Cowboy's Texas Rescue

by Beth Cornelison

  “Clear,” he said, moving through the empty mudroom into the kitchen. Together they quickly scoped the kitchen for occupants before fanning out to check the rest of the house. Daniel eased into the living room, noting the disarray and debris while focusing on canvassing spots where a person could hide for an ambush. Seeing no one, he called, “Living room clear.”

  Daniel was mentally cataloging the bullet holes in the walls, the tangled clothesline cord on the floor, the shattered vases near the shelves and blood spots on the carpet and sofa when Alec appeared from the hallway. “Back of the house is clear.”

  Alec swept his gaze around the room and grunted. “Not good.”

  “Did you notice the refrigerator as we came through the kitchen?” Daniel asked.

  Alec’s eyes narrowed. “The fact that it had been moved from its normal spot? Yeah.”

  “Let’s go see why.”

  Alec followed Daniel back into the kitchen and helped roll the refrigerator back to its proper place. Rubbing a hand over his jaw, Daniel surveyed the bullet-riddled door and frame. A knot of dread sat in his gut.

  Alec muttered a curse. “I believe we’ve found

  Alice’s rabbit hole.”

  Stepping to the side, Daniel waited until Alec was in place on the other side of the door before testing the knob. Locked.

  “The hinges are on the other side,” Alec noted, meaning they couldn’t remove the barrel from the hinge and take the door down. “And that wood looks pretty sturdy. We won’t be able to kick it in.”

  “Let’s scout the perimeter of the house. If this door goes to a basement like I think it might, there may be a ground-level window or outside storm entrance.”

  Alec nodded and headed back out the way they came in. In the yard, they took turns covering each other and carefully scanning the terrain in case the escaped convict Jake mentioned was hiding on the property, waiting to ambush them. Almost immediately they spotted the trail of disturbed snow from the carport to the back of the property.

  “The footprints are different sizes, different shoe treads,” Daniel said.

  “Yeah, I see at least three different prints.” Alec glanced up at him. “Jake and the convict, but who’s the third person?”

  Daniel scowled. “Homeowner? The information I found on the house earlier said the property belongs to a family named Harris. So where are the Harrises?”

  Alec heaved a sigh. “Oh, God, don’t let them be massacred in the basement.”

  Daniel gritted his back teeth. “Only one way to find out.”

  As they moved toward the back side of the house, Alec hesitated, his gaze snagging on something new. “Hang on. There are more tracks out there.”

  Daniel followed Alec as his former partner plodded through the deep snow drifts into the side yard. They stopped to examine the prints in one of the trails of disturbed snow, and Daniel grunted. “I’ll be damned. Are those horseshoe prints?”

  “Looks like it.” Alec moved to another trail. “Same here.”

  “So someone rode out of here on horseback.” Daniel turned three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, scanning the horizon.

  “Lafitte.” Alec’s voice was somber as he addressed Daniel.

  Daniel faced his partner, then sent his gaze the direction Alec pointed.

  “Those prints lead to that basement window.” Alec tramped through the snow, then dropped to his knees beside the open ground-level window. He stayed close to the wall of the house, his gun ready, and glanced inside.

  Daniel joined him, crouching on the other side of the window. Well? he asked with a look.

  “Too dark in there to see anything,” Alec said. “Cover me. I’m going in.”

  Daniel moved to a better position, while Alec crawled headfirst, gun leading into the basement. After a moment, Alec called, “Clear!” then, “Crap. More blood. This isn’t good. Lafitte?”

  Holstering his gun, Daniel slithered through the window and dropped into the basement.

  Alec was crouched next to a pile of bloodstained laundry. “This looks much more recent than the blood in the truck.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Daniel took in the other clues something bad had gone down in the basement. Bullet holes pocked the wall beside the stairs and the door at the head of the steps. Additional crimson-stained clothes littered the area near the foot of the staircase. And more ominous, a large red streak painted the wall at the top of the stairs.

  “You said you heard gunfire before you lost contact with Jake?” Alec said, rising to his feet to study the damning evidence that their former teammate had been shot.

  Daniel’s gut twisted. “Yeah.”

  Alec huffed a sigh. “As bad as this looks, we have to remember, there’s no body. If Cowboy was shot, evidence seems to show he survived and got out of here somehow. Probably through that window.”

  “The escaped con’s gone, too. Possibly on horseback.” Daniel narrowed a sharp look on Alec. “My guess would be Jake went after him, but he’s injured.”

  Alec jerked a nod. “Then let’s get the bird in the air and see if we can find them. He’s gonna need backup.”

  Chapter 16

  “Darynda!” Jake shouted as soon as he stumbled through the fence at the edge of her yard. Every muscle in his body was stiff from cold and fatigue, and his gunshot wound stung like fire, pain blazing down his arm. “Darynda!”

  The front door squeaked open, and the pit bull, Dooley, charged out and bounded through the snow toward Jake. The dog planted his paws on Jake, nearly knocking him over.

  “Dooley, come back here!” Darynda shouted from the stoop. When her gaze found Jake, she gasped. “Oh, my God! Jake, what happened to you? Where’s Chelsea?”

  Jake trudged the remaining steps to the front door, his breath sawing from him. “Need...horse.”

  “What you need is to sit down and rest.” Darynda shoved a shoulder under Jake’s good arm and dragged him toward the front door. “Good God, Jake, you can barely stand!”

  He shoved away from her and fished in his pocket for the car charger for his cell phone. “Take this. See if it will...fit your phone. Can you crank your engine...long enough to call 9-1-1?”

  She took the cord and studied it. “I don’t know. It looks close, but...”

  Before she finished, he turned and, clinging to the railing, he staggered back down the stairs. Darynda followed, grabbing his arm to stop him.

  “Where’s Chelsea?”

  He hissed in pain when she tugged on his injured shoulder. He clutched his throbbing arm, and her eyes widened in dismay. “You’re hurt!”

  “I’ll live. Have to help Chelsea.”

  “Jake, what happened? Where’s—”

  From his pocket, he pulled out the .38 he’d collected from where Brady discarded it, and shoved it at her. “Reload this.”

  “Jake?”

  “Have it ready when I...come back around here.” Without waiting for an answer, he plodded toward the barn behind the house where he’d left the other bay. Mr. Noble’s third horse stood nibbling on the hay Darynda had provided, and Jake bridled him quickly. He didn’t waste time saddling the horse, but led the bay out through the snow to Darynda’s porch. He didn’t have the energy to climb onto the horse’s back without assistance, so he guided the horse next to the front porch steps, climbed the stairs and clambered onto the horse’s back from there.

  Darynda reappeared at the front door with the gun and a frown. “I couldn’t find any more ammunition.”

  He sighed. “Thanks anyway. See about using that charging cord...to get a call out.”

  “Jake, you’re in no condition to ride or to confront a killer.”

  “No choice.”

  “You do have a choice! Please stay here and let me—”

  “I have to go.” Fisting one hand in the bay’s mane to steady himself when a dizzy spell swamped him, he kicked his heels into the horse’s ribs. “Chelsea’s in trouble.”

  The bay lurched forward,
and with his fading strength, Jake tugged the reins, directing the horse toward the highway.

  * * *

  Chelsea didn’t bother looking over her shoulder. She could hear the jangle of reins, the clop of hooves. Brady was behind her. She knew her only hope was to go faster, to reach Mrs. Posey’s house and get inside. When she reached the end of Mrs. Posey’s driveway, she reined her horse and swung down. She clambered over the snowplow pile at the edge of Mrs. Posey’s property and hurried across the untouched snowfall to her neighbor’s house.

  Mrs. Posey’s car wasn’t in her carport, nor was there any evidence a car had been driven out since the snowstorm started two days ago. Chelsea shoved down the niggling panic that the woman, her best hope, wasn’t home. She reached the empty carport and charged toward the door.

  “Mrs. Posey!” Chelsea banged her fist on the closed door. “Mrs. Posey, are you there? Please!”

  She noticed the note then, taped above the doorbell. Chelsea ripped it down and read, Dear Rose—Power out. Drove into town to stay with Hillary and the kids. Call me next week. Frances P.

  Chelsea crumpled the note in her fist, her stomach sinking. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she peered through the window in the top half of the door. Across Mrs. Posey’s kitchen, Chelsea spotted a wall-mounted telephone. A landline.

  She debated her options for, oh...three seconds. Picking up the broom leaning in the corner of the carport, Chelsea smashed the door window with the broomstick and knocked away the loose glass shards. As she pulled her fist back in the sleeve of her coat for protection, she prayed Mrs. Posey had an alarm system that she’d just triggered. Police showing up at the house would be ideal. She poked her arm through the broken glass and twisted the latch, unlocking the door, then shouldering it open.

  At the road, she could see Brady nearing the spot where she’d abandoned her horse. She slammed the door closed and slid a chair over from the table, jamming it under the knob. Skittering across the broken glass, she rushed to the phone and snatched up the receiver.

  And was greeted by a dial tone.

  She nearly wept with relief as she punched in 9-1-1.

  “What’s your emergency?” an operator asked.

  “Brady is here! The convict that escaped...he took me hostage, and he’s been living at my parents’ house during the storm.”

  “Ma’am, I need you to calm down and take a breath. What’s your name and address?”

  She swallowed her impatience and answered, “Chelsea Harris,” then gave the woman her parents’ address. “But I’m not there anymore. I’m at Frances Posey’s, and Brady’s right behind me.”

  “What’s the address of your location?”

  “I—I don’t know. Can’t you trace the call?”

  “Can you hold, please?”

  “No! Listen to me! Brady is here now! I need the police. And Jake’s been shot. He needs an ambulan—”

  The door crashed open, and Chelsea screamed.

  The chair she’d propped under the knob clattered uselessly to the floor, and Brady marched into the kitchen.

  “He’s here! He’s here!” she shouted at the operator as terror climbed her throat. “Send help!”

  Brady yanked the phone from her hand, then backhanded her hard enough to knock her to the floor. Pain streaked through her jaw, then jolted up her spine when she hit the floor, butt first.

  Chelsea crab-crawled away from Brady as he ripped the phone cord from the base and yanked a large knife from the butcher block on the counter.

  Her coat pocket thunked against the floor as she scurried into the living room, away from the killer. The gun! A fresh spurt of adrenaline spiraled through her. Two shots left, Jake had told her. Make ’em count.

  The hardwood floor vibrated as Brady stomped in from the kitchen, glowering at her. “You shouldn’t have done that, girlie.”

  After days of been terrorized by Brady, his condescending attitude grated on Chelsea’s last nerve. “You shouldn’t have done a lot of things. Kidnapping me, shooting Jake, killing Mr. Noble! Where should I begin?”

  “Shut up!” Brady barked, stepping closer and shoving the knife toward her. “It’s because of stupid women like you that I ever went to prison! My bitch ex ratted me out to the cops, and my slut of a mother wouldn’t back up my alibi.” His eyes narrowed menacingly. “I will slice you to bits before I go back in the joint.”

  Her hand shook as she dragged the gun from her pocket and aimed it at him. “Don’t come any closer. I will shoot you, if only to pay you back for hurting Jake!”

  Brady hesitated, eyeing the weapon in her hands, and Chelsea realized he hadn’t produced his own gun. Had he lost it? Her heart thumped a wild cadence, and she inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself, trying to steady her hands enough to aim.

  “Go ahead, girlie.” Brady took another step, and the floorboards creaked. “I’d rather die here than go back behind bars like some caged animal.”

  “You are an animal,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  “But if you shoot,” he taunted, taking another step, “you better hope you kill me, ’cause I hear getting cut up is a bad way to die.”

  Acid rolled through her gut. She lined up the sights on the barrel.

  A gloating smile spread over Brady’s face, and he took another step. “I knew you didn’t have the—”

  Chelsea held her breath...and squeezed the trigger.

  * * *

  “Down there!” Daniel pointed through the windscreen of the helo to the lone horse and rider galloping down the plowed highway. “I’d know that black cowboy hat anywhere.”

  “Is it just me or is he slumped over?” Alec asked, bringing the helicopter lower and in line with the horse and rider.

  “You’re right.” Daniel replied, nodding. “So where’s the convict?”

  “Good question. See a place to set down?”

  Below them, Jake craned his head back to look up at them, then waved one arm, directing them down the road, pointing ahead.

  “Seems he has a destination in mind. Follow the highway and keep your eyes peeled for trouble.”

  Alec jerked a nod. “Meantime, put a call in to get an ambulance and police support out here.”

  Daniel lifted the helicopter’s radio mic. “Roger that.”

  * * *

  The recoil of the gun blast reverberated up Chelsea’s arms and kicked the barrel toward the ceiling. Her shot flew wide, and the bullet lodged in the wall across the room. For a breathless second, neither she nor Brady moved. He seemed to be assessing, deciding if he’d been hit.

  Immediately Chelsea regrouped. One shot left. She had to try again, had to account for the recoil of the powerful weapon. She tightened her grip, aimed for center mass.

  But Brady lunged, growling like a rabid dog. He knocked her arm aside and tackled her with a breath-stealing impact.

  Stunned by the move, Chelsea gasped for air, instinctively fighting to keep the gun out of his reach. He grabbed her wrist and smacked her arm to the floor. The blow jarred the gun from her hand and sent it skittering across the hardwood planks. Chelsea’s heart sank, and she stretched her arm, groping for the weapon.

  Metal flashed as he raised the knife.

  When he reared back for leverage, she twisted hard to the left. The blade swooshed past her ear and

  thunked as it stabbed the floor. Using the surge of adrenaline that shot through her to fuel her strike, she swung her elbow backward, jabbing Brady in the gut. She followed with an instant swipe at his face, cracking her balled fist into his jaw.

  He rocked back, away from her blows, and clutched his cheek. Angling a malevolent glare at her, he snarled, “You’ll pay for that, girlie.”

  Mentally she scrambled for her best defense. Did she try to get the gun? Did she try to disarm him? Did she fight him? Try to injure him so she could wiggle free?

  Straddling her hips, he gripped the knife between his hands and lifted his arms over his head. Her gaze zeroed in on t
he blade, her most immediate threat. Get it away from him....

  Chelsea tensed, preparing to evade his next strike, deciding how to liberate the blade from his grip.

  But Brady froze, his gaze snapping toward a window, his expression confused.

  Then she heard it. The whoop, whoop, whoop of an approaching helicopter. Someone was outside! Flying low, by the sound of it.

  Chelsea changed strategies. She channeled her energy on wrenching free, whatever it took. She had to get outside, had to flag down the helicopter.

  She bucked her hips up, hard, and planted her hands in Brady’s chest as he reeled. While he groped for balance, she rolled to her belly. Using her toes, she gained purchase on the hardwood floor and scrambled to her hands and knees. Brady grabbed her hair and yanked. Her head snapped backward, and a thousand pinpricks of pain burned her scalp, making her eyes water. But she fought back with every ounce of strength. She had to get away, get outside, flag the chopper...

  On her knees, she turned toward Brady, clawing at his eyes, blocking his arm when he swiped at her with the knife. The blade hit its mark once or twice, and she felt the sting of the cut to her skin. Knowing she needed a bold and decisive move to get free of his grip and his superior strength, Chelsea dropped to her bottom, sacrificing altitude, giving Brady the advantage he needed for a fatal strike....

  But also giving her the angle she needed to bring her knees to her chest and kick out with all the power of her barrel racer’s thighs. Her feet hit Brady square in the chest and sent him sprawling backward, his head thumping against the hard floor.

  Chelsea didn’t waste a second. She sprang to her feet and sprinted toward the door. Brady swiped at her foot as she darted past him, making her stumble, but she didn’t stop. Throwing open the carport door, she ran out into the snow, searching the sky for the helicopter. When she spotted it, swooping low over the highway, she waved her arms, screaming, “Over here! Help me!”