by Cassie Miles
The problem Boone had with Perry was that he tended to go his own way. When he thought he was right, he broke ranks. Innately dangerous and coldly sadistic, Perry was the ultimate weapon, but Boone had to be sure he was aimed in the right direction.
“Another thing,” Perry said to Raymond. “I’m not smarter than Boone. He’s our leader. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Boone smiled as he slipped his gun back into his pocket. Perry still believed in him and trusted his authority. Good!
When Boone stepped out from the trees, both Perry and Raymond reached for their rifles. Perry’s beady black eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t sneak up on a man like that. It’s a good way to get your head blown off.”
“I trust your reflexes,” Boone said. “Even in the dark, you’d know it was me.”
Though there was still a slight question in his mind about whether Perry might shoot him even if he did recognize him, Boone didn’t show his lack of confidence.
“Were you spying on us?” Perry asked.
“I was looking for you. We need to talk.” Boone faced him directly. “By the way, I know that you went to Lyle’s funeral. I’m glad. Lyle was a good man.”
“The best,” Perry said. “What’s up?”
He stood between the two men. “I have a plan.”
“I sure as hell hope it turns out better than the last two plans,” Perry muttered. He reached inside his jacket and pulled an eight inch long serrated knife from a sheath on his belt. “I don’t want any more funerals.”
“Yeah,” Raymond chimed in. “And I’m sick of doing the dirty work for that bastard, the Puppetmaster. Who does he think he is? We’re free men. We’re nobody’s puppets.”
“That’s true,” Boone said. But the so-called Puppetmaster had been responsible for their escape from the Fortress. His demands were not to be taken lightly. “This time he wants the same thing we do.”
“What’s that?” Perry separated one of the writhing trout from the line. The fish was a decent size—twelve inches long. With a neat flick of his blade, Perry sliced open the belly and tore out the guts.
“Remember five years ago.” Boone spoke in a whisper, compelling the other men to lean toward him. “Remember when we blew up the federal building?”
“Hell, yes.” Perry rinsed the fish in the icy stream and reattached it to a line. “We made a statement.”
“We’re going to do it again.”
“Another bomb?” The sunrise reflected on Perry’s weathered, pockmarked face. “Where?”
“A public place.” Boone spread the full glory of his plan before them as though he was offering a golden treasure. “We take hostages and lay siege. Then we wait. Patiently. And allow the media to do their work.”
“I don’t get it,” Raymond said. “If we do that, every cop in Montana will be there.”
“Every cop,” Perry repeated. “And the feds. And the National Guard.”
Boone nodded. “And the unknown pursuers who keep coming after us—the men who messed up our last two missions. They won’t be able to stay away. Not while we’re holding innocent lives in our hands.”
A smile broke across Perry’s face. “They’ll have to show themselves.”
“Once we know who they are,” Boone said, “we can take them out.”
He paused, allowing the full cleverness of his plan to sink in. Not only would he satisfy the demands of the Puppetmaster and flush out their unknown nemesis, but the Militia would also have their just revenge. “Sierra Collins will be the first hostage to die.”
AT THE BIG SKY GALLERIA mall in Helena, Sierra stood behind the counter of Olson’s Outdoor Sporting Goods. Over her jeans and blue work shirt, she wore a Day-Glo-orange hunting vest—the standard uniform for the clerks at the store—and she chatted knowledgeably with a customer about the merits of fly rods and spinner reels.
If her friends back in Brooklyn could see her now, they’d never believe it. Not that Sierra had ever been a girlie girl. When it came to playing stickball or hoops, she kicked butt. But she was never interested in camping. Hunting and fishing? Forget about it.
She rang up the customer’s purchase and checked her wristwatch. It was half past five. Her shift today ended at six. Three days a week, she spent over an hour on the road, driving to Helena for this clerk job. Next month, when the winter snows hit and the roads got bad, it wouldn’t be worth her time to make the difficult journey unless she could convince her supervisor at Olson’s Outdoor Sporting Goods to hire her full-time. Then she’d move here to Helena.
The telephone on the desk beside the register rang, and she picked up. “Olson’s Outdoor Sporting Goods. How may I help you?”
“Sierra Collins.”
“Who’s this?”
“Someone who used to be a friend.”
Startled, she recognized the rasping voice. And she remembered his scarred face, his scraggly beard, his cruel dark eyes. “Boone Fowler.”
“Very good. You were always smart for a girl.”
Her gaze darted wildly around the store. Boone Fowler was a fugitive. She ought to tell someone about this call, ought to notify the authorities. The only other clerk in the store was busy with a customer who was buying a hunting rifle.
If Sierra called out for help and mentioned the Militia, she’d probably be gunned down where she stood. “What do you want, Boone?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you expect an apology,” she said. “Because I spat on the grave of your best friend, Lyle.”
“Your fiancé,” he said.
“Don’t remind me. Lyle was the worst mistake I ever made. He can burn in hell.”
“But he owed you. Didn’t he?”
“Damn right, he did.”
“I want to correct that situation.” He was slick as a snake oil salesman. “I understand the wrong that’s been done to you, and I want to make sure you get everything that’s coming to you.”
She didn’t trust Boone Fowler. He was vicious and cruel. Under his influence, Lyle had become a mean son of a bitch. “I don’t believe you.”
“Lyle had a considerable amount of money. I’ll give you a share. All I ask in return is that you keep your mouth shut.”
Her clenched fist pounded lightly on the glass countertop. Why did everybody think she knew something important? Trevor thought she had information. Now Boone.
“Sierra, you want the money. You need it.” He knew just the right thing to say—the promise that would hook her attention. “I’ll meet you in a public place. The Galleria where you work. Today is Monday. How about Wednesday?”
“I don’t work on Wednesday. Only Thursday and Friday this week.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
The phone went dead in her hand. When she replaced the receiver on the hook, her fingers were trembling. Why had she told him her work schedule? Nothing good could come from further contact with the Militia.
Sierra stepped out from behind the counter and busied herself with refolding T-shirts. Her mind raced. Should she say something about the call? Alert the police? Half the law enforcement personnel in Montana were looking for the Militia. But if she admitted that Boone had contacted her, Sierra feared she would come under suspicion.
On the other hand, if she told the police that the fugitive Boone Fowler was coming to the mall and he found out, Boone would surely kill her.
It was better not to speak. Not right now, anyway. She had until Thursday to think about it.
She clocked out at six and went to her car in the parking lot. Though she was driving east, away from the sunset, a reflected amber brilliance spanned the wide-open skies and colored the autumn leaves at the forested edge of the foothills.
For a moment, as she drove, she forgot about her lack of money, her lousy jobs and this new threat from Boone Fowler. The stunning beauty of Montana was too much to ignore. She remembered back when she’d been first dating Lyle, and he’d talked about the land that he lo
ved. He had seduced her with Montana, showing her a velvet night sky filled with more stars than she could ever count. He’d given her rushing rivers, majestic peaks and sun-filled days. He’d warned her that nature could be cruel. Then he’d shown her the meaning of pain.
When Lyle died, that part of her life—the part that was associated with the Militia—should have been over. Why had Boone called her? What if he actually did have money for her? Lyle had stolen her nest egg, close to four thousand dollars. If she had that money back, it would make a world of difference.
But why would Boone Fowler do her any favors? He was more likely to slit her throat than to say hello.
When she parked on the street outside her duplex, Trevor’s black Jeep was waiting for her.
“Swell,” she muttered. Here was another man who only wanted to manipulate her.
In his flat-brimmed hat and shearling jacket, Trevor was far more handsome than any of the men she’d met in the Militia, including Lyle. But good looks were no excuse for what he’d done to her. He’d forcibly carried her off on horseback and imprisoned her. She still couldn’t remember what had happened in that little room, but her instincts told her it wasn’t good.
He leaned down to her window and spoke through the glass. “I brought you a present.”
She shoved the car door into him and got out. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are always strings attached.” And that was the real problem with Boone’s offer of money. Yes, she deserved it. Yes, she wanted it. But she hated to imagine what Boone would ask in return. “Leave me alone, Trevor.”
“Come on,” he urged. “Before you say no, take a look.”
“I don’t want anything to do with you. Or your friends.” Angrily she added, “By the way, the guy who brought my car back to my house left the seat pushed way back.”
“It’s not my fault that he’s taller than you. And I told you we needed to check your car for damage before we returned it.”
“There’s no reason my Nissan would be damaged.”
“You ticked off those Militia wannabes at the funeral. They could come after you.”
“But they didn’t.”
When she turned on her heel and started toward her front door, he caught hold of her arm. “Wait.”
“Let go of me.”
Immediately he loosened his grasp. But he didn’t back off. “Aren’t you curious about what I got for you? I thought about it a long time. It’s the perfect gift.”
“You don’t know me. You have no idea about what’s perfect for me.”
“I know you’re practical. You’re not a flowers-and-candy kind of woman.”
“So?”
“This gift is practical.”
At the rear of his Jeep he pulled open the door, revealing several white boxes. The words Finest Angus were printed on the side.
“Beef,” he said proudly. “I got you a side of beef.”
His gift couldn’t have been more wrong or less practical. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“A what?”
“If it has a face, I don’t eat it.”
He yanked his hat off his head and looked up as if imploring the moon. “What kind of person lives in cattle country and doesn’t eat beef?”
“A vegetarian.”
She slammed the back door of his Jeep with a satisfying thud and marched up the sidewalk. As she approached the concrete stoop leading to the door on her side of the clapboard duplex, the gray-haired woman who lived next door emerged. Sierra gave her a friendly wave. “Good evening, Mrs. Hensley.”
As usual, Mrs. Hensley stuck her nose in the air, proceeded down the sidewalk and turned right, heading toward Main Street.
Trevor stepped onto the porch behind her. “How come she snubbed you?”
“Are you still here?”
“I intend to escort you inside and make sure your house is safe.” His tone was deadly serious. “You might not think you’re in danger, but I do.”
Sierra remembered the day—not that long ago—when Lyle had broken in to her house and waited for her. A shudder went through her. That scene was something she never wanted to happen again. “Okay. You come inside and look around. Then you leave. Understood?”
“Whatever you want.”
He took the key from her hand, unlocked the front door and slowly pushed it open. “So what’s the deal with your neighbor?”
“I like to tell myself that her hearing aid isn’t working, but it’s more likely that Mrs. Hensley doesn’t approve of me. She hates the Militia.”
“So do you.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She followed him inside and turned on the overhead light in the small front room. If she’d been back in Brooklyn, she would have called her décor “shabby chic.” Out here, there was no need for pretense. It was plain old shabby.
In minutes, Trevor had searched the whole house. He returned to her side. “I’d feel a lot better if you had someone stay with you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Maybe a friend,” he suggested.
“I don’t have many friends in Ponderosa. The ones who are sympathetic to the Militia abandoned me when I dumped Lyle. And those who despise the Militia don’t want anything to do with me. That’s why I had to go all the way to Helena to find a job.”
“But you have another job here.”
“At the tree nursery. The old guy who runs it is one of those rugged individuals who doesn’t care what anybody else thinks. But he can only give me two days a week. Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“Do you like working outside?”
“Why am I talking to you?” She stalked through the front room to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took out a bottled beer. Over her shoulder she said, “You promised to leave.”
“Just for the record,” he said, “tell me what vegetarians like to eat.”
“Vegetables.” She screwed off the top of the beer and took a sip. “And don’t bother showing up on my doorstep with a truckload of produce. I won’t accept gifts from you, Trevor. I don’t like you.”
Her outright antagonism didn’t faze him in the least. He stood in her doorway as though he had every right to be there. Grudgingly she had to admire his determination. He didn’t give up easily.
“What’s your favorite food?” he asked.
“Cannolis,” she muttered
“What?”
“Cannolis from this great little bakery in Brooklyn. Pure heaven.” Just thinking about those creamy sugary pastries made her mouth water. “You’ve probably never even heard of cannolis.”
“I’ll eat just about anything, except potatoes. I grew up on a potato farm in Idaho.”
As soon as he spoke, she knew she’d heard those words before. When he was questioning her? She’d been in that little room for four hours. They must have talked for a long time, but their conversation was mostly a blank. It wasn’t right that he’d stolen those hours from her life. She wanted to know what had been said.
Another detail came clear in her mind. “You’re part Cherokee.”
“On my father’s side.”
“Your Cherokee father was a potato farmer?”
“The farm belonged to my mother’s family. I never knew my dad. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I got interested in my Native American background.” He held out his hand and showed her a silver ring with a seven-pointed star. “This is the symbol of the Cherokee nation.”
In spite of herself, she was interested. “You’re proud of your heritage.”
He gave a quick nod. “But I spent the first half of my life denying it. I was a half-breed. Didn’t fit in with either side.”
It was hard for her to believe. “A big, handsome guy like you shouldn’t have any problem making friends.”
“I could say the same about you, Sierra. From what you’ve said, nobody in Ponderosa likes you. And you’re beautiful.”
Surprise
d by his compliment, she met his gaze. His clear blue eyes were sincere; he wasn’t joking. There was a tenderness in his manner that reached out and touched her.
Quickly she looked away. This was the same man who’d tied her up and asked hard questions—questions she couldn’t quite remember. He’d kidnapped her. He was capable of cruelty. The dumbest thing she could possibly do was to fall for another man from Montana.
“Are you trying to snow me, Trevor?”
“I speak only the truth.”
“How totally Cherokee of you.”
“I am what I am.”
“One of the good guys?” She sipped her beer. “I don’t generally think of bounty hunters as clean-cut, upstanding members of the community.”
“We have our moments,” he said. “That’s the biggest reason I’m here. I have concerns about your safety. You insulted the Militia, and they’re not known for being forgiving.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly.
“I could stay with you,” he said. “Protect you.”
“Stay with me? As in, stay at my house?” She vigorously shook her head. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Sierra, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you’re after.” He thought she was an easy mark. Because she’d been crazy enough to fall in love with Lyle, Trevor thought she was the kind of woman who tumbled into the sack with every mangy cowboy who crossed her path.
“I’m after the Militia.” The tenderness vanished from his face. When he talked about the Militia, his features hardened. “They might want to teach you a lesson.”
She rolled her eyes. “So, you’re not interested in sleeping with me?”
He raised the beer bottle to his mouth and took a drink. Clearly, he was avoiding her question.
“Come on, Trevor. You just said you never lie.”
“Truth?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re right, Sierra. I want to make love to you. That’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about since I saw you standing beside Lyle Nelson’s grave.”
In spite of her hostility, an undeniable thrill raced up and down her spine. He’d been thinking about her? Constantly? “Maybe that was a little too much honesty.”
