Bragg said.
“The police? They had better be gone! I see one fly and I put a bullet in the pretty lady’s arm. An’ it’ll only be the first!”
Bragg went rigid. He tried to breathe, tried not to imagine Francesca bleeding from one or more wounds. He understood, though; yes, he did. Craddock was too smart to kill her. He intended to keep her alive and use her. Bragg did not doubt that he would shoot her if he had to. “They’re gone, Craddock; I sent them away. Now why don’t you release Miss Cahill and we will let you go?”
He snorted. “Like hell! Where’s the money?”
“It’s here, in the bag,” Hart said. He reached behind him without removing his gaze from Craddock; Nicholas handed him the valise.
“Open it. Show me it’s all there,” Craddock demanded.
Hart did so.
Craddock nodded now, with satisfaction, but sweat was mottling his brow. “OK. Things look good. I’m comin’ down with the lady. I see anyone reach fer their gun, I take off her arm. You got that, Mr. Policeman?”
So Craddock knew who he was. Bragg nodded.
“But I want him,” and he nodded at Hart, “to go ahead of me an’ the lady, an’ he can put the valise in the carriage before my eyes.”
“No problem,” Hart said.
Craddock looked at everyone in the barroom—Rourke and Nicholas, just to the right of the stairs, Bragg and Hart, directly below them, and Brendan Farr, standing a bit to the left and behind. “No one moves, except for the banker there, and he only goes when I tell him to,” he said. “All of you, now, get your hands up, high, as high as they can go!”
“Understood,” Bragg returned, but his pulse was pounding now as he slowly lifted his hands up. Everyone except Hart raised their hands up in a picture of surrender, even Farr. Hart remained as still as a statue, the valise at his feet. Bragg watched Craddock begin to come down the stairs, a step at a time, his gaze darting everywhere, making certain that no one was reaching for his gun, using Francesca as a shield. It was hard to breathe. It was hard to remain calm, composed, in control. It would be so easy to pull out his own gun and try to blow the man’s head away so that Francesca could escape.
But in all likelihood she would be hurt or killed, so he did not do so, no matter the primal urge.
Craddock was halfway down the stairs. He was panting. The sound was soft, yet harsh, and very sharp. No, Francesca was the one panting, he realized with a pang. Sweat trickled down her brow, her cheek, disclosing just how frightened she really was.
Hang in there, he told her silently. You are going to be just fine—we are going to get you out of this.
He wished he believed his own silent words.
Her eyes locked with his. He saw the fear there now and a question. She mouthed something, trying to communicate to him.
It looked like she was saying, “Where Shoz?”
He jerked. Where the hell was Shoz?
Bragg turned and realized that Shoz was not in the saloon, just as Hart also glanced wildly about, apparently realizing at the exact same time that Lucy’s husband had disappeared.
I can position myself across the street, on that little balcony above the milliner’s. I won’t miss …
Bragg’s gaze locked with Hart’s; surprise and fear mingled, mixed. Shoz was out there and he intended to take Craddock down, never mind that Francesca was his human shield.
“Shit,” Hart said, his eyes wide and stunned and afraid.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?” Craddock cried. “Why are you lookin’ around?” He had halted on the bottom step and Francesca gasped as he dug the barrel of the gun into the side of her head.
“Don’t hurt her,” Bragg said quietly. “Nothing is going on. We were checking to make sure the coach is outside the door.”
Craddock stared at him suspiciously when Hart said, “May I?” indicating the valise filled with money.
Bragg knew he intended to distract Craddock. And it worked. Craddock looked at the bag and nodded. A hungry look had come into his eyes.
Hart picked up the valise. Then he turned, giving Craddock his back, and began to cross the saloon, leading the way.
Francesca made a strangled sound.
Bragg knew what it meant. Hart had his back to Craddock, and the man could so easily shift the gun he held and gun Hart down from behind.
He had to hand it to his half brother. He was very brave
, and he remained one of the cleverest and most determined men he knew. And clearly Francesca knew it, too. As clearly, she was afraid for him now.
“Let’s go,” Craddock said, moving onto the floor now, dragging Francesca with him. “Get those two to the wall, off to my side!” he yelled.
Rourke and Nicholas leaped back against the wall, never dropping their arms.
“Keep them hands up! Everyone, or I’ll put my first bullet in the little lady you all are so fond of!”
Bragg had kept his hands up, and he glanced at Farr. The chief of police had seemed to be lowering his hands; now, reluctantly, he lifted them back up.
Hart had paused at the door; he glanced over his shoulder.
“Keep goin’, banker!” Craddock screamed at him.
Hart walked outside.
Bragg’s heart accelerated wildly. Shoz was out there, waiting to take a shot at Craddock. There was simply no other explanation for his disappearance.
Craddock half-dragged and half-pushed Francesca, carrying her with him, passing Bragg, then Farr. He pushed through the door, Francesca against his side.
The city sidewalk was no more than ten feet wide. Craddock took one step, then two. Bragg had his gun out; Craddock turned. “Drop it!” he screamed. “Drop it now before I kill the lady!”
Bragg dropped it; the revolver clattered to the floor.
Craddock began to smile, sweat streaking his face, and he turned; he was only a few feet from the carriage and, possibly, from freedom as well.
The shot rang out.
Craddock’s eyes widened, he staggered backward, and Francesca broke free. As he fell backward onto the boardwalk, she rushed away, directly into Hart’s arms. Bragg saw him drag her away from the carriage and to the safety of the side of the building as he ran toward Craddock with Farr, who had his gun in hand. He knelt beside the hoodlum and saw instantly that he was dead.
So did Farr. The chief of police rocked back on his heels. “Well, well,” he murmured, more to himself.
Bragg did not rise. He shifted and looked toward the saloon and watched Hart holding Francesca in his arms. He was gripping her tightly and speaking to her with urgency. Francesca never took her eyes from his, and finally she nodded.
He could not stand it, and slowly, he stood.
“Are you all right?” Hart asked her, holding her tightly against his chest.
She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t speak; her heart had never beaten so hard. And for one moment, she rested her cheek against the plane of his chest and heard his own urgent, answering heartbeat. She felt his palm cradling her head. Her eyes closed and too many vicious images to count assailed her. Craddock striking Lulabelle, Craddock throwing her across the room, Craddock looking at her with cold, merciless eyes as he jammed the gun into the side of her head.
“Are you all right, Francesca?” Hart repeated, gripping her by the shoulders and setting her back a bit so their gazes could meet.
His was almost black and filled with concern. She nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was hoarse-sounding to her own ears.
His dark gaze moved over her features one by one and finally settled on her eyes, where it remained, searching the depths there.
She felt some of her strength and composure returning. The fear began to fade; her mind began to function. She inhaled, realizing she continued to tremble. “I’m fine. Really.” She saw from his eyes that he hardly believed her. “Chrissy?”
“Rathe took her home. And Kennedy, too.”
“Thank God!” She half-turned and saw Bragg and Farr standing over Craddock, who was prone and motionless. Was he dead? And had Shoz been the one to kill him after all?
How could she even wonder? she thought.
And as she stared at the dead man, Bragg, and Farr, she realized Bragg was staring at her. She smiled a little at him, telling him with her eyes that she was not harmed, and he smiled, just a little, back. His intense gaze did not waver.
“Right,” Hart muttered tersely.
She glanced at Hart and saw that any softness and concern was now gone. His gaze was cool and dark. He released her.
She rushed over to Bragg; he caught her arms. “Is he dead?”
Bragg turned her away from the dead man, but it was too late; she had seen that he was, most certainly, dead. “Yes.” His gaze scanned her from head to toe. “Yes. Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine, truly, except for a bruise or two,” she said with a valiant smile. Actually, her head throbbed like the devil, as Craddock hadn’t cared about whether he was hurting her or not, and she suspected her wrist was red from his grip, and it hurt a bit to breathe, as if her ribs were sore.
Bragg eyed her, clearly doubtful.
“Now that was a helluva shot,” Farr said.
Francesca looked at him. He was smiling, but coldly.
“Went in right above his right ear, clean out the other side of his skull.” His gaze narrowed. “Now who could pull off a stunt like that? We don’t see that kind of shooting here in the city, no sir, we do not.”
Francesca shivered and glanced at Bragg.
“You saw Craddock’s file; he has a list of enemies a mile long,” Bragg said.
“Yeah, guess he does. Harry! Robinson! Start a door-to-door search; we got a shooter on the run!” Farr ordered with obvious relish.
Francesca looked at Bragg. He shook his head at her in a warning.
Farr faced them, looking from the one to the other, his hands on his hips. “Well, your entire family seems to be accounted for, considering your daddy took the children home—except for Shoz Savage.”
A silence fell.
Hart appeared in their midst. “He went home with his daughter and Rathe,” he said coolly. “Isn’t that right, Raoul?” He glanced at the husky Spaniard who was his driver and remained in the driver’s seat of his elegant brougham, along with Peter.
Raoul nodded. “Yes, sir, he did,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent.
Farr smiled unpleasantly at everyone. “Harry, put a dozen men on the streets. I want the shooter picked up before he gets too far. And find me the bullet that got this bastard. I have a feeling we’ll discover a rifle was used. A fancy rifle, the kind I haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, sir,” the policeman said.
Farr faced Bragg. “I’ll handle things here, sir, if you want to leave with the rest of your family and go check on the little girl.”
“Thank you, Brendan,” Bragg said. He took Francesca’s arm. “Are you really all right?” he asked as they walked toward Hart’s coach.
“Yes. A bit bruised, I think, but that is all.” She smiled at him earnestly. “I am not the one you should be worrying about,” she added softly.
Their gazes met. In that moment, everyone around them seemed to fade out of focus completely. He finally smiled, just a little. “I have never been so scared, Francesca. I wish you could solve crimes without putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“I’m sorry. Actually, I wish I could, too.”
“Couldn’t you have waited a few minutes more for us to join you before tackling Craddock?”
“I was afraid Craddock would leave the poker game and we would lose him all over again!” she cried earnestly.
He stared and sighed.
She touched his sleeve when what she really wanted to do was sink into his arms.
“I think we might want to get out of here,” Rourke said dryly.
Francesca started. She had forgotten, for a moment, where they were and whom they were with. She glanced around and saw policemen combing the sidewalk for the bullet that might very well indict Shoz for murder, while across the street other officers were coming out of the apartment building and the milliner’s shouting to Farr that they hadn’t found anyone. Then her gaze fell on Hart.
He was studying her with no expression on his usually mobile face. When she met his gaze he turned abruptly and opened the coach door. Francesca hesitated, recalling being swept into h
is arms when Craddock had been shot. There had been something very right about that moment, she realized with a pang of what could only be fear.
But it was not right. Nothing about Calder Hart was right, not for her.
“Francesca?” Bragg asked.
She started, shot him a smile, and climbed into the coach. Hart followed, as did Rourke and Nicholas. Bragg climbed in last, slamming the door closed.
Hart said, “We shall drop off Miss Cahill first, Raoul.”
There was no reply, but the brougham rolled off.
They all looked at one another, and the exchanged glances were followed by a series of sighs. Francesca knew that while everyone was relieved, everyone had the same fear—that Shoz would not be able to elude the police, that he was he going to be picked up … and charged with manslaughter.
But at least Craddock was dead. And the truth about Cooper’s murder could now be buried with him.
Rourke said, “The man can melt into shadows. I’ve seen him do it. If anyone can vanish right now, it’s him.”
“What about the fact that he had a rifle—and Farr is looking for the bullet that killed Craddock?” Francesca asked, hating being so dismal.
A silence ensued.
Then Nicholas grinned. He reached into his pocket, a glint in his eyes, and held out his hand. “I don’t think Chief Farr is going to find what he is looking for,” he said, opening his palm.
A bullet lay there.
Bragg’s eyes widened and he picked up the bullet and let out a shaky laugh. “Good job!”
“Well done.” Hart smacked his knee with a grin.
“See? He is good for something other than seducing ladies,” Rourke said, dimpling.
Francesca laughed in sheer relief.
Bragg handed Nicholas the bullet. “I have never seen that,” he said.
Twenty-one
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1902 — 6:00 P.M.
Their door was ajar, and as he stood outside it, he softened, for the scene inside was such a domestic one.
Lucy sat on the floor with her back against the sofa, her beautiful red hair loose and flowing about her shoulders, her feet in stockings. Chrissy was in her lap, playing with two miniature horses; Jack sat a few feet away, busying himself with crayons and a coloring book. Shoz lay on the sofa, taking up most of it, gazing at his wife and the twins, his hands behind his head, in a pair of dungarees and a plaid flannel shirt. Roberto sat curled up by his feet, immersed in a novel. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] Page 34
