by Kaki Warner
Or maybe just have dinner sent to the room. An interesting thought.
Brodie’s voice broke into his delightful musings of round, dark-tipped breasts and naked thighs. “You see that log over there?” The sheriff pointed to what had once been a thirty-five-foot-long, two-foot-in-diameter cedar trunk that he had spent most of the morning sawing into eight chunks of equal length. “Those go two feet into the holes you’re digging. The part sticking out will be the piers that will hold up your house. So unless you want to roll downhill every time you get out of bed in the morning, the holes have to be the same depth. How hard is that to understand?”
“Assuming, of course,” Tait put in, “that the land is flat, which it doesn’t appear to be.”
“I already checked that with the water level. Now dig. Or you’ll be waking up to the squeal of a stuck pig every morning.”
Tait frowned at him.
“Bagpipes.” Seeing Tait was still confused, he added, “Where else you think he and Maddie have been staying, but at the hotel? Hell, if the ladies had their way, we’d all be living there together like some lunatic inbred carnival family. Now dig.”
“White people,” a voice said. “Such a fuss over a tipi.”
Tait turned to see an Indian sitting on one of the logs they would later use as a foundation beam, scratching the wolfhound’s ear. The missing Cheyenne Dog Soldier, he assumed. How had they not seen or heard him arrive? And why hadn’t the dog warned them?
“Greetings, heathen,” Ash called with a grin.
“Ho, Scotsman. Where is your dress?”
“’Tis a kilt, ye diaper-wearing savage.”
Tait guessed the earl was referring to the loin cloth and leggings the Indian wore beneath his long leather tunic. At least, he hoped so.
“When did you get back, Thomas?” Brodie walked over to clap the Cheyenne on the back. “Pru’s been worried. How’s your side?”
The Indian lifted up the bottom of his beaded war shirt to expose a barely healed wound just below his ribs that corresponded to a round hole in his shirt. “I cannot see where the bullet went into my back, but it itches, so I know it is healing.” He let the shirt drop. “Epeva’e. It is well.” He glanced over at Tait. “Nevaaso?”
“Tait Rylander. He’s come all the way from New York to marry Lucinda Hathaway. Tait, this is Thomas Redstone, my temporary deputy when he feels like it.”
“And a hell of a scrapper, so he is. But sneaky.” Ash nodded at Tait’s hand. “I can tell you’re a bare-knuckle fighter, as well, Rylander.”
“Was,” Tait amended. “Now I only fight when I have to.” He gave the Scotsman a warning look.
The earl grinned back.
The Indian didn’t, and solemnly assessed Tait out of coal black eyes set in a swarthy, expressionless face framed by beaded braids. Tait had a feeling that gaze missed nothing. After an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment, the Cheyenne looked back at Brodie. “How goes it with your skinny wife?”
The sheriff chuckled. “She’s not so skinny anymore.” His smiled faded. He motioned to the unlaced V at the neck of the Indian’s leather tunic. “Your pouch is gone.”
“My dead wife and son rest in peace now.”
“So it’s over?”
“It is over.”
A distant drumming drew their attention, and they all turned to see a horseman racing toward them. As he drew closer, Brodie said, “Looks like Billy.”
Tait set aside his shovel. “Who’s Billy?”
“Bellboy at the hotel.”
The boy hauled the winded horse into a sliding stop. “Brin’s missing!” He glanced at Tait. “You named Tait?”
As the other men raced for their horses, Tait stepped forward, dread building. “I am. What’s wrong?”
“Miss Hathaway said to tell you it’s Franklin Horne.”
* * *
Lucinda raced up just as Driscoll was coming out of the barn. “Have you seen Brin?” she cried, struggling for breath.
“She was here a minute ago. Her and that little dog.” He pointed.
Lucinda looked around, saw Maddie’s dog digging in the manure pile, a tattered bonnet around her neck. But no sign of Brin.
“Did a man ride by? Middle years. Wearing a suit. Dark eyes, small and narrow set.”
Driscoll nodded. “Said he lost his dog. Brin went to help him find it.”
Terror almost doubled her over. “Which way did they go?”
“Up the mine trail. What’s wrong?”
“He’ll hurt her!” Lucinda whirled and ran toward the footpath that wound through the brush and trees beside the road, over the creek, and up toward the abandoned mine. “Get everyone you can to look for her. Hurry!”
Voices rose behind her but grew fainter as she stepped into the shadows bordering the road. Brambles caught at her skirts, scratched her face and arms. The rush of the creek ahead grew louder as she clambered over downed branches, sharp rocks, and around stumps and trees. She crossed the footbridge, then stopped and tried to listen, but all she heard above the rushing water was the pounding of her own heart and the rasp of air tearing through her throat.
If he hurt Brin she would kill him. She gripped the pistol tightly in her shaking hand. She would fire until she ran out of bullets, then tear out his eyes. Stomp his face to mush. Feel his blood run through her hands.
Never again, she chanted soundlessly, as she started running again. Never again. Never again.
She slipped on dew-slick aspen leaves, stumbled on. Fifty yards farther, she stopped, gasping, her chest pumping. Breath fogged the air, her throat ached. She was shivering so hard her teeth chattered—either from cold or fear—she didn’t know. She should have found them by now. Had she taken a wrong turn?
God, don’t let me miss her. Don’t let me be too late.
Then she heard movement ahead and the crackle of brush. Brin’s voice.
Frantic, she raced toward it, tearing blindly through the bushes, throwing branches aside.
Then suddenly she was on them.
Horne whirled, his pink tongue flicking.
“Hi, Miss Hathaway,” Brin called. “What are you doing out here?”
Seeing the child was unharmed and had no idea of the danger she was in, Lucinda hid the gun in the folds of her skirt. She struggled to keep her voice calm. “Looking for you, honey. Your mother and father are worried. Everybody is looking for you.” She shot a warning glance at Horne. “You’d better run back now before you get into trouble.”
“But I’m helping him find his doggie.”
“No, Brin. You must go back.” She was shaking so badly, she was glad she hadn’t cocked the pistol to pop the trigger out, or she might have accidentally squeezed off a round. “Now, Brin.”
“I think not.” Horne grabbed the child’s arm. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, little Brin?”
“Ow. That hurts.” Brin tried to jerk her arm away, but Horne gave it a vicious yank that almost lifted her off her feet.
“Stop that!” Lucinda cried, rushing forward.
“Let me go!” Brin jerked again, her flailing arm catching him in the groin.
With a grunt, Horne stumbled back.
Lucinda yanked the girl from his grip and pulled her beyond his reach.
“Ow. You’re squeezing my arm.”
“Go to the hotel, Brin! Now!” Lucinda shoved her toward the trail.
“Why are you being so mean? I’m going to tell Ma.” Rubbing her arm, she glared up at Lucinda as she stomped toward the trail. “And I don’t care if you never find your stinky ole dog!” she shouted back to Horne as she disappeared into the brush.
Lucinda cocked the pistol. When the trigger popped into place, she curled her finger over it and aimed at the man hunched over, his hand
s cupping his crotch. Her heart drummed so hard she was lightheaded. Her legs felt numb, yet her arms wouldn’t stop shaking. Hate rose in her throat like vomit.
Horne slowly straightened, then stilled when he saw the cocked pistol pointed at his chest. “What are you doing, Cathleen?”
“I’m going to kill you, you leprous maggot.” She took a step, narrowing the distance between them to ten feet. In some dim, still functioning part of her brain, she remembered Tait had said she needed to be within five feet of her target for the gun to do any real damage.
She wanted to be nearer. She wanted to be so close she could smell his blood. Watch his last breath. See the light die in his eyes.
“I only have four bullets,” she said, taking another step. “Where do you want them?”
“Cathleen, you can’t—”
“I’d aim for the heart, but you haven’t one.” She was vaguely surprised by the steadiness in her voice despite the shaking of her limbs. “The groin would be too small a target, as I recall. So I guess it’ll have to be the face.”
“Put that away, you stupid woman.”
“Mouth first? You were always partial to mouths.”
He took a step back.
She took a step forward. An obscene dance to the music of their harsh breathing and the frantic drumbeat of her heart. “Eyes? Yours always reminded me of black holes that reached all the way down to hell.”
“You can’t do this!”
The panic in his voice told her he thought she might. She could almost smell his fear. It strengthened her.
“But I can. And I am.” Another step.
Horne’s control snapped. “You filthy whore! I should have killed you back then. I was going to, did you know that?”
She took another step.
He retreated, stumbled back into a tree. “I was going to buy you. Smythe and I had already stacked the bid. We were going to use you over and over, in every way we could, until you bled like a stuck pig and there was nothing left but raw—”
Lucinda squeezed the trigger. But she was shaking so badly the bullet missed and slapped into the tree behind him.
Horne gaped at her, his eyes wild with fear.
She took another step. “Don’t worry, Horne,” she ground out, desperately trying to bring her rage under control so she could aim. “I still have three more.”
“D-Don’t do this! I’m a rich man! I can give you—”
As she fired again, he lurched to the side. The second bullet missed his chest and plowed into his arm. The third went into his shoulder.
Crying out, he sagged against the tree, blood welling through the fingers gripping his shoulder. “You bitch!”
She stepped closer. Four feet separated them. One bullet left.
Breath caught behind clenched teeth, she took careful aim.
But Horne saw her finger tighten and lunged forward before she could fire. He would have plowed into her had a leg not shot out of the brush and tripped him.
As he fell, a hand reached around Lucinda from behind and yanked the gun from her grip.
“Enough, Lucinda,” Tait said in her ear. “I’m here.” His arms came around her, pulled her back against his chest.
Her legs buckled, but he held her fast, the hard, rapid thud of his heart vibrating against her spine, his labored breath warm against her temple. She felt the tremble in his body. Smelled horses and sweat and her mind started to spiral. “Oh, God . . .”
“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Ash stepped out of the brush, followed by Declan. “Is she all right?” the sheriff asked.
“Are you?” Tait asked, his voice hoarse in her ear.
“Y-Yes. No. Yes. Why did you stop me?”
“You’re not a killer.”
“But he shouldn’t—”
“He won’t.”
Ash kept a booted foot on Horne’s chest while Declan felt his pockets for weapons. When he found none, he rose and motioned for Horne to rise. Ash helped him . . . rather vigorously, Lucinda was happy to note.
Declan scowled at Tait and Lucinda. “All right, you two. What’s this all about? You know this man?”
“She was trying to kill me,” Horne blubbered, struggling to evade Ash’s grip. “She has a gun! She—”
“Haud yer wheesht,” Ash ordered, driving his elbow into Horne’s face.
Horne reeled, hands cupped over his bleeding mouth.
Tait took his arms from around Lucinda. “I’ll take care of it, sheriff,” he said in a hard, flat voice Lucinda scarcely recognized. Pulling out a handkerchief, he ripped it in two and began wrapping his knuckles. “My thanks to you and the earl for your help. Please take Lucinda back to the hotel. I’ll be along directly.”
Declan sighed. “That’s not how it works, Rylander. I’ve got to follow the law. That’s why I wear this badge. You’re a lawyer; you should understand that.”
“Bollocks,” Ash burst out. “Take off the badge, then. Be a father, not a sheriff. He had your daughter, for God’s sake.”
Some of the color left Declan’s face. “But he didn’t hurt her, did he, Lucinda?”
“N-No. Not really. I don’t think she even knew he was a threat to her.”
Oddly, now that the danger was past, the shaking was even worse than when she was confronting Horne. She had been focused then, but now her thoughts felt scrambled and she was so dizzy she feared she might fall.
But she wanted to stay. She wanted to see Horne die. She wanted to know for certain it was over forever.
“Did he hurt you, Lucinda?” Declan asked.
She started to laugh. But it sounded broken and strange in her ear and her teeth were chattering again, so she made herself stop. “No, he didn’t hurt me. Not today.”
“Then we’re done here, Rylander.”
“No, Sheriff. We’re not.” Tait calmly tested the wrappings by clenching and straightening his hands. Apparently satisfied, he looked at the sheriff.
Lucinda had never seen his face so set. His gray eyes appeared lit from within with a fury he seemed barely able to contain.
“Horne will not leave these woods alive, Sheriff,” he said in that terrible voice. “I owe that to Lucinda. And to your daughter. And to all the children he’s hurt. It’s a debt every man owes. Even you.”
“But I can’t—”
“Yes. You can. Just walk away.”
“Aye, Brodie. Ye ken he’s right. Think of what a trial would do to wee Brin.”
Declan hesitated, his gaze moving from Tait to Ash.
“Don’t do it, Sheriff!” Horne shouted, seeing the lawman waver. “If you leave, they’ll kill me!”
When Ash rounded on him, he cowered, tears and sweat rolling down his face. “Please, Sheriff. Don’t let them hurt me. I’m a rich man. An important man. You want a railroad through here? I can bring one. I can—”
“Dinna I tell ye to shut yer geggie?” Another blow sent Horne staggering back into the tree. He slumped against it, coughing blood.
Declan seemed to have reached his decision. He started to speak. But before he could get out a word, a whistling whisper cut through the air. Then a choking sound. Then they saw Horne slump to the ground, blood welling around the horn handle of a knife planted in his neck
“Jesus,” Tait said.
Declan blinked at the dying man, then spun around, anger crackling. “Thomas, is that you?” he yelled.
No answer except for the sigh of the wind through the boughs.
“Damnit, Thomas! I know it was you!” Declan stomped off into the trees. “You’re a sworn deputy. What the hell are you thinking?”
“Bluidy fine throw,” Ash said, studying the corpse.
For several moments Lucinda stared numbly down at Horne�
��s body, nauseated by the reek of blood and spent gunpowder, her mind grappling with what had just happened. Horne was dead. It was over. She was safe. He could never hurt her again. As the reality of that sank in, she was gripped with a deeper emotion than fear. “I wanted to be the one to kill him. It was my right!”
“I know, sweetheart. But it’s over now. Let it go.” Tait’s arm came around her shoulders and pulled her tight to his side. He bent to press a kiss to her temple, then whispered in her ear. “And if you ever do anything like this again, or scare me so bad, I swear to God, Lucinda, I’ll—”
She whirled and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Tait. Th-thank you.”
He tried to pull back, but she wouldn’t let him. “For what?”
“You came for me. You would have fought him. For me.” She drew back to give him a hard, fast kiss, then smiled up at him through a blur of tears. “No one has ever done that . . . and I thank you.”
“You foolish woman. I love you. I would do anything—everything—for you.” This time he kissed her. And it was the kind of kiss that rolled through her like a healing wind, sweeping away all the fear and pain, making her feel cherished and loved and safe, at last.
“Oh, for the love of Saint Andrew,” a deep voice grumbled. “Should I be paying to see this, or is it a free show, I’m wondering?”
Lucinda jumped back, her cheeks hot for all sorts of reasons.
“Em, sorry,” Tait said, adjusting his coat. “Forgot you were there.”
“Did you now? And did you forget aboot him, as well?” Ash motioned at the man in the brush who was already drawing flies. “So now what?”
Tait shrugged. “So now I guess we dig another hole.”
Twenty-one
Seeing that Lucinda was shivering, Tait sent her back to take a warm bath while he stayed with the earl to dispose of Horne’s body. They were trying to figure what to do with it when the sheriff returned, bringing with him a horse, a piece of canvas, and two shovels he’d borrowed from the livery.
