by Carol Finch
Cale had kept his feelings to himself because he’d known she’d leave him eventually. Taking that knowledge with her wouldn’t have done either of them any good. But now he wondered if maybe he’d been wrong about hiding his affection.
Maybe he should have told her the truth. After all, the woman always expected and demanded the truth from him. And now she’d never know how he felt, and he was going to die on this dusty street in his failed attempt to see his brother’s killer brought to justice.
Damn, Cale thought sickly, life just wasn’t fair. He’d always known that, but this was one time he really hated being right.
The image of Hanna’s face flashed in his dazed mind. He couldn’t give up! He couldn’t leave Hanna to battle Pryor by herself. He had to get back on his feet, to keep moving. He’d made a promise not to let her get hurt.
“Hell! What does it take to keep this man down?”
The voice sounded as if it came to him through a winding tunnel, and Cale struggled from his hands and knees to his feet. Before he could push himself fully upright another blow sent him sprawling. Darkness swirled and he slumped in the dirt.
Alarmed by nearby gunfire, Hanna wheeled around. Frantically, she searched for Cale in the scattering crowd. Where the devil was he? Knowing him, he was in the thick of things, defying the odds. Blast it, he better not get himself killed or she’d never forgive him. Even if he couldn’t love her the way she loved him, she needed the assurance that he was out there somewhere in the world.
The instant Hanna tried to dash off to investigate, Otis snaked his arm around her. “Easy, honey,” he breathed. “You’re coming with me.”
“No!” She ground her heel in the toe of his boot, elbowed him in the midsection, then launched herself away from him.
“You little hellcat,” Otis snarled as he lunged at her. His fists clenched in her hair, jerking her backward until her body collided with his. “I said you’re coming with me.”
Hannah struggled in protest while he dragged her backward. To her dismay, three of Otis’s henchmen closed around them. She squirmed, fighting for release, defying the threat of having her hair pulled out by the roots. She ignored the pistol that Otis crammed into the side of her throat, and fought for freedom. Never make it easy for your captor, Cale had lectured her. Never let him know you’re afraid.
Otis yelped when Hanna’s nails scored his cheek and she bit into his gun hand—practically daring him to do his worst. But she was counting on the fact that he wouldn’t pull the trigger with so many witnesses on hand to directly connect him to her death.
“Do you want your husband to live?” Otis snarled against her ear. “You keep fighting me and I promise he’ll be a dead man.”
The growled threat caused Hanna to hesitate. She realized her mistake a moment too late. She could almost see Cale scowling at her, hear him scolding her for refusing to stay focused on escape. Her hesitation granted Otis the chance to lever her arm behind her back. He held it at such a painful angle that she could only gasp in agony. Before she could grit her teeth against the pain and renew her struggles, two of Pryor’s men secured her wrists behind her back with a strand of rope, then stuffed a gag in her mouth.
Pick your battles, Mags. Choose the one you have the best chance at winning, Cale had told her the last night he’d given her target practice.
Hanna ceased resisting immediately.
“Wise choice, my dear.” Otis chuckled victoriously as he propelled her across the street to his waiting carriage.
It dawned on Hanna that Otis had arrived in a carriage rather than on horseback because he’d picked tonight to whisk her away from Cale. Otis had struck before Cale had the chance to spring his trap.
This was her fault. Otis had disposed of Cale because she’d let him think she was interested in him. Now Cale was suffering because her plan had backfired in her face.
Her very soul shriveled inside her when she glanced sideways to see Cale lying facedown in the street. Lantern light glinted off his raven hair. Blood dribbled over the side of his ashen face. And then suddenly, he tried to climb to his feet, but two shadowy figures leaped from the alley to club him over the head.
He collapsed, unmoving. Hanna tried to scream his name, and nearly choked on the gag. When she instinctively lurched toward Cale, Otis jerked her roughly against his chest.
“Your choice, my dear,” Pryor growled at her. “Do you want him to survive the beating or shall I have my men finish the deed?”
Wide-eyed, panting for breath, Hanna surveyed the grisly scene. Five of Otis’s men lay crumpled in the dirt. Five more had converged on Cale. She knew what Cale would have done if the situation were reversed. He would have dropped to his knees unexpectedly, forcing Otis off balance. He would have made a grab for the pistol so he could take out as many of his enemies as possible while they were frozen in surprise.
But Hanna wasn’t big enough, strong enough or skilled enough to topple Otis and fire a pistol repeatedly with the kind of accuracy this situation demanded. All she could do was promise her cooperation in exchange for Cale’s life.
“Make up your mind,” Otis said impatiently. “Do you want him alive?”
She nodded. Her gaze remained transfixed on Cale’s motionless body. She prayed that he wasn’t so badly injured that he couldn’t fight his way out of another confrontation. If he didn’t survive, then her reasons for living would become meaningless. She simply could not stand there and witness his execution.
Hanna cursed when Otis spun her around to hoist her into the carriage. There on the boardwalk, in front of the gun shop, Skeet lay lifelessly on his side. A chunk of raw meat lay a few feet away. No doubt Skeet had been baited, then attacked when he sniffed at the food.
Oh God, not Skeet, too. Cale needed him. The dog was Cale’s extra pair of eyes and ears. He was a fearless warrior in his own right, but he’d been rendered as helpless as his master.
Otis snickered when he noticed where Hanna’s gaze had strayed. “I took care of that mangy mutt myself,” he told her. “So don’t expect him to come to your rescue, either.”
Otis shoved her into the carriage, then plunked down beside her. He hauled her up against him so she couldn’t give him a fierce kick in the groin or stuff her heel in his chin to vent her fury and frustration.
If her hands were free she’d clasp the gold locket to center herself, to find the sense of strength and peace that it usually provided. Instead, she focused on the image of Cale that rose in her mind’s eye. He’d become her true touchstone, and she would draw strength from his strength. And most assuredly, she would find a way to make Otis Pryor pay for his past and present sins—or she’d die trying.
Chapter Sixteen
Arliss Fenton stopped short when he saw Otis force Hanna into the carriage, then whisk her off into the night. He’d tried to reach Grayson, but five burly henchmen had dragged him into the alley. Arliss stood there, feeling helpless and frustrated. He wondered how many of Cromwell’s citizens were willing to risk their lives to form a posse. Damn few, he figured. They’d known this kind of brutality before, and too many of them had been personally affected by it. Otis Pryor always won because his overwhelming manpower of ruthless criminals was there to back him up.
Arliss thought of his mother sitting home alone, still mourning her husband. He remembered the tormented rage he’d endured, knowing he wasn’t capable of avenging his father’s senseless death. He thought of Grayson and Hanna, who’d been torn apart because Otis had decided he wanted Hanna for his own.
Well, he wasn’t going to let them down the way he had his father. Somewhere in this town of frightened citizens there had to be someone willing to help him fight for justice.
Arliss drew himself up and walked across the shadowy street to where five men had fallen in an attempt to bring down one incredibly brave man. He shoved his heel against Sam Vickers’s shoulder and rolled him to his back. Teeth gritted, Arliss doubled at the waist to pluck up the badge that was s
upposed to represent law and order. For sure, this evil bastard wouldn’t need it where he was going. And good riddance to him.
Arliss was still standing in the middle of the street when the stage rolled into town. The jangle of harnesses and pounding hooves died into silence when the driver halted ten feet away. It was either that or mow Arliss down, because he refused to move.
While the driver surveyed the grim scene, one well-dressed passenger bounded to the ground, glanced around and shouted, “What the hell is going on in this godforsaken little town?”
Arliss was in no mood to answer the demanding gent, who behaved as if his sudden arrival was as important as that of the president of these United States. Arliss pivoted toward the gun shop to fetch weapons and ammunition, wondering if he’d have to take on Pryor’s renegades all by himself. No other townsfolk had poked their heads through the doorways of their homes to join him in the street.
“Hold it right there, boy!” the passenger snapped. “I came here to find my daughter, and don’t you dare walk away from me until you tell me where she is!”
It was that Southern drawl, not the shouted demand, that caught Arliss’s attention. He wheeled and squinted at the gent, who had puffed up like a toad.
“Your daughter?” Arliss parroted.
“Hanna,” he barked. “Where the devil is my daughter and where are those blasted Pinkertons? If they think I intend to pay them exorbitant fees when I’m the one who located her, then they’ve got another think coming!”
“Pinkertons?” he repeated, dumbfounded. There were Pinkertons coming to the rescue? Arliss breathed a gigantic sigh of relief. Well, hallelujah! Maybe he wouldn’t have to take on Pryor’s heavily armed brigands—minus five—by himself, after all.
Walter Malloy was travel weary and concerned about his daughter. He’d had to bribe Benjamin Caldwell’s secretary to acquire the information about Hanna’s whereabouts, but he’d discovered what he’d wanted to know. Walter had boarded the first stage west to retrieve her. Now that he was here, his concern for Hanna’s safety rose by alarming degrees.
He stomped forward, casting a repulsed glance at the casualties lying in the street. Then he focused all his frustration on the skinny red-haired man who was blinking like a disturbed owl.
“Speak up! You have to do better than to repeat what I’ve said. Damn it all, man, I want to know where Hanna is and I want to know right now!”
The drumming of approaching hooves prompted Walter to glance past the young man, who’d provided no assistance whatsoever. Walter’s gaze narrowed in irritation when he spotted two riders being pursued by three men in dignified suits.
“Well, the troops have finally arrived,” he said, then snorted. He flicked his wrist, shooing Arliss on his way. “Run along. Now I’ll get some results. I damn well better.”
The stage driver clambered over the top of the coach to unfasten Walter’s luggage, and dumped it unceremoniously in the dirt. Rather than waylaying overnight, as scheduled, he hurriedly returned to his seat and took off in a cloud of dust to avoid future disaster in town.
Swearing, Walter traipsed over to retrieve his baggage, hauling it onto the boardwalk. “Uncivilized heathen,” he muttered at the driver’s departing back.
The instant the two riders and the Pinkertons dismounted, Walter stepped up to them. “Where have you been? Chasing your own tails? We’ve got dead bodies lying around and my daughter is nowhere to be seen. I want her located and I want her loaded up beside me on the next stage.”
“Mr. Malloy, sir,” Agent Richard Sykes said respectfully. “I’m—”
“I know what you are,” Walter interrupted sharply. “You’re damn sorry at what you’re highly paid to do. If I ran my shipping business the same slipshod way you handle your investigations I’d be broke. Now get on with what I’ve paid you to do! And where are the other three agents I requested for this case? I’ve been shortchanged, damn it!”
While Walter Malloy was jumping down the Pinkertons’ throats—a sight that pleased Julius Tanner to no end—the deputy marshal limped toward the young man with carrot-colored hair, who was still standing in the street. “Evening, son. I’m Deputy Marshal Julius Tanner and this is my partner, Pierce Hayden.”
“Julius Tanner?” Recognition dawned on Arliss’s face. “You’re the man Hanna sent the telegram to, aren’t you?”
“None other,” Julius affirmed. “While that bombastic gent rips the Pinkertons to shreds, why don’t you tell us where we can find Deputy Marshal Cale Elliot and his wife?”
“Deputy Marshal Elliot? He is using the name Grayson McCloud. I knew he was more than a gunsmith.” Arliss gestured toward the downed men. “This is Cale’s handiwork, but the other five men got the best of him. I can tell you, though, he didn’t go down easily.”
Julius grimaced. “Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” Arliss said grimly, “but if Otis Pryor has his way, and he has for five years, Cale Elliot will be dead soon.”
“Where’s Hanna?” Pierce questioned worriedly.
“Otis Pryor tied her up and hauled her off in his carriage. My guess is that he’s taken her to his stronghold, which is surrounded by armed guards.”
“What about Skeet?” Julius questioned.
“I was about to look for him when the stage arrived and Hanna’s father started firing questions and shouting demands.” Arliss spun on his heels and headed for the shop. “I was going to borrow Cale’s ammunition and weapons and try to rouse a posse, but I wasn’t expecting any volunteers. Folks around here are terrified of Pryor. And with good reason.”
Julius and Pierce followed the young man down the street. Julius cursed mightily when he saw Skeet laid out on the boardwalk like a misplaced doormat.
Since Julius’s leg was stiff, Pierce squatted down to examine the badly beaten and bloody dog. “Hey, boy. You still with us?”
The dog whined and his eyes fluttered open. His belly swelled and contracted, as if he was struggling to draw a pained breath.
“Got any idea how we’re going to locate the Elliots?” Julius asked Pierce.
Pierce heaved a sigh as he patted the injured dog. “I was sort of hoping we could count on ol’ Skeet to lead us to them. But I’m not sure Skeet’s got a good leg left to stand on.”
Cursing the fact that they’d arrived about an hour too late to provide backup, Julius hobbled around the dog. “Kick down the door, son. We need all the hardware and ammunition we can carry.”
After six hard kicks, the locked door splintered and swung open. Once inside, Julius grabbed enough firepower for an all-out war. “Leave it to Cale to purchase only the best weapons money can buy,” he murmured. “I hope I get the chance to thank him for it.”
Hurriedly, the three men stuffed ammunition in every available pocket and grabbed a rifle. Arliss picked up a shotgun, since he wasn’t much of a marksman.
“You think we ought to ask the Pinkertons for help?” Julius asked Pierce.
“Hell, teaming up with those pompous asses ain’t my idea of fun,” Pierce grumbled. “But yeah, I suppose we better. Might as well see if they’re worth their salt in a fight. I’ll go ask—” Pierce stopped in midsentence when he glanced toward the door. “Well, damn, I guess outright dying is all that’ll keep that dog down.”
Julius gaped at the battered dog that stood in the doorway, favoring his right front leg and wobbling unsteadily on both hind legs. The lawman smiled wryly as he stared at Skeet in open admiration. “Remind you of someone else you know?”
“Yep,” Pierce said. “The Big Chief. I gave him up for dead twice when all odds were against him, but I’m betting on him now.”
Laden down with ordnance, Julius limped outside and grinned when he realized the raging Walter Malloy was still giving the Pinkertons hell. No doubt, the three agents would leap at the chance to take action rather than listen to Malloy rip a few more strips off their hides. The way Malloy was going at it, there wouldn’t be enough left of their hides to make
rugs.
Cale regained consciousness—or at least he hoped this surreal state of awareness didn’t mean he’d crossed over to the other side. Considering the pain thrumming in rhythm with his pulse, he figured he was more or less alive.
Dead, he was sure, would feel better than this.
It was impossible to tell where he hurt the worst. His head maybe—if he had to choose. If he didn’t have a concussion it’d surprise the hell out of him. His belly was pitching and rolling, and he was almost afraid to open his eyes because he was pretty sure he’d be seeing double.
The sound of laughter and the scent of whiskey penetrated Cale’s dazed senses. There were guards in the near distance, but since his ears were ringing like a school bell it was impossible to tell how far away. Cale risked a quick peek and discovered only one eyelid was functioning—at half-mast. He couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. Not that it mattered, because his hands were tied behind his back and his bruised cheek was resting on a cold stone floor.
Near as he could tell he was sprawled in one of the caves that served as lookout posts for Pryor’s ranch. Cale had the unshakable feeling that the only reason he was still alive was because Pryor was using him as leverage against Hanna, ensuring she did whatever he told her to do.
Hanna…Her name rolled through Cale’s mind like a whisper. Hair like shiny moonbeams. The face of an angel. The body of a siren. His wife.
The unholy fear of what cruelties might befall Hanna at Pryor’s hands gave Cale the incentive to attempt to move. Sure enough, though, every muscle in his body screamed in protest. He grabbed a shallow breath, feeling the excessive strain on his ribs.
Well hell, he mused sickly. He needed to lie here for a few minutes until he convinced his battered body that it needed to move—for Hanna’s sake. Time was of the essence and he had to find her.
Cale realized the dagger was still in his boot, and thanked whatever powers that be that the guards had neglected to check for concealed weapons. They must’ve concluded that the knife that had sent Sam Vickers straight to hell was the only one Cale had on him.
