He took a step, and she could see him better. She guessed he was in his early twenties, his hair was greasy and his dirty, wrinkled clothes hung on him. His worn tennis shoes had crusted mud on the soles.
Mustering a smile, she said again, “Sorry, we’re closed,” she told him. “We close early on Sunday.”
He stared back at her blankly, shifting uneasily and his eyes reminded her of black holes. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “I need something.”
“Pardon?” She set the towel aside.
“I said I need something.”
“The kitchen is already closed, and I can’t serve any alcohol after the bar is shut down. There’s a diner a few blocks down that’s open until later.”
“I don’t need food.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets. Dirt was embedded under his long nails. “Are you here alone?” He jetted a quick glance through the bar then brought his beady gaze back on her.
“No. George is in the back.” She automatically took a step back, but there wasn’t much room behind the bar.
“You’re lying. Don’t lie to me,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
“I-I didn’t lie. I thought he was still here. I’m on my way out too, so I’ll have to ask that you leave.”
“I’m not leaving until you give me what I want.” He rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand, shifting clumsily. “How much is in the register?”
“You can’t be here. You need to leave.” She took another step and her hip struck the counter. Her mind swished back and forth to the few options available. She could scream. Would anyone hear her? She couldn’t bank on it. What if she ran? Could she make it to Hank’s office before he could catch her? Out of the two it was certainly the best option, but not fail-proof. To get to the office she’d have round the end of the bar.
“I’m not going anywhere unless I get what I came for.” He swiped the back of his hand across his red, runny nose. He couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to hide his hands in his pockets or drop them at his sides.
“There is no money. It’s already been emptied from the register and taken for deposit.” Holding her hands up, she took another step toward the office. Her mind raced. Thankfully, Freya stayed with Livvy today. Yet, where was Hank? When would he be back?
“You better not be lying to me, bitch!” He jerked one hand out of his jacket and brought out a small, sharp knife, slicing it through the air.
“What are you doing? You don’t need that. I told you the truth. There’s no money.”
“I want to see,” he growled.
“Okay. Fine. Here, I’ll show you.” She took the necessary steps to the register, hit the button and the drawer came open with a loud ding. He leaned forward and checked the empty drawer.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” He pounded his fist against his head. Angry now, he raised the knife higher, jabbing it through the air with each word. “That! Give me that!” He used the knife to point at the ring on her finger.
“No, please. Listen.” Tears welled in her eyes. She refused to show any emotion and needed to stay strong. “I have some cash in my purse. It’s right there. Under the bar.”
“Don’t fucking move.” He made a wide slashing jab toward her. Without taking his red rimmed gaze off her, he reached down and felt for the purse, lifting it and dropping it onto the pockmarked bar top. He reached in, flinging the contents onto the floor as he searched for the jackpot. He finally found her wallet and took out the two twenties. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “This all you have?”
Thankfully, she hadn’t put her tips for the day into her purse and were still in a metal box in Hank’s office. “Yes. That’s it. Now please go. The owner will be back any second now.”
“I want the ring. Give it to me or I’ll fuck you up.” His hand was shaking so bad that she found it a miracle that he could still hold the knife.
“No, because you’ll probably hurt me anyway.”
“I ain’t playing, bitch.” He pressed the knife against her stomach. She could feel the sharp tip cut into the cotton of her T-shirt.
An image of Freya came to mind. She couldn’t risk her life. Her daughter needed her. Helena’s hand nearly shook as bad as the man’s as she slipped off the ring. Before it was even all the way off, he roughly grabbed it, twisting her fingers in the process. With a sneer, he put it into his front pocket and lowered the knife only a few inches. Relief swept over her because she thought he had what he needed and would leave, but instead he took a step toward her.
“A place like this keeps a supply of liquor. Where’s it at?”
“I told you, Hank will be back soon. Just go.”
“Don’t tell me shit, lady. Just listen to what I’m saying. Got it?” he pushed through compressed lips. “Now where is the alcohol? Don’t make me ask again or I’ll put a scar on that pretty face.”
Swallowing bile, she pointed at the office. “It’s kept in there.”
“Turn around and walk slowly that direction.”
Doing as he demanded, her heart pounded so fast that she felt dizzy. Once inside the office, she said, “In the boxes.”
“Turn to face me,” he demanded. Slowly, she swiveled just as he ripped open the lid to one of the boxes and took out one of the bottles of whiskey. “Don’t move.”
He popped the lid that went flying across the floor and brought the bottle to his lips, chugging it like water. He balanced the knife and bottle in one hand and lifted his shirt, exposing a red, raw bloody gash on his side. Upturning the bottle, he poured a good amount onto the cut, gritted his lips and a forced moan escaped through the space between his teeth.
“That looks bad. You need stitches,” she said.
“No shit, Sherlock. You a nurse?”
“No.”
“Then what good are you?” He scanned the area as if looking for something. “I need a rag. There must be something in here. Find one,” he growled.
The only thing Helena could find was one of Hank’s flannels that was tossed on a chair in the corner. She handed it to the man who used it to press against the wound. He was in pain and looked like he would drop any moment, and she could only hope. He strangled the neck of the bottle with his fat fingers and again downed a couple shots worth, wobbling slightly.
Yes, keep drinking. It was in her favor. Combined with the alcohol and the infection running through his veins from the wound, he had become a lightweight.
She needed to get away. The longer he stayed here the more she didn’t trust the outcome.
So the next time he looked down to examine his cut, she ran at him, lunging at him hard and pushing him into the filled boxes. He went tumbling backward, knocking over boxes and breaking bottles. Whiskey spilled over the floor. For as loopy as he seemed, he sure was fast. She’d made it to the doorway when his fingers clutched her ankle and jerked her leg out from under her. Coming down hard, her breath rushed out of her lungs and she sucked in oxygen, using her elbows to crawl outside of the office.
But she didn’t get far.
This time he pulled himself over her, crushing her between his weight and the unforgiving wood floor. She could barely breathe from her squished lungs and the stink that swirled into her nostrils—a mixture of body odor and stale whiskey. She’d either pass out or puke.
He pushed his hand into her hair, jerking her head back roughly and he whispered next to her ear, “You made a bad mistake, fucking bitch.”
Helena squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the blade against the side of her neck, and then was exchanged for his fat-fingered death grip. She couldn’t breathe. Her temples exploded in pain. This wasn’t the way she wanted her life to end. She had so much to live for. An image of Freya and Hank played like a movie inside her head.
Flashes of light flickered in front of her. How much longer until she passed out?
“Hey!” the man yelled at the same time his weight shifted and she could breathe again.
What the hell?
She
heard scuffles and shallow thuds. She didn’t bother exploring to see what the man was doing. Instead, she coughed and crawled her way across the threshold and then bravely looked back. Her eyes widened at the sight before her.
Hank had the man’s shirt in his fist as he drew back his free hand and hit the man’s jaw repeatedly. The knife was abandoned a few feet away. The man’s eyes closed finally, and Hank let go of the shirt, dropping the man’s limp body onto the floor.
She stared at the stranger in disbelief then lifted her gaze to Hank who was breathing heavily.
“Helena?”
Hank was now beside her, blocking her view of the unconscious man. “I-I…he came in. Wanting money.” She laid her hand against her throat, sucking air into her parched lungs.
“You okay?”
“I think so.” Her body ached but she guessed that was normal.
“Don’t move. Stay here. I’m calling Sheriff Conley and then grabbing you a towel.”
She listened to his boots thudding the floor as he moved around in the room, heard his muffled words, but couldn’t focus on anything but the man laying ten feet away crumpled into a heap.
Hank returned with the promised towel. She couldn’t quite comprehend why she needed it until he pressed it against her neck where the knife had been held. “Am I bleeding?” She had no clue but when she looked down her shirt was covered in red. “Oh…”
“The cut, it’s only superficial and you’ll be okay,” Hank said as his breaths came in pants from the physical fight. Hank was a much bigger, stronger man. “Conley will be here soon.”
“Who is he?” She pointed to the man sprawled on the floor.
“Looks like it’s Yost. The man who’d kidnapped the girl and took her on TripEase mountain. Can you hold the towel? I have some rope and can tie the bastard up in case he wakes up. I don’t want to have to hit him again.”
“I can.” She watched Hank bind the man’s wrists.
“It’s not much but I think it’ll hold him long enough for Conley to slap cuffs on him,” Hank said.
“He took my ring. It’s in his pocket. Will you get it for me?” she asked. “In his front pocket.”
Hank found it and brought it over to her and placed it back on her finger. “How’s that cut? Has it stopped bleeding?”
She lowered the towel and saw the red spot. “He was going to kill me.”
He pressed the cloth back against her neck. “He didn’t. I wouldn’t have let that happen.” His voice quivered.
“Thank you, Hank. Thank God you came back when you did. I’m not sure…”
“It’s okay now.” He dragged her into his arms and hugged her.
In the outer room the front door banged against the wall, boots scraped the floor, and a uniformed man came racing into the office, his gun drawn. He looked from Helena and Hank to the unconscious man. “What the hell?”
“I believe that’s your man Yost. He broke in looking for money,” Hank told Conley.
“You need an ambulance?” Conley asked Helena.
“No. I’m okay, but he might.” She nodded at Yost. “He has a serious wound on his side.”
Conley muttered into his radio while Hank helped Helena to her feet and into the outer room to sit at one of the tables. “I’ll be right back,” Hank told her.
A few seconds later he returned with a bottle of water, uncapped it and held it out for her to sip.
A few minutes later the place was flooded with uniformed men who escorted a still drowsy Yost outside and into the back of a car.
“I’ll need to get a report from you both,” Conley said.
“Do we need to right now?” Hank asked.
With a tad hesitation, Conley shook his head. “Come down to the station tomorrow and we’ll take care of it. Nothin’ much happens on a Sunday anyway.”
Twenty
Helena had changed and came out of the bathroom at the cabin to find Hank sitting on the couch, his head buried in his palms. His elbows were braced on his knees. His broad shoulders were slumped. From where she stood, she could see his bruised and raw knuckles of his right hand. Her heart pained. He’d hurt himself saving her.
“Hank?”
He dropped his hands and lifted his face, looking at her with a complex mixture of anger, doubt and even fear. The emotions stretched across his face.
“I brought a damp cloth for your hand.” Taking the distance between them, she sat down next to his hip and took his hand to examine the cuts. Dried blood marred his skin and she pressed the wet cloth against the small wounds. “Did you speak to Mindy?”
“Yes. She’s happy to keep Freya tonight,” he said.
“It’s for the best. I don’t want her to see me like this. It’ll only scare her.”
“You did good today. Staying calm helped catch a criminal who needed to be taken off the streets.”
She started to smile, but a sore spot at the corner of her lips prevented the act. She’d been slammed hard on the floor and in the shower she’d counted numerous bruises on her body, including a fat lip. “I’m not sure I reacted calmly, or I was only scared stiff.”
“You feeling okay? I see the cut on your neck looks better. Finger bruises are still there.”
“It looked worse than it was. I wanted to tell you thank you again. You always seem to be there for me and Freya when we need you.”
He looked completely blank for a second. “Glad I could be of service, although I should have never left you alone.”
“Hank, please stop. You can’t babysit me. How is your hand? Nothing’s broken, right?”
“Nah. I’ve hit bales of hay that were harder.” The corner of his lips twitched. “Hopefully, his sore jaw will have him hurting enough to remember how my fist felt against his jaw.”
“I hope he gets the help he needs.” She set the damp cloth on the table.
“It’s real kind of you to still want the best for a man who held you at knife point.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“You didn’t see him like I did. He was out of his mind, his eyes like black coal and no compassion.”
“He’s found now, and he won’t be back.” He sighed. “Let’s not waste our time on him anymore. Can I get you anything?”
“Maybe a little of that whiskey in the cabinet? I could use it.”
“Coming up.” He came back with a small amount in a jelly jar and handed it over. “You deserve this.”
She wasn’t sure whether she deserved it or not, but her body needed something to erase some of the tension Yost had caused her.
“How about a fire?”
“Sounds nice,” she said breathlessly.
She watched him bend down and pile the wood. Her fingers held the glass and the whiskey smelled sweet and woodsy as she sipped. It puddled in her stomach, instantly bringing her warmth. A flush spread over her skin. She drank it much faster than she would ever, wanting to put some distance between now and what happened today.
*****
Hank piled the wood in the hearth and started a fire that instantly took the chill out of the air. When he came back to sit next to Helena, she’d almost finished the whiskey and she appeared more relaxed. “Better?”
“Actually, yes.” She set her glass on the table next to the damp cloth. “Hank, I noticed you don’t drink.”
He eased into the cushion. “That’s a big reason why I don’t. With easy access I could slip back into old habits.”
Her eyes were glued to his profile. “Are you…”
“An alcoholic? No. But when I came home, I spent too much time at the bottom of a bottle. I’d rather stay sober and feel everything than wake up from a two-year blur again.” The light from the fire reflected on her hair, face and skin. He could see the outline of her bare breasts under the thin material of the white gown. Emotion slammed through him. He wanted her, but more than wanted. His feelings were in a stronghold. Swallowing the tightness in his throat, he said, “I take meds for my PTSD and depression. Fortunately,
I’ve been weaned off most of it and am now taking a lower dosage. Drinking isn’t a good idea to mix. I wanted you to hear that before things took another level between us.”
“Thank you for sharing. It doesn’t change how I feel. In fact, it comforts me that you can speak to me about those things.”
“It’s never easy to open up, but it’s relevant.”
“You’ve come along way.”
The fire crackled loudly. “You okay?”
She smiled, bringing his attention to the bruising around her mouth. His heart hitched. “I’m really okay.”
The fire had warmed the room and the scent of wood filled the air. He could see a new flush to her skin. Was it heat induced or whiskey induced? Maybe because she seemed to sink lower into the cushion, her legs tucked up under her, her knees touching his thigh.
He needed to touch her.
Reaching over, he brushed the tip of his thumb over the blueberry-colored skin next to her mouth then traced the line of her neck to her collarbone. “You’ll have a story of bravery to tell your grandchildren some day.”
“Now that’s a blast into the future.” She laughed.
He took her hand into his, looking down at her slender fingers, tracing the soft contours with his eyes. “I know we shouldn’t talk about it tonight, but I need you to know how crazy I felt when I walked into Pelican and saw Yost on top of you. It took great restraint not to kill him.” He needed to be truthful.
“And you can’t imagine the relief I felt when I saw you,” she said. Her voice was soft, her eyes connecting with his gaze.
“I know you say I can’t babysit you, but I made you a promise to protect you.”
“Hank, please don’t do that. None of this is your fault,” she blurted, staring at him, eyes wider and a shade darker in the golden light. “I’ve survived a lot and there’s no way I’m going to allow some lost, pathetic man to ruin me. I want to blame drugs for his flaws, but his issues are more than just an addiction. I could feel his hate toward women.”
Cowboy Hank (Cooper's Hawke Landing Book 3) Page 16