Chloe's Double Draw [King's Bluff, Wyoming] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Fiona Archer

  “We’re listening, Young.”

  “The line shack, where the creek bends away from the fence on your west boundary. You have one hour to bring Chloe there. Only you and Chloe. No heroics, Taylor.”

  Her chest tightened with a sharp flutter under her ribs.

  Flynn’s jaw locked so tight Chloe was positive it would break under the pressure. “I want proof Noah’s alive.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The phone beeped. Flynn tapped a command to accept the video call. Noah, sitting up against a rough wooden wall, his arms pulled behind him, appeared on the screen. Blood smeared the right side of his face from a scrape above his right brow. A rag was tied across his mouth, parting his lips, muffling a loud curse. He shook his head, growling against the gag.

  Flynn’s voice held all the emotion of a judge pronouncing a death sentence. “What makes you think I’d bring Chloe to you?”

  Chloe grabbed Flynn’s forearm, tugging hard.

  “Because that’s what she’ll demand, especially after this.”

  A hand holding a gun came into view, pointing at Noah. A loud bang cracked out of the phone. Noah’s body jerked, his curse muffled. A plume of blood stained the left shoulder of his denim shirt.

  Shock paralyzed her for only a few seconds. “No! Trent, no. I’ll be there. Please, don’t hurt him.” Please. Please. Please, no. “I promise, I’ll be there.” She sprang off the lounge, tugging on Flynn. “Hurry up, Flynn.”

  “That’s right, Flynn. Hurry.” Trent’s voice mocked her before switching to its earlier coldness. “You have one hour. Starting now.”

  The phone went black. Flynn rose, tapped on his phone, then raised it to his ear. With his other hand, he latched hold of Chloe’s arm and led her toward the kitchen. “Quinn, where are you? Meet me in the kitchen. Young has Noah. Yeah, a bullet in the left shoulder. Bring Jeb and Mike and whatever else you think we’ll need.”

  “We don’t have time to wait for the others. Trent said nobody else. Come on.” She pulled against his hold, straining toward the front door.

  Flynn shoved the phone in his back pocket then gripped both of Chloe’s arms, dragging her up against him.

  “We need to move, damn it!” She kicked out at his legs, cursing when he sidestepped her sock-covered missile.

  “Chloe, listen to me.” He shook her hard. Her head snapped forward, and she blinked. “You’re useless to Noah and me if you’re going to fall apart.”

  She opened her mouth to yell, but he was right. Brutal, but right. Get it together, Chloe. “I…o–okay.” She swallowed. A couple more deep breaths. “I’m okay.”

  He narrowed his gaze, stared at her for seconds that seemed like minutes as an invisible timer counted down in her head. “Good. I need you at your fighting best, luv.” He pulled her tight into his embrace, squeezing her until she couldn’t draw in another breath. “Noah will beat the living shit out of me for bringing you along, but I need your help. You’ll follow my orders. No second-guessing or arguing. Can you do that?”

  How much had it cost him to ask her for help? This man, who prided himself on protecting her, was putting her in danger to save his brother.

  “Whatever it takes. I trust you.” And she did.

  His eyes darkened. “I needed that, baby. Thank you.” His warm lips kissed her forehead.

  “Flynn.” A voice yelled from the kitchen.

  “We’re coming,” he shouted back and dragged Chloe behind him.

  Quinn, Mike, Jeb, and a fearsome-looking Gretchen surrounded the kitchen table, upon which sat several walkie-talkies and a map.

  Flynn updated everyone on Trent’s demands. Gretchen left the room and came back with shoes, a woolen cap, gloves, and a winter jacket for Chloe. While Flynn, Mike, and Jeb conferred, Quinn came up to Chloe, holding a tiny, disc-shaped device.

  “Honey, I want you to slide this inside your bra. It’s a tracking device.” He smiled at her open mouth. “Knowing your exact location is half the battle. We don’t take any chances.”

  “Right. Good thinking.” She turned her back and inserted the device as instructed. When she turned back, Quinn held what looked like a penknife.

  “Flynn tells me you’ve never fired a gun. We’ll hide this switchblade in your pocket. Better to have you armed with something than nothing.” He slipped the knife into her hand, letting her gauge the feel. “Hold your arm out, keep your fingers curled as they are now, and press this button.” He pointed to a small button. A sharp blade snapped free of the handle. “This is strictly for emergencies, Chloe. Don’t be a hero. You got that?”

  She nodded under his hard stare, folded the blade as instructed, and placed it into her jacket pocket. You can do this. For Noah. Who knew what Trent was doing to him? All because of her. Don’t die, Noah, please. Cursing the tremors overtaking her hands, she was grateful for Gretchen’s help in putting on the jacket, cap, and gloves.

  Flynn strapped his ankle holster around his right leg then added a knife inside his left boot. He adjusted his shirt, revealing a gun housed in a holster. “We’ll head out on the quad bike. Quinn, you circle round the back with Jeb. Mike, you coordinate with Caleb.”

  “Already started.” Mike held his cell phone to his ear, his dark gaze flicking over Chloe. His mouth lifted in what she presumed was a reassuring smile.

  The nerves in her stomach seesawed. Reassurance was a long way off.

  Flynn nodded. “Gretchen, you can—”

  “I’ll get food and coffee ready. You’re gonna have an army here. Besides, Doc Jackson will need help convincing Noah to visit that fancy new medical center. I’m up for the fight.” The older woman’s eyes shone suspiciously bright.

  “Too bloody right, sweetheart.” Flynn leaned in and kissed the housekeeper’s cheek. “And I can’t wait to see you in action.” He grabbed a walkie-talkie, checked the frequency, and then faced Chloe. “Ready, Chloe?”

  “Ready.” She squeezed Gretchen’s hand as she passed. “You heard Flynn. We’ll bring him back.”

  “Just bring yourself back, honey.” Gretchen’s soft words chased her out the door.

  She followed Flynn out to the waiting quad bike and joined the throng of ranch hands receiving fresh orders from Flynn. The deep throb of his strong voice soothed the quaking nerves in her stomach, gave her focus. It was time.

  A swirling ball of fury rose from deep within her, like a hurricane, growing larger in its power with each wildly curving twist. Trent wanted a reunion? No problem. Sixteen years of living in guilt and fear for a crime she’d never committed was motivation enough. But now he’d really fucked up. He’d shot Noah. Her man. Her Sir.

  Tears burned the back of her eyes. She wiped them away. Suck it up. Flynn needed her strong, by his side.

  She climbed on the quad, then slid back, making room for him. In her jacket pocket, she formed a death grip around the knife, pressing the edges of the handle deep into the soft tissue of her hand.

  Trent’s obsession ended today. In maybe less than an hour, either she or Trent would be dead. She made a promise to her future it wouldn’t be her.

  * * * *

  Flynn pulled the quad to a stop behind a crop of evergreens he judged a safe distance from the line shack. Where Noah lay. Shot. Bleeding out. Alone. Hang on, brother.

  He’d watched it happen. On a fucking smartphone.

  Searing, oxygen-sucking heat pumped through his veins, blistering holes in the thin layer that separated a berserk thirst for revenge and the discipline of a hard-core professional soldier.

  He climbed off the quad and dragged his helmet off, fighting the urge to hurl it against the pines, denting it to the size of a Rubik’s Cube. His fingers curled around the helmet’s rim, digging into the padded lining. Get your shit together. Neutralize the threat.

  One jab to the front of the throat. Crushed windpipe. No mess. Thump and dump.

  He’d listen to Young gurgle. See the terror in his eyes. Watch him claw at his throat, desperate for a
ir. None would come. Fitting death for a coward who shot a man in cold blood.

  “Flynn?”

  Chloe stood beside him, her helmet in her hands.

  He forced his mind to clear. “One sec, luv.” He stashed their helmets in the back carrier then grabbed the radio.

  His gaze swept the area. Past their cover of pines existed nothing but winter grass covered with patchy snow, reaching all the way to the shack. No cover. Brilliant. He lifted the radio and spoke softly. “Quinn, it’s Flynn. You copy? Over.” He placed one hand on Chloe’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “Affirmative. We left the quad back a distance and are now in position fifty yards behind the shack. No cover for line of sight into the doorway. We’re behind the pines to your left. Good thing Mike’s injured. He’d be pissed not getting a shot. Over.”

  Flynn imagined the level of pissed off the ace sniper would be feeling. It might come halfway to matching his own. “We’re going in. Any chance you get that doesn’t involve Young’s weapon trained on Chloe take your shot. Breaking off radio contact. Over.”

  He switched off the radio, dropped it in the carrier, and then spared a glance at his watch. Fifteen minutes and counting.

  “Here’s the rules, Chloe. No questioning. If I give you an order, you follow. To. The. Letter. All our lives depend on it.” And yours comes first. Always.

  Her voice never wavered. “I promise.”

  He studied her. A clarity shone in the little teacher’s eyes. The stubborn set of her chin yelled determination. That’s my girl.

  “You stay behind me. Don’t move in front at any time. Ignore all instructions from Young unless I order you to follow.” He kept his voice controlled, his breathing even. Let your training take over. “When I give the order to drop, I want you to dive to the ground. No hesitation.”

  “I drop. No hesitation. Understood.” She gripped his hands. “I trust you. Implicitly.”

  Another check of his watch. Thirteen minutes.

  He grabbed her against his chest, folded his arms around her, and crushed her mouth under his. It was neither pretty nor romantic. Her mouth yielded to his punishing force. Small hands curled into the arms of his sheepskin jacket. A surge of primitive energy shot through him, charging him ready for battle.

  Chloe was his. His and Noah’s. No hairy-arsed bastard was taking her away from them.

  He broke off their kiss, her taste lingering in his mouth.

  “Let’s go.”

  They hiked the last hundred yards. Flynn held her hand until the last twenty. “Keep your hands in your pockets as long as you can, Chloe.” He moved to stand slightly in front of her, shielding as much of her as possible.

  Ahead of them, the shack, restocked and cleaned out only last month, stood at the edge of the field. A small clump of boulders sat way off to the right. Pines bordered the shack from behind. Somewhere in there, Quinn and Jeb lay in wait.

  The door opened. Trent Young, his formerly short blond hair dyed a splotchy brown, dressed in jeans and a denim jacket so new Flynn bet the washing instructions were still attached, stepped outside, a .38 in his hand.

  “Chloe.” Trent’s voice was higher in person, excitement underlining its limp resonance. “Sweetheart. Come here.” He raised one hand, urging her forward.

  Jacket open, no shoulder holster. Loose grip on gun. Slim-fitting jeans. Gym shoes. No hidden firearms.

  “Don’t move, Chloe,” Flynn ordered, never lifting his gaze off Young. “Where’s Noah?”

  Trent walked forward, his weapon aimed level with Flynn’s chest. “Shut your fucking mouth, Taylor.” He flicked his too-bright gaze to Chloe. “Darling, come closer.”

  She took one step, moving up beside Flynn, on his left. He glanced at Chloe. Huge green eyes dominated a pale face. Her hand clenched in her jacket pocket. Feeling the knife. Good girl. He counted the steps to Trent. Ten. Too far to rush.

  Trent advanced two steps.

  Chloe’s shoulders tensed but her voice held a note of steel. “I’m here, like you asked. Bring out Noah.”

  Trent’s brow bunched. His mouth thinned. “Forget, King. He’s not important. Neither is Taylor. They want you to be their whore. I love you. You and me, that’s what matters.”

  “Yes, Chloe, nothing matters but you.” A new voice echoed from the doorway of the shack.

  A snapshot flashed behind Flynn’s eyes. Quinn’s file of background information on Chloe. Russet-colored wavy hair. A California driver’s license.

  Anita Young.

  Trent’s fucking wife.

  Flynn cursed.

  Chloe gasped. “Anita…wh–what are you doing here?”

  Unease slithered over Flynn, coiling around his ankles.

  The other woman tilted her head to the side. “I’m here to finish what I started all those months ago.” She drew her arm forward from behind her. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the automatic gripped in her hand.

  Anita’s mouth curled in a sneer, but its ferocity paled in comparison to the rabid, insidious gleam of her too-familiar shade of green eyes.

  Flynn witnessed true hatred. And it, like the gun in Anita’s hand, was directed right at Chloe.

  * * * *

  Noah breathed in through his nose and locked his jaw against the burning throb of pain in his left shoulder. The wooden logs of the cabin’s back wall brushed against his arms. The bitch had finally walked outside. He had one chance. They’d tied his wrists, palms together, behind him with standard zip ties. Stupid bastards. Special ops were trained to break out of these. He’d never practiced with a shoulder wound, but hey, first time for everything.

  Voices floated back through the doorway. Chloe’s confused tone, laced with fear. Anita’s smug answer. Fuck, if that vicious bitch got her hands on Chloe…

  He wriggled his backside away from the wall. His legs, bound at the ankles, stretched out in front of him. Against a wave of nausea, he curled his legs and rose to his knees. His breathing, obstructed by the gag, sounded loud to his ears.

  Leaning forward, he tensed his arms out behind him. After two huge breaths through his nose, he raised his arms as high as possible. White-hot pain sliced into his shoulder. You’ve faced worse. Breathe. Biting down on the gag, he slammed his wrists against his tailbone as he pushed out against the ties with his arms. Slam. What a dumb fuck. Taken so easily. Slam. You deserve the pain. Slam. The zip tie snapped. His arms fell forward by his sides as the gag captured his agonized groan.

  Blackness swamped his gaze. With his good arm, his reached up and wrenched the cloth out of his mouth. Air. Sweet fucking air. He pulled in as much as possible, trying to keep his breathing quiet. He swerved his bound ankles back out in front. Using the tip of the now broken zip tie, he shimmed the point into the locking mechanism of the tie on his ankles. A jiggle here, pull there, and the tie slid free.

  Find a weapon. His gaze performed a quick check. A frying pan, lantern…Not many offerings. The cupboard with anything useful was past the doorway. That left—

  He spied a wooden box against the opposite wall, partially hidden by a folded camp bed. He moved on silent feet across the space and retrieved the box. Carefully, he lifted the lid. Oh, yes, you’ll do fine.

  * * * *

  Chloe gulped around the terror screaming its way up inside her. “Anita, I don’t understand. You’re the one who warned me. You told me to get away, if it wasn’t for you, I—”

  Anita walked forward then stopped six feet behind Trent. “And you fell for it. Tsk, Tsk. Stupid little Chloe. No wonder Trent managed to fool you about Hank’s death.” At Chloe’s gasp, she laughed, hard and cold. “Oh, yes, I know all about that. Trent never could hold his liquor. One night he bathed in Jack Daniels and let it all out.” She spared her husband a glance, the mocking slant of her lips firing off internal alarms in Chloe. “How he loved you. Wanted you. Nobody was for him but you. Then Hank walked into your bedroom, caught Trent trying to stick his hand in the cookie jar. Hank had to go.” She shrugge
d.

  Anita’s betrayal knifed Chloe in the chest. She’d believed her. Had sympathized with her. Stupid, stupid fool.

  Trent’s voice turned glacial. “Anita, shut up.”

  Chloe raised her chin. “I know about Trent’s lie. I remembered.” She allowed herself a moment of pleasure at Anita’s openmouthed stare.

  She faced Trent. Patches of blond showed through his lackluster dye job. It made him seem weaker. “You pushed Hank. Not me. And you left me to think that for years.” Bastard.

  God, it cost her, but she held back. Don’t piss off the crazy.

  Securing Noah’s release came first. Then she’d gladly trap Trent’s balls in a vise and turn the spoke for all that was holy.

  Trent sighed. “Chloe, it was for your own good. If you’d stayed with me, we’d have had years together.” His jaw clenched before he visibly forced his shoulders to relax. “For the last time, come here.”

  No! Cowards don’t deserve a woman’s fear. Chloe shook her head.

  Anita snorted. “She seems unconvinced.”

  Trent’s gaze whipped to his ex. “You can go now. I don’t need you—”

  “No, you’ve never needed me, have you, Trent. Not like how a man needs a wife.” Anita turned her glare on Chloe then waved the gun in a sweeping gesture. “My father’s men followed Trent. When the time suited me, I came here and contacted him.”

  God, it all made sense. She’d warned Chloe to get away. The ransacking of her house, the writing on the wall—it was too personal.

  Chloe felt a power shift between the estranged couple. Trent’s gaze zipped between her and Anita. His two-handed grip on the .38 opened and closed. Anita’s moves were unhurried, deliberate.

  She chanced a look at Flynn. His narrowed gaze shifted between the two assailants. His voice, strong and deep, demanded everyone’s attention. “You arranged for the break-in. What about the fire? That down to you?” Slowly, he lifted his hand to the front of his stomach and hooked his thumb in behind his waistband.