The Marshal's Surrender (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 3)

by Kristin Holt

  She couldn’t bear it.

  She dashed up the stairs, her wool skirts in her fists.

  The slam of her bedroom door, and twist of the key in the lock weren’t enough.

  A brick wall one hundred feet high and a mile wide would never be enough.

  Gus was in her heart to stay.

  For a year, she’d loved a man who didn’t want to love her in return.

  She stifled a sob, refused to let anyone in this over-crowded house hear her cry.

  CHAPTER TEN

  An hour after Noelle stormed into the house, Gus still wanted to go to her. He dropped the stack of Ruffian portraits onto the desktop, pushed back the chair, and turned to glare at his crude map, tacked to the wall.

  Every notation, X in blue pencil, and date chafed.

  At least Noelle wasn’t still barricaded in the bedroom she shared with two younger sisters. He’d heard her mother go to her, their soft voices directly overhead from his place in the ranch office room. At that moment, Noelle was in the kitchen with her mother, Deputy Murphy and Deputy Dillinger. The men had lingered after the town meeting.

  Gus hadn’t relied solely on the men’s promises to keep an eye on Noelle. He’d crept down the hall and seen so for himself. Noelle worked with her mother, Effie, and Miranda to get supper on the table. Both Deputy Sheriffs sat at the table.

  The curtains were closed against the darkness outside, just as he’d ordered. Good. If the gang was out there, they wouldn’t track Noelle through the windows.

  He blinked, aggravated by the constant preoccupation. The map couldn’t hold his attention. He blinked, tried to refocus, and lost the fight.

  He rubbed a palm over the ache in his chest.

  I love you, Gus.

  A distraction he couldn’t afford. Not now. He intended to ride with the posse tomorrow, no matter what Phil Finlay wanted, and he couldn’t actively pursue the gang and leave his brain box here, engrossed in kisses, and tangled up in Noelle.

  He needed a clear head and all his wits. He needed to be sharp if he’d survive the coming confrontation with the Ruffians.

  That’s all it came down to.

  He had no right to tie Noelle to him with talk of love. Not ‘til he knew if he’d be around next week or next month. Maybe once the gang was safely in the State Penitentiary, the time would finally be right to confess love for Noelle.

  He loved her. Probably had for a long while. The last few days had shown him that.

  The girl was only nineteen.

  They had time.

  If he survived.

  Noelle parted the kitchen curtain and glimpsed Gus through the frosted windowpanes, putting out his cigarette beneath his boot heel.

  This isn’t the time.

  His rejection stung. Badly.

  She’d wanted an I love you too.

  Mother had followed her upstairs, listened, and reminded her that men stewed about one thing at a time. Gus’s head was full of the Ruffian Gang. His thoughts should be on solutions. Tomorrow morning, he must direct the posse’s search.

  The town expected results. Gus bore that burden alone.

  He leaned heavily on the railing, anxiety pressing upon his shoulders. He might think he’d hidden the worst of it from her, and initially he had. But mother’s wisdom had opened her eyes.

  Given the circumstances, she understood.

  Flame lit his face as he cupped the Lucifer and another cigarette about his mouth. The deepening darkness made the flash of light all the brighter. Stark lines, sharp cheekbones—all the sharper for the pressure the town had put on him.

  Though Noelle wanted to, she would not approach him now. He obviously needed to clear his head.

  The stove lid clanged. Water sloshed in the wash basin. Footsteps thudded in the hallway toward the front of the house. Her heart might be broken, but she needed to help get supper on the table.

  She let the curtain fall, and worked with her sisters to set both the kitchen and dining room tables.

  The deputies sat at the kitchen table with Cliff, scheduling guard duty, worked out who would see to chores, and determined who would make a trip to town the following morning for supplies. Despite the posse, or maybe because of the posse and all the extra mouths to feed, Ma was in dire need of supplies.

  The official deputies, Murphy and Dillinger, had included the official-but-young deputized Timothy and Dallas. Her little brothers took their work seriously. The boys pushed past her for their coats and headed outside, likely carrying a message to the bunkhouse.

  Mother conversed with Deputy Dillinger in front of the dresser that held table linens.

  “Pardon me, Ma.” Once they’d stepped aside, Noelle opened the drawer for and brought out napkins.

  She stood at the table, folded a napkin and slipped it beneath the fork at Ma’s place. She moved on to the next, pausing to bask in contentment. Surrounded by friends and family, snug in the sanctuary of her home, made her savor the security all who loved her had rallied to provide.

  “Miss Noelle?” Cliff waited at her elbow. “You feelin’ all right?”

  Not odd—at least not coming from Cliff. He’d been there…the other half of the team that had found her last night. She’d been so focused on Gus, she’d barely noticed the hired hand. Had she thanked him last night?

  “Just tired. Thank you for asking. And thank you for your help last night. I’m grateful.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Noelle. Just doin’ my job.” He glanced at Mother and Deputy Dillinger, still deep in conversation.

  “Given your ma’s tied up at the moment, think you could get me the grocery list? I’m told I drew the short straw, and I’ll take the wagon to town tomorrow morning for groceries.”

  “You’d rather ride?”

  Cliff, loyal and steadfast, was a natural in the saddle and took charge of moving cattle from one range to another as seasons changed. She’d be surprised if he didn’t prefer posse duty over errands.

  “Yes, ma’am. But I like to eat too. I hear the flour barrel is empty and the pantry’s low on sugar. I do like hot bread and sweet cake and can’t have either without flour and sugar.”

  She chuckled. “I’ll get the list.”

  If Gus had come in from the back porch, she’d not seen nor heard him. She knocked, listened, and when she heard no reply, opened the door a crack to find the office dark. Thank goodness Gus hadn’t returned.

  Rather than light the lamp, she left the door open wide. Light filtered in from other rooms.

  Her drawings covered the old pine desk Pa had built when he’d still operated the carpentry shop. Gus had hung his map on the wall.

  At disruption of indirect light spilling in from the hallway, she glanced back, surprised Cliff had followed her from the kitchen. His tall frame blocked much of the light, but she found the list, where Mother always kept it, beneath a glass paperweight on her own little writing desk.

  “Much obliged, Miss Noelle.”

  Cliff’s voice sounded directly behind her. Close. Too close.

  The hired hand had seen her in Gus’s arms. Surely he knew they’d begun an odd but genuine courtship. Did he think to declare himself, anyhow? Would it be necessary to tell him she had eyes only for Gus?

  His hand, big and gruff, settled on her shoulder.

  “Mr. Cox—”

  He silenced her with a brutal hold over her mouth.

  Betrayal sluiced through her.

  She tasted blood.

  Cliff Cox?

  She’d been fooled—they’d all been fooled.

  They’d trusted the wrong man.

  Noelle’s stomach dropped as Cliff Cox—the traitorous cowhand—locked an arm about her ribs, immobilizing her arms.

  Her mind seized. Laughter in the front parlor continued, Papa’s guffaws loudest among them. As she fought for air, Cliff’s hot breath stirred hairs near her ear.

  A scraping sound came from the window, wood chafing against wood. Someone inched up in the unlocked
window sash.

  Unlocked.

  This time of year, especially now, with the extra care they’d taken, every window had remained locked.

  A Judas had unlocked the ground-floor window, because a shadowed figure’s hands eased up the window.

  In one bright moment of startling clarity, she comprehended she’d been gone from the kitchen mere seconds, in the company of a trusted employee. Inside her own home. Safe—or so everyone believed.

  For the second time, the gang snagged from her home and dragged her into the winter night.

  She should fight, should make noise to alert the others, literally in the next room.

  Cliff, so much stronger than she, bodily picked her up by the middle and walked her closer to the window.

  Fight. Kick. Stomp!

  She’d frozen, the commands to react in those precious seconds whizzing past at blinding speed.

  She couldn’t force her legs, the only part of her free, to obey.

  Panic erupted low in her belly, surged upward in a rush of heat, filled her chest, and clogged her throat. Her vision tunneled.

  All that remained was the vice-like constriction of a seasoned cow-hand’s unbreakable grip. She couldn’t breathe.

  Lights flashed in the dimness.

  She’d suffocate.

  Die.

  Panic hurled her lower limbs into motion.

  Woolen carpet muffled her boots. Against Cliff’s size and strength, she was helpless.

  He breathed ragged chuffs at her ear.

  At the edge of the rug she seized her last chance, her flagging consciousness, and stomped hard against the floorboards. Her knee connected with the wall beneath the window frame.

  Papa!

  Blood surged against her ears, muting her hearing, but she knew her best efforts hadn’t been good enough.

  Gus!

  The chance was lost.

  Bitter, icy wind snaked through the open window, stealing her body heat.

  The terror she’d battled in the canyon, in her nightdress, returned full-force.

  Cliff hefted her off her feet and attempted to force her lower body through the window. His cohort grabbed for her boots.

  She kicked wildly, fought for air.

  With brutal force, Cliff wrenched her head one direction and her ribs the other, as if he’d snap her neck. Terror seized her heart, already galloping wildly against her corset.

  “Come quietly now, Missy, or I’ll shut you up, permanent-like. The Marshal won’t know any different. Either way, we’ll get him.”

  Cliff Cox would end her life.

  Without reason, without regret.

  If dead, she’d have no chance to thwart the gang’s efforts to kill Gus.

  She didn’t want to die.

  She valued her life…it had barely begun. She still had much to do, many things to accomplish.

  Forcing a ruthless man to break her neck or silence her with a knife slid between her ribs would do her no good. Would do Gus no good.

  She seized her final option and surrendered control of her body.

  Let him think she’d swooned in terror. Or lost consciousness due to lack of air.

  His arms, twisted chains, remained locked about her for several long seconds.

  Though her eyelids had drifted shut, she sensed as much as felt a man grab her skirts and tug her nearer the window.

  “Pass her through.” He’d whispered, but she knew the rasp of his voice. Of all the crew, he’d made her the most uncomfortable. He’d have been first in line, had Boss given the go-ahead to attack.

  Cliff’s iron grip relaxed, just a little, testing.

  She let her head loll to the side as he finally released his hold on her mouth.

  They manhandled her. How many hands? How many men?

  She risked opening her eyes to slits.

  Shadows of men surrounded her. More than one or two had waited outside for Cliff to subdue her.

  Outnumbered, out-muscled, and without a weapon, she couldn’t save herself.

  Not yet.

  If she succeeded in convincing them she’d swooned, they might not drug her this time. She might recognize landmarks, might walk away from them again—if they believed she didn’t know where she was.

  More importantly, if she stayed alive, she’d have a chance to save Gus.

  Screaming now would provoke the devils into knifing or shooting her immediately. The noise would alert Gus and her family.

  He’d come after her in a blind rage.

  Unprepared, careless, and incautious, he’d give the bandits what they wanted…a dead U.S. Marshal.

  Gus ignored the bitter cold and savored his cigarette.

  The tobacco calmed his nerves. As soon as he finished his third, his frame of mind would be much improved.

  He’d tackle the photographs again.

  If he knew who the people were, or at least Boss, he’d infer the root of their vengeance. Knowing who they were would also narrow down hidey-holes significantly.

  Which meant tomorrow’s posse would succeed in the hunt.

  They’d oust the varmints, and put an end to their terrorizing.

  By so doing, he’d regain the respect of the community. They’d trust him again. He’d belong.

  Which meant he’d be at peace. Comfortable.

  Most importantly, he’d be able to ask Phil Finlay for permission to court his daughter in earnest.

  He could make Noelle his bride and finally, finally start living.

  Easy to see it now that so much existing was behind him. All those years wasted, waiting for Effie, wanting Effie.

  Funny, wasn’t it?

  He’d spent the whole day in the same house as her, bumped into her a couple times, and hadn’t been obsessed with her or all he’d lost. Not for a single minute.

  Every distracting thought had been of Noelle.

  He took one last drag on his cigarette, the thing burned so low it scorched his fingertips. He dropped it to the porch and ground it out. He blew out the smoke through his nose and with his face turned toward the first evening stars twinkling their faint light, allowed the parade of Noelle’s portraits to flash through his mind.

  This time, he animated the two-dimensional images as flesh-and-blood men. With heat to their skin and vibrant life in their eyes. He imagined movement in the set of their shoulders. Attitude. Personality. Lack of conscience.

  One by one, from the bottom of the pecking order on up.

  Maybe there was something familiar about the lead man, the one they called Boss. When Noelle had taken her artist pencils to that drawing after breakfast, bringing the image to life in shades of blond and brown, a bit of green and blue in the brown of his eyes a whisper of memory had tugged, itched, and played hide-and-go-seek.

  He turned back to Boss in his mind’s eye, animated him again.

  Inside the house, he heard all the usual sounds…laughter among the men in the parlor, the clank of a lid on the stove as Mrs. Finlay put more fuel on the fire. The crisp knock of knuckles to a shut door somewhere upstairs. The clippity-clop of one of the young men clattering down the stairs full-speed.

  “Noelle?” Mrs. Finlay’s voice. Even and inquisitive.

  Gus turned to the house, one last scan of the sheltering trees around the low bowl the Finlay house rested in. Wind danced in the evergreen boughs, standing as sentinels at the edge of the yard.

  Light spilled from nearly every window in the big house. As far as the eye could see, nothing but the normal activity around the barn and bunkhouse, and clear, wide-open sky.

  “Noelle?” Mrs. Finlay again, louder, panic coloring her tone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gus yanked open the kitchen door.

  He found Noelle’s mother in the back hallway, headed to the front of the house as fast as she could go.

  He caught her by the elbow. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. She was right there, in the kitchen with me—then she wasn’t.”

&nb
sp; Gus pushed past her, into the parlor, took in the scattering of male bodies, lazing about on the sofas, sitting opposite one another at the chess board, Dallas napping on the rug before the fire. Blank expressions rapidly changed to incredulity.

  “Noelle?” he bellowed.

  Luke was the first on his feet. “She was in the kitchen with Ma. And both deputies.”

  “Cliff, too.” Her father pushed to his feet, his age showing in the jerky movements.

  But Cliff and the deputies weren’t in the kitchen. Gus checked—again.

  Where had they gone? If they’d headed out the kitchen door to the barn, he’d have seen them. That left the front door. “Anyone go out the front?”

  “No.” Phil scraped a shaking hand over his face. Caroline hid her face on her husband’s chest. He held her tight.

  The brothers spoke all at once.

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t see nothin’.”

  “She gone?”

  Gus wheeled about, fear a cold fist clamped on his throat. His heart chugged hard, a runaway locomotive down a steep grade. How had this happened? How had he lost her?

  Stupid, stupid!

  He’d laid eyes on her, what, half an hour past? If he’d stayed with her, kept her in the same room, put her to work doing something, anything, she’d be with him still.

  No—if he’d told her he loved her. Pain tore through his gut, pounded through his skull. If he’d confessed his love for her, she might have been sitting in the parlor with him, secure and happy, her hand in his.

  Love surged, mingled with panic, tied up tight and inseparable.

  He took the stairs three at a time, burst into each and every bedroom, slamming the doors against opposite walls. “Noelle!”

  Babies awoke and wailed. Downstairs, Caroline sobbed. Dallas and Timothy conducted an identical search on the main floor.

  Gus’s stomach heaved. If he’d eaten supper, he would’ve lost it right there, on Mrs. Finlay’s clean upstairs hallway.

  He’d failed the only person who mattered. Love and agony blended into a froth in his chest.

  He’d failed the only test that had consequence.