by Carol Finch
Glass shattered as the door burst open and five armed men charged inside.
“Shoot her!” Otis roared furiously.
“Not a good idea.”
Hanna gasped in surprise when she heard Cale’s gravelly voice coming from the head of the steps. She nearly dropped the shotgun when she saw him leaning heavily on the banister. One eye was completely swollen shut. The other one wasn’t much better. The sleeve of his jacket was stained with blood and he was covered with dirt. How he managed to hold himself upright was completely beyond Hanna. But the rifle in his hand never wavered from its target—the back of Otis’s head.
Damn the man! Hanna silently fumed. He knew his sudden appearance would draw the guards’ attention away from her. The five rifles that had zeroed in on her immediately swung toward Cale. Meanwhile, Hanna held Otis at gunpoint, while he aimed the pistol at her chest. Sweet mercy! She didn’t see how any of them were going to get out of here alive when bullets and buckshot started flying.
“Mags, if even one of those guards so much as looks as if he’s about to fire, I want you to blow Pryor’s head off,” Cale ordered. “Whatever else happens, he’s going to die first. Understand?”
“Absolutely,” she confirmed.
“Shoot her—” Otis screeched furiously.
“Better not,” Cale interrupted. “Then I’ll be the one who blows your head off. Like I said, Otis, no matter what else goes down, you’re a dead man. That’s a promise.”
Hanna heard a familiar growl and a startled yelp that indicated Skeet had arrived on the scene. His unsuspecting victim—the guard who stood in the doorway—slammed into the gunman beside him. It was all the distraction Cale needed to leap down the steps and plow into Otis. When Cale hammered the butt of his rifle against Otis’s skull, the rancher slumped on the floor.
Hanna swung her shotgun toward the guards, who’d been distracted by Skeet’s attack. The sound of approaching riders sent the gunmen racing outside—undoubtedly anticipating that their cohorts had arrived to lend support. The thought of more gunmen arriving sent Hanna into panic. Once they had regrouped, she fully expected them to lay siege to the house.
Her alarmed gaze flew to Cale when he tried to stagger to his feet. She dashed frantically toward him to lend support, knowing that he needed immediate medical attention—not another battle against overpowering odds with thugs cannoning through the front door.
Hanna braced herself to hoist Cale upright. He sagged so heavily against her that she feared they’d both topple to the floor. She leaned against the balustrade and kept her shotgun trained on the open door, anticipating a firefight any second.
Two shots erupted outside and Cale clutched her shoulder. “Back door,” he said through clenched teeth. “Get the hell out of here, Mags.”
“Not without you.” She wrapped her free arm around his waist to shove him ahead of her.
“Damn it, Mags, do what I tell you,” he growled at her.
“Damn it, Cale, do what I tell you,” she snapped back at him. “I—”
Too late, Hanna realized Otis had regained consciousness and closed his hand around the pistol that lay at his fingertips. Cale tried to react swiftly, but he’d had to use his rifle as a makeshift crutch to hold himself upright. Hanna couldn’t bring her shotgun into firing position—one-handed—in time to get off a shot.
“No!” she shrieked when Cale shifted to shield her with his body.
Skeet tried to pounce, but Otis got off a shot before the dog went for his throat. Hanna screeched in terror when Cale swayed on his feet, then staggered toward Otis.
Jaws clamped around Otis’s neck, and Skeet refused to let go, even when Otis turned the pistol on him. Cale dived toward man and dog, knocking Otis’s arm sideways to misdirect the bullet, which slammed into the wall. Cale jerked the weapon from Otis’s grasp.
“You’re under arrest, you son of a bitch. You murdered Gray Cloud and his wife five years ago. He was my brother,” Cale growled in pained breaths. “I’m Cale Elliot, and Judge Parker is going to hang you high.”
Otis’s eyes widened in recognition of Cale’s legendary reputation as he lay pinned beneath Skeet’s powerful jaws. Then Cale teetered sideways and passed out, knocking Skeet to the floor. Otis heaved himself up to grab the pistol in Cale’s hand.
In a flash, Hanna pounced on Otis. She pounded the butt of the shotgun against his temple while tears of fury and despair streamed down her cheeks. Otis tried to go for her throat, but he only managed to rip the locket from her neck. Her talisman skidded across the floor to land beside Cale’s shoulder.
“Good gawd!” Walter Malloy yelped as he barreled into the house on Julius’s and Pierce’s heels.
The last person Hanna expected—or wanted—to see in the middle of this showdown was her father. But there he was, gaping at her in disbelief while, garbed in her scanty red garment, she pounded on Otis venting her anguish.
She wanted to crawl over to Cale and determine his condition, but she was worried that he might have died to protect her, just as he’d promised he’d do—if need be—when they’d struck off on this overland journey.
Her heart caved in at the prospect of losing Cale forever, and she collapsed beside Skeet in a sobbing heap. The dog whined and sank gingerly beside her, as if to offer consolation. Her heart told her to dash to Cale’s side. But her head warned her that if she examined his injuries and found them fatal she’d have to deal with the horrendous grief of losing him.
Despite her torment, she forced herself to crawl to Cale and check his pulse. He was alive, thank goodness. But he’d taken another shot in the arm. She tore a piece of fabric from his shirt to wrap around the wound.
“For God’s sake, girl!” Walter roared. “Put some clothes over that obscene getup! I’m appalled that your worthless husband has you dressing like a second-rate prostitute!”
Hanna lifted her head and pushed her hair away from her face to glance in her father’s direction. It was difficult to see him through the scalding tears in her eyes. “This wasn’t my husband’s idea. He definitely wouldn’t approve. It was his idea,” she said, gesturing toward Otis’s sprawled form.
“Then he deserves to be shot, the lecherous scoundrel!” Walter huffed.
“I already shot him once,” Hanna sobbed.
“Well,” Walter huffed, glowering at Otis’s unconscious form. “Someone should shoot him again!”
When Julius limped over to assist Hanna to her feet, she threw her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. In the aftermath of one traumatic incident after another, Hanna’s composure disintegrated. She cried on Julius’s shoulder while he patted her comfortingly. It didn’t escape her that she’d gone to Julius instead of her father for consolation. Neither did it escape her that Walter had arrived to drag her back to New Orleans to pawn her off on Louis Beauchamp—of the titled pedigree Beauchamps of France. The despairing thought provoked another round of sobs that were surely soaking the collar of Julius’s shirt.
“Mags?”
Hanna went stock-still, then peered around Julius’s shoulder. Relieved that Cale had regained consciousness, she sank to her knees beside him. “You shouldn’t have taken that bullet for me—” Her voice broke when his hand folded weakly over her trembling fingertips.
“The next time I tell you to get out while the getting’s good you goddamn better not disobey me,” he wheezed hoarsely.
Carefully, she eased him to his back and cupped his bruised and swollen face in her hands. He stared at her with a steely one-eyed squint. “Okay,” she murmured brokenly. “Maybe. Depends on whether you’re coming with me or staying to fight.”
“Hey, you Pinkertons,” Pierce called out when the three agents came through the door—after capturing and restraining Pryor’s men. “Make yourselves useful and help me get Cale upstairs to bed. He took another shot in the arm and needs to be patched up. Any of you know a damn thing about doctoring?”
“I do,” Agent Sykes replied.
“Good,” Pierce said. “Usually it’s the Chief who patches everyone else up.”
The men formed a circle around Cale, waiting impatiently for Hanna to release him—which she didn’t look interested in doing any time soon.
“Ma’am,” Agent Sykes prompted. “We really need to check his wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
Reluctantly Hanna withdrew. She picked up her locket and tucked it in Cale’s hand. The locket had given her inner strength and moral support when she needed it, and she prayed the symbolic love surrounding the heirloom locket would protect Cale.
She knew she was personally responsible for bringing him pain and agony, and she longed to beg his forgiveness. But Pierce and the Pinkertons were waiting to carry Cale away, leaving her to deal with her father. Not a pleasant prospect.
Hanna drew herself up with dignity—as much dignity as she could muster when dressed like a parlor madam who entertained men for a living. Resolutely, she turned to confront her father, who looked weary, bewildered and angry all at once.
“I’m not going home with you,” she told him flat out.
He just kept staring at her with an odd look on his face that she couldn’t decipher.
“I mean it, Father. I love my husband and I’m staying here,” Hanna insisted, swiping at her tears.
Julius glanced up from where he’d crouched—injured leg outstretched—to bind up Otis’s wrists and ankles. He tossed Hanna a wink and an encouraging grin. “Damn straight she loves her husband, Malloy. It looks as if you owe Cale Elliot your daughter’s life. Told ya they didn’t come any better than him.”
Pierce appeared at the top of the staircase. “Hanna, Cale is asking for you.”
Hanna bounded toward the steps. “Father, give Julius a hand in dragging Otis outside.”
Walter blinked, startled.
“Right now,” she demanded. “There are criminals to be locked in jail and a townful of citizens to be reassured that their lives can finally return to normal. Now make yourself useful.”
She didn’t look back, but heard her father sputtering and Julius snickering. It was time her father realized that Hanna had become her own woman—if he hadn’t figured that out already. Furthermore, it would take an act of God, plus an act of Congress, to convince her to return to New Orleans. She’d outgrown the restrictions of polite society, outgrown Walter’s attempt to stifle her independent spirit. She’d been to hell and back tonight and she’d been purged by fire. And by damned, no one could stop her from living up to her potential now!
Cale winced in pain when Agent Sykes dug the bullet from the meaty flesh of his left arm. Pierce had poured whiskey down Cale’s gullet in preparation for primitive surgery, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. Cale willed himself to remain conscious long enough to speak to Hanna. He wanted her gone from here—first thing in the morning. They’d made a deal and she was free to leave.
And he was never going to forgive himself for nearly getting her molested and murdered!
He hadn’t been in all that good a shape to begin with, and damn it, he’d nearly suffered a seizure when he’d looked down the steps to see Hanna squared off against Otis and his gunmen, wearing that wildly provocative red corset that was the devil’s own distraction.
“Hurry it up, Sykes. I don’t have all night,” Cale said through gritted teeth.
Sykes nodded mutely as he retrieved the bullet and then swabbed the wound with whiskey.
Despite the burning pain pulsing in his arm, Cale knew the exact instant that Hanna stepped into the room. Her presence was as palpable to him as the wind. He wanted these men gone so he could speak privately with her. Plus he didn’t want the men gawking at her in that body-hugging red garment that advertised her every swell and curve to its best advantage.
“Give Hanna your jacket,” Cale told Agent Williams. “And then get out.” He didn’t have to portray the gentleman anymore and he didn’t feel up to pleasantries. If he offended the Pinkertons that was just too damn bad.
As soon as Agent Sykes bandaged Cale’s arm, the men cleared out. Cale squinted up at Hanna’s alluring image. He would’ve smiled in masculine appreciation if his face hadn’t been so sore and swollen. She looked incredibly beautiful, even with her hair tumbling in disarray and that oversize jacket hitting her at midthigh.
Although she’d assured her father that Cale would disapprove of this seductive getup, Cale had felt the jolt of awareness the moment he’d seen her in it—and so, he suspected, had the gunmen who’d been ordered to shoot her. In fact, that saucy getup could very well have saved her life.
He’d been so proud of Hanna when she’d taken on those criminals so courageously—though it went without saying that she’d scared him half to death when she did it. But she was really something. She wasn’t the same woman who’d come to call on him in Fort Smith. She’d tested her weaknesses and fortified her strength of character since then. Hers had been a journey of self-examination and self-discovery and she’d come out shining like the brightest star in the galaxy. Damn, he was going to miss her something terrible when she left.
And now that he knew he was going to survive this ordeal he decided not to confess his feelings for her. He’d considered it during a moment of weakness and desperation—when faced with the likelihood of dying. But now that he’d survived and had given the matter further consideration, he knew it would be easier to say goodbye without those three words standing between them and complicating her departure.
Plus, while he’d been lurking outside the bedroom window, trying to muster the energy to burst inside to overtake Otis, he’d heard Hanna tell Otis that Cale was too impatient in the heat of passion and that he’d only served her purpose temporarily. He wanted to believe that she’d only said those things for Otis’s benefit, but he couldn’t quite convince himself of that.
All things considered, it was best for Cale to let Hanna go so she could follow her long-awaited dreams.
“Agent Sykes thinks you’ll be fine after you’ve had time to rest and recuperate,” Hanna said as she carefully eased down on the side of the bed. She leaned over to press a kiss to the one place on his forehead that wasn’t bruised. “I’m so pleased that you could keep your vow of bringing your family’s killer to justice. Thanks to you, Otis will never hurt another living soul again.”
“Without your help I couldn’t have gotten close to Pryor. Thanks, Magnolia,” he rasped.
She smiled radiantly at him and he nearly went blind. “You’re more than welcome, Cale.” Her smile suddenly fizzled out and she blinked rapidly to stifle the tears that swam in her eyes. “But if not for me, you wouldn’t have been beaten and shot. This is all my fault and I’m so terribly sorry!”
Despite her best efforts, tears dribbled down her cheeks. Cale reached over to wipe them away with the pad of his thumb. “No, it was my fault you nearly got killed in that showdown,” he contradicted. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Grimacing, he reached for the stage ticket he’d tucked in the pocket of his trousers, then handed it to Hanna. “I have one more promise to keep,” he whispered raggedly. “I’m setting you free, with my gratitude for your assistance. This is a ticket all the way to California, if that’s how far you want to go. Now you can go wherever you want and do whatever your heart desires. Have a good life, Magnolia Blossom. You’ve more than earned it.”
She looked at him as though he’d backhanded her. “That’s it? After all we’ve been through together, all you have to say is thanks for the help and have a good life?”
“What do you want me to say?” He couldn’t blurt out that he loved her so much it was killing him to let her go. He was not going to say it. She did not need to know that. He wasn’t the kind of man she needed or deserved, and he cared too much about her to allow her to settle for less than the best.
“I’d feel better if you said you’d miss me,” she muttered, staring at the far wall rather than at him.
“I’ll miss you,” he
acknowledged.
She bolted off the bed as if she’d been sitting on a scorpion, then turned her back on him. His gaze drifted over the bare curve of her legs, and Cale found himself wishing…Well, there was no sense wishing that he could make love with her one last time because that wasn’t possible after he’d had the hell beaten out of him. Not to mention being plugged in the arm by bullets.
“Take care of yourself, Mags,” he whispered, aching to reach out to touch her, but knowing that would make their parting even more difficult for him.
“You, too, Cale.” She stared at the stage ticket in her hand, then glanced over her shoulder at him. Tears glistened in her violet eyes—each teardrop like a spike driven into his empty heart. “If you decide to marry in the future, contact my attorney, Benjamin Caldwell, in New Orleans. I’ll make certain he knows where I can be reached.”
“Same goes, Mags. Send your message to Fort Smith, in care of Judge Parker.” Cale held out his hand to her. “Here, take your locket.”
She shook her head and a few more silver-blond tendrils tumbled around her shoulders. “You keep my good-luck charm, Cale. It’s my parting gift to you.”
And then she was gone and he heard her choked sobs wafting back to him as she dashed down the hall.
Cale flicked open the locket—and stopped breathing. My God! He couldn’t bear to stare at that tiny portrait. It hurt more than being shot and taking a thrashing. Swearing, he snapped the locket shut, closed his good eye and shifted gingerly on the bed to find a more comfortable position.
Five minutes later his good eye popped open when an epiphany hit him like a fist in the face—and he knew exactly what that felt like. Cale levered himself up on his elbow, then pushed himself upright on the edge of the bed. He glanced down to see Skeet sprawled on the floor, looking as bad as Cale felt.
“Julius? Pierce?” he called out.
A moment later Arliss Fenton poked his head around the doorjamb. “Julius and Pierce took the prisoners to town,” he reported. “I volunteered to stay here in case you needed me.”
“I need a horse. A carriage would be better,” Cale said. Arliss gaped at him. “You can’t be serious!”
