Cowboy's Legacy (The Montana Cahills)

by B. J Daniels

  Maggie couldn’t tell if it was one of disappointment or excitement until she heard the jingle of a key ring.

  * * *

  FLINT LEANED AGAINST a stack of old cabinets and reloaded his weapon. He hadn’t heard Terwilliger for a few minutes, but wasn’t about to give away his location by moving. He’d thought he’d wounded the man again. But Terwilliger had veered at the last minute, disappearing behind a pile of boxes.

  Now Flint listened for both the madman in the basement with him and the sound of a vehicle engine turning over. He just hoped the keys had been in the van. That Maggie and Jenna would go for help. Not that he was counting on help reaching him anytime soon.

  Town was miles away. Getting Maggie and Jenna out of this basement had been about making sure they were safe—not actually getting help. He couldn’t count on them getting cell phone service for miles. By the time they reached town, notified the sheriff’s department... Well, it would be too late.

  Flint knew he wouldn’t have that long. He and Terwilliger could only play this cat-and-mouse game so long before one of them ended it. He checked his ammunition. He had only one clip left.

  * * *

  “HOP IN,” JENNA SAID, and Maggie ran around to the passenger side and slid in as Jenna cranked over the engine. The motor roared to life and Jenna let her foot off the clutch. As the van leaped forward, Maggie looked toward the building where she’d been kept prisoner, shocked to realize it was out in the middle of nowhere.

  She saw no other houses, only rolling hillside and a narrow stretch of snow-covered pavement. And now she was leaving Flint down there in that basement alone.

  Glancing in the back of the van, she saw shopping bags. Some of the items had spilled out on the rough road into the roadhouse apparently. So that was where he’d gone, into town to buy supplies.

  There were several rolls of duct tape, a large roll of plastic sheeting, several box cutters, a twelve-pack of Scotch towels and a shovel.

  Clark had said he was going to move them. Her heart pounded at the sight as she realized what he’d really been planning to do with them.

  As Jenna started to pull away from the roadhouse, Maggie knew she couldn’t leave Flint—no matter how this ended.

  “I can’t go,” she said and started to open her door.

  “You can’t help him!” Jenna cried, hitting the brakes as Maggie began to jump out.

  “Here’s his phone. Call for help as soon as you can, but I’m not leaving.”

  “Maggie, no. He’s a sheriff. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “He doesn’t know Clark like we do.”

  “Listen, there’s nothing you can do to help,” Jenna pleaded. “Please.”

  “It only takes one of us to get help.” She stepped out of the van and started to close the door. Then she said, “Hurry.”

  “At least take this,” Jenna said and tossed her a large army coat that had been flung over the seat.

  Slamming the van door, she shrugged on the coat, trying to ignore the smell of Clark on the fabric. As she walked back toward the old building, Jenna took off in the van. She knew this was crazy, but she couldn’t leave Flint. In her heart, she feared that he needed her. She couldn’t think of anything worse than not being there for him.

  * * *

  AT THE SOUND of the van’s engine revving as it pulled away, Flint felt a wave of relief. Maggie and Jenna were safe. Now all he had to do was find Terwilliger and end this. Or if he got the chance, get to the stairs. He could block the basement door until an army of deputies arrived. It was the smartest idea he had.

  Unfortunately, he knew that the madman down there with him probably had the same idea. With the paths through the junk all facing the stairway, neither of them could make a run for it without being seen—and shot. Without someone covering him, he was stuck in the basement until one of them killed the other.

  If he could last until help arrived, it would still be hard for anyone to get to them. Terwilliger would have heard his van leaving. He would be expecting the law and a shoot-out. Whoever came down those stairs would be shot unless Flint was close enough to the madman to keep him from firing.

  “Maggie and Jenna have gone for help,” he called and quickly moved as gunfire pelted the stack of boxes he’d been hiding behind. “Pretty soon, this whole place will be filled with cops.” He moved again, backtracking. He didn’t want to stay far from the stairs. He had a feeling Terwilliger was doing the same thing. Only one of them would be leaving there.

  He reloaded with his last clip, telling himself he had to conserve or he’d be out of bullets and then it definitely would be over. As he started to move, he froze at a sound upstairs. Someone had just opened and closed the back door.

  Terwilliger must have heard it too, because he let out a laugh deep in the junk. “Well, I wonder who that is?” he called before moving. There was a shuffling sound, then nothing.

  Flint felt his heart drop. He didn’t think the man had an accomplice. At least not one that Maggie and Jenna had known about or they would have told him. But no matter who it was up there, this would change things. “It’s probably a lawman who saw my patrol SUV pulled off up the road,” he called and hurriedly moved as gunfire followed him. “Give yourself up.”

  Gunfire came in answer. The man had to be running out of ammunition, didn’t he? Maybe not. Jenna had said he had a lot of it. Apparently he’d planned for something just like this.

  Flint realized that he didn’t know exactly where the gunfire had come from but that Terwilliger was closer than he’d thought. The realization came a few seconds too late. He’d been hiding behind a column of wooden crates stacked almost to the ceiling.

  He heard something falling and realized Terwilliger had overturned one of the stacks of junk. It fell, slamming into the crates where he now stood. He started to move to the side, but he was too slow. The crates tilted at him and began coming down.

  Flint tried to get away from them, but Terwilliger opened fire at the side where he’d been headed. The crates fell. They were much heavier than he’d thought. One hit him and knocked the weapon out of his hand. As he watched his gun skitter across the floor, one of the crates knocked him to the concrete. He tried to push it off, but there were too many of them and they were heavier than they had looked. He managed to get most of his body out, but one leg was caught, the crate crushing down on it.

  Flint frantically tried to reach his weapon, but it was a good foot too far from his fingertips. He could hear Terwilliger making his way around to him. It would be just a matter of time before he reached him and finished this.

  He looked for something he could use to pry the crate off his leg and spotted a table leg. Hurriedly, he began to unscrew the leg closest to him from the table.

  Overhead, he heard the basement door open.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  STANDING IN THE freezing cold of the dark building, Maggie had had no idea what to do next. She’d heard more gunfire from downstairs, then what sounded like something large crashing to the floor. Now she heard nothing. She didn’t know what was going on down there or who she might be coming face-to-face with as she opened the basement door.

  A musty smell rose up from the blackness at the bottom of the stairs. Beyond, she could see only a little light. She stepped to the side to listen and heard a disquieting silence. Was Flint still alive? If he was, he would have said something. And if Clark was the only one alive down there...

  She looked around, an idea coming to her. Someone had left a chair just down the hallway by the ladies’ room. She moved away from the door, walking as quietly as she could, and picked up the chair. The plastic seat cover had been torn open, most of the stuffing gone. Its metal legs were icy cold to the touch.

  At the basement door, she carefully peered around the edge, ready with the chair i
f she needed to hold Clark off. But there was no one on the dark stairs that she could see. She didn’t know any other way to get a response from the basement.

  She raised the chair, ready to hurl it downward.

  * * *

  FLINT HEARD TERWILLIGER approaching him cautiously. The man wouldn’t know that Flint couldn’t reach his weapon. Nor did Flint suspect Terwilliger knew who was upstairs. He gripped the table leg and, grimacing in pain, tried to pry the crate off his leg.

  His first attempt failed. When the crate dropped back on his leg, it was so painful that he almost blacked out. But while his vision blurred, he knew he had no time. He tried again, knowing it might be his last chance before the man put a bullet in him. If whoever was upstairs was an accomplice of Terwilliger...

  Suddenly the basement filled with the clatter of a large object cartwheeling down the steps. In the path just on the other side of him, Flint heard Terwilliger turn and fire toward the steps.

  With his last gasp of strength, he levered the crate off just as the gunfire subsided. He crawled over to his weapon and pulled himself up in a sitting position. He had no idea what had just come crashing down the stairs. Whatever it had been, it had bought him time. Also, it had answered one of his questions.

  Whoever was up there, it wasn’t Terwilliger’s accomplice, and now they both knew it. But he had a bad feeling he knew who it was. More than ever, he had to end this and soon.

  But he was still a sitting duck. All Terwilliger had to do was peer around the end of this pathway and he’d see him. He had to try to get to his feet, but he feared his ankle might be broken. Which meant he wouldn’t be walking out of there.

  * * *

  HARP NEEDED A DRINK. He started to get into his patrol SUV, but then realized it would be better if he walked. The last thing he needed was to get picked up for drinking and driving. He headed down the street toward the closest bar.

  He felt poleaxed. Vicki wasn’t pregnant. She hadn’t been pregnant for who knew how long. She’d let him believe she was. She’d let him buy her a ring, ask her to marry him, break his damned hand trying to bust down a door.

  Feeling like a fool, he pushed open the door to the bar. The first beer went down like water. He ordered another and silently cursed the cowboy who kept playing sad love songs on the jukebox.

  “You all right?” the bartender asked when he ordered a third beer.

  “My girlfriend...actually, my former fiancée...just gave me back my ring.” He pulled it out of his pocket and laid it on the slick surface of the bar.

  “Sorry. Maybe it’s for the best,” the bartender said and placed another draft beer in front of him.

  “Yeah, you’re right, I guess.” He picked up the ring and spun it like a top on the bar. The diamond caught the light as it circled. He thought of the day he’d bought the ring, how excited and happy he’d been. The tug on his heartstrings surprised him. “We were going to have a baby. She lost it.”

  “Tough break,” the bartender said distractedly.

  “Yeah. It isn’t like I was in love with her,” he said, but the bartender had already walked away.

  Harp finished his third beer, feeling the rush of the alcohol and suddenly needing some fresh air. He stepped outside, but didn’t know where to go. Actually, he had nowhere to go. He’d given up his apartment when he’d moved in with Vicki.

  He turned toward the center of town, walking aimlessly. He’d never felt so lost. This time of night, there wasn’t much going on. He used to joke that they rolled up the sidewalks in this tiny burg at eight o’clock.

  There was little traffic since all the stores were closed. Only the few bars were open still, but the night was cold. The winter storm had left behind a good two feet of snow that was now plowed up into piles until the city could get it all hauled away. The winter scene had a sad, desolate feel to it.

  “It isn’t like I was in love with her,” he said to himself again. But the words seemed cold and brittle on his tongue. He felt that pull on his heart again and stopped walking. “I do love her.” His voice broke.

  Turning back, he started for the apartment. He had to tell Vicki how he felt. He fished in his pocket, afraid he’d left the ring on the bar. But there it was. He gripped it in his palm. He couldn’t wait to put it back on her finger.

  He hadn’t gone far when he heard footfalls behind him. He turned in time to see the man holding the tire iron before he took the first blow.

  * * *

  NOW WHAT? MAGGIE ASKED herself as she leaned against the wall out of the hail of bullets. The basement grew quiet again, but in the distance she heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the road.

  She frowned. Jenna couldn’t have gotten to town this quickly. But she’d thought there was a café or bar close by. Or maybe she’d been able to get cell phone coverage and had called for help. Was that why she was coming back?

  Maggie swallowed, reminding herself that Jenna was her mother. Like her, she couldn’t leave someone she loved with Clark Terwilliger.

  Going to the back door, she looked out as Jenna pulled up, put down the passenger-side window and shouted, “Come on! I called for help, but in the meantime, I have a plan.”

  Maggie hesitated, but for only a moment. At least Jenna had a plan. It was more than she had. Terrified that Flint was already dead in the basement, she ran through the snow to the van.

  “What’s your plan?” she asked as she slammed her door and Jenna threw the van into Reverse. “I’m so scared that Flint is trapped down there.”

  Jenna nodded. “I thought that might happen. Clark won’t stop until one of them is dead. On my way back from making the call to the cops, I saw something in the van’s headlights. It appears there is a road that descends down to the basement level. There is a loading dock, but next to it there is an old garage door at ground level. It has to be the way they got all that junk into that basement. I thought if I could get this van going fast enough, I could break down the door and into the basement.” She looked over at Maggie. “What I’m proposing is dangerous. We could wait for help from town—”

  “No. I’m scared there isn’t time.”

  “What’s been happening while I was gone?” Jenna asked.

  “Lots of shooting.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s happening down there. I just have this awful feeling that Flint is in terrible trouble.”

  “He’s still alive. Otherwise, Clark would have come out. I’m glad I got back when I did. I was so worried about you.” She gave Maggie a smile and reached over to touch her arm before shifting the van into gear. “I’m going to drive down the road to what appears to be a loading dock,” she said as the headlights of the van shone on the side of the old building. “You’re going to get out. Then I’ll back up and try to bust down the door. If this old van can do the job.”

  Maggie started to argue but Jenna stopped her. “Your part is even more dangerous. Have you ever fired a weapon?” Jenna reached down to pull out a pistol. “I found this in the van’s glove box. It’s loaded and ready to go. All you have to do is point and shoot. Be ready. If I manage to break through the door... If you see Clark...”

  Maggie nodded and took the pistol. “Just point and shoot?”

  “That’s it,” Jenna said. “I’m thankful that Anvil taught me to shoot.” She sounded sad. “He is a good man.”

  Jenna turned down onto a lower road, busting through the snow until she reached an area where the wind had blown off, leaving open ground. She stopped the van. “Ready?”

  * * *

  FLINT HEARD THE sound of a vehicle headed in his direction. It was too soon for the law even if whoever had left earlier had reached the sheriff in Sheridan. Which meant whoever was driving was coming back.

  He groaned inwardly, terrified how badly this could all end. At least with Maggie and Jenna
safe, he could face whatever was about to go down there. But if they were both back...

  Gritting his teeth, Flint grabbed hold of one of the crates still in the tall stack with his free hand and used it to pull himself up on his good leg. Tentatively he tried to put pressure on his injured leg and grimaced in pain. It wasn’t broken, but it was injured bad enough that, while he might be able to stand, maybe even walk a little, he wasn’t going far.

  “Sounds like my van,” Terwilliger said, his voice way too close on the other side of the closest stack. The man let out a laugh. “Women never listen.”

  Flint worked his way, holding on as he shuffled away from the fallen crates to a spot where junk was piled high. He found a space where he could push his body into an indentation in a stack of furniture and waited.

  Terwilliger would have heard him moving, but there was nothing he could do about it. Either the man was out of ammunition or he was saving what he had just as Flint was doing.

  He waited, wondering how long it would take for the local law to get there. Too long. Terwilliger was no fool. He would know time wasn’t on his side. The sound of the van’s engine revved outside. Earlier he’d heard the back door open and close. Did that mean whoever had been upstairs had now gone?

  He told himself he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to tune in to Terwilliger and his next move. He had only a few shots left. He had to make them count.

  He heard the van engine die away. Good—they were leaving again, although that didn’t make a lot of sense. Had at least one of them contacted the local sheriff? He could only hope. What else would they be doing?

  That was when he heard the van coming back. Only this time, it was from a different direction. This time the engine was revved up so loud it sounded as if it was headed right for them. What in the—

  * * *

  MAGGIE HELD THE pistol to her chest. The evening was cold and clear and surprisingly bright because of the snow. She’d moved to the side of the building and now stood waiting. Jenna was right. The door into the basement looked like it had seen better days. But the snowdrift in front of the door was high. What if she hit the door and nothing happened except she got hurt behind the wheel?