by Cat Cahill
She pushed away from him, but he gripped her arm even tighter and twisted it behind her. Her throat closed up. “All I know is that you want the hotel to burn.” The words stung her throat and she coughed again.
“And you don’t have the good sense to keep it to yourself. So let’s take this down to the creek, away from all of these people, shall we?” His tone was eerily conversational.
She stumbled a bit as he pushed her forward. What was he planning to do? She didn’t wish to find out. Emma opened her mouth to scream or shout for help or say anything at all, but her voice was gone again. All that came out was a ragged, sad little sound following by more coughing.
“Cat got your tongue?” He laughed and it sent prickles up her spine. “Now move.”
He pushed her forward again, and her feet had no choice but to comply. She had to keep her wits about her, since it seemed her voice had abandoned her already. A way out, that was what she needed. But how?
She tried to keep a slow pace so she could have more time to think of a solution, but he kept pushing her harder. A pain shot through her twisted arm, and she gritted her teeth together.
“It’ll be such a sad accident,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Poor Miss Daniels returned to Crest Stone and bravely tried to save her lover’s work, only to find herself lost in the smoke. How was she to know where the creek was in all of this haze?”
Bile rose from Emma’s stomach. He was planning to murder her. For what? To see Monroe’s work destroyed? There had to be more to it. But she couldn’t think about that now. She had to get away, somehow. She could turn and hit him with her free hand. Except he’d figure out what she was doing before she could get all the way around. And she couldn’t give him notice, or he’d have time to pull his gun. If only she had a rock or something else hard that she could hit him with first. If she couldn’t use her hands, then what else did she have?
Her feet.
She could try to pull away and run, but his grip was too strong. She could trip on purpose and slow them both down, and then perhaps she could kick him.
That was it. Her only choice. Her one chance at surviving this. She had to take it.
Emma pushed her lips together and sent up a quick prayer even as her heart quickened. It had to work. She took a deep breath, stumbled over her own feet, and fell to the ground.
“Get up,” Turner growled at her.
But as she rose, she drew her right foot forward and then sent it backward as hard as she could.
Turner grunted. His grip on her arm slackened a little bit, just enough for her to turn around and raise her foot again. But before she could kick him, he redoubled his hold and pulled her to the ground. Emma fought, but it was not enough.
Turner raised his hand and Emma closed her eyes, braced for the impact. But it never came.
Instead, she heard him curse. Then there was a shuffling sound almost drowned out by the noise of the remaining fire. Turner’s hand left her shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked up.
And there, right next to her, Monroe had Turner pinned to the ground. In a split second, Turner landed his fist into Monroe’s face. Emma scrambled to her feet and looked around wildly for something to use to end the fight.
Monroe didn’t budge. Turner struck him again, and this time, Monroe’s strength gave just enough that Turner gained the upper hand. He flipped Monroe over, but it lasted for only a few seconds. Monroe’s fist found Turner’s stomach, and the man coiled into himself, allowing Monroe to struggle to his feet.
Emma took a step backward, still casting her eyes across the ground. She took another step back—right into a person.
“Emma!” Caroline said. “We saw you get dragged off. Millie ran to find Monroe while we came to search for you.” Dora and Penny flanked Caroline. They were all ashamble, and Emma had never been so glad to see them in her life. She flung herself into Penny’s arms while Caroline rested a hand on Emma’s back.
A grunt pulled her attention to the men again. Turner drew his hand away from Monroe’s face, but in no time, Monroe pinned him to the ground again. This time, Turner stayed put. After a moment, Monroe hauled him up. Holding both Turner’s arms behind the man’s back, Monroe cast his eyes toward Emma. She ran gratefully to him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his face drawn as he searched her with his eyes.
She nodded. In the haze and the darkness, it was impossible to see what damage Turner might have done to Monroe’s face. She lifted a hand and let her fingers caress his cheek, just as she’d dreamed of doing a hundred times. He smiled at her, a shadow of that old teasing grin lurking beneath the exhaustion, before turning back to Turner with a grimace. “Let’s go.” With that, he pushed Turner toward the front of the hotel.
“Where?” Turner spat, as Emma and the other girls hurried to keep up with them.
“To see McFarland.”
Turner said no more, and Emma imagined he was dreaming up all manner of falsehoods to spew upon arrival. Monroe led the way directly through the smoke, somehow knowing exactly which direction to go. Millie appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. If what Caroline said was true, Emma owed her life to this girl who had betrayed her not a week earlier. Emma reached for her hand, and Millie hesitated before taking it.
“Thank you,” Emma said.
Millie said not a word, but looked up at Emma and smiled.
The bucket brigade was still working when they arrived at the hotel, and the fire had been reduced to a mere nuisance in the northeast corner of the second floor.
“McFarland!” Monroe bellowed the moment the man was in hearing distance.
Several faces turned their way, smoke-reddened eyes wide at the sight of Monroe holding Turner by his collar, his hands wrenched behind his back. McFarland appeared from the front of the line, rubbing a soot-covered hand across his face.
“What is this?” he said as he drew closer.
“A misunderstanding,” Turner replied, his voice smooth as if he’d simply been on a stroll across the valley.
Monroe pushed him away. Turner pulled on the collar of his shirt and glowered at him.
“A misunderstanding in which you were trying to harm Miss Daniels?” Monroe spat at him.
“We were simply having a conversation,” Turner replied. He looked right at Emma, and her stomach turned.
No one could possibly believe his word over theirs this time.
Chapter Thirty-four
The man’s words made Monroe’s fingers itch. He balled them into fists, ready to land them on Turner’s face again. But how were he and Emma going to convince McFarland of anything at this point? He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Emma’s brash friend—Miss May—stepped forward.
“It was no such thing.” Miss May held her finger a mere inch from Turner’s chest. “Everyone here saw you drag her off.”
“I did not,” Turner said in a measured voice. “This woman is hysterical.”
“She sounds perfectly reasonable to me.” Monroe glared at the man. How he’d ever felt any empathy for Turner, he had no idea.
“You’d gone to the rear to check the progress of the men working there,” Emma said to McFarland.
“She speaks the truth,” Miss Sinclair said, quietly. She almost shrank into herself as she spoke.
Everyone turned to look at Miss Sinclair, including McFarland, whose considerable brows knitted together. The other girls moved closer to her, almost protectively. Monroe was just thankful that Miss Sinclair had finally seen Turner for the rat he was.
“You can’t believe the word of these . . . these so-called ladies over mine, sir,” Turner sputtered as he sneered at Miss Sinclair.
His words made Monroe’s fists clench again. How he’d love to see this man get the justice he sorely deserved.
McFarland looked Turner up and down, almost certainly taking in the white of his shirt—streaked only with dirt, not soot—and his clean face. The signs of a man who had not been working to extinguish the fir
e. “Where were you all evening?”
“Asleep. I knew nothing of this fire until just a few minutes ago.”
McFarland stroked his chin. He had to see through those lies. Monroe didn’t know where Turner had been, but he doubted he’d slept through all this chaos. No one could have.
Anger boiled up through Monroe again. What this man had almost done to Emma. What he’d already done to them both. His hotel in flames. He could no longer stay quiet. “What he clearly had was ill intentions toward Miss Daniels.” The words ground their way through Monroe’s teeth.
“He had no interest in putting out the fire,” Miss May added. “In fact, he ordered us all to stop!”
“The fire was going to burn itself out. It was a waste of manpower trying to douse it,” Turner said, his arms crossed.
Monroe scoffed. “That’s why it’s close to extinguished now.”
“It’s my hotel. I’m the one who should’ve taken charge,” Turner growled, taking a step forward.
Monroe’s entire body felt as if it had caught fire too. He looked Turner right in his eyes. “Under no circumstances is this your hotel.”
McFarland held up his hands, but before he could speak, Miss Sinclair moved between Monroe and Turner.
“Have you something to add, Miss Sinclair?” McFarland asked.
She twisted her hands together, then glanced at Turner, who narrowed his eyes at her. Emma moved toward her and slid an arm through Miss Sinclair’s. That one simple gesture nearly melted Monroe’s heart. Who else was so kind and forgiving as to take the arm of the woman who’d ruined her position here?
“Then speak up.” McFarland’s mustache twitched as he glanced toward the hotel. Not much remained of the fire, but it was enough that the men had to keep on it, or else it would roar back to life.
“He started the fire,” Miss Sinclair said in a small voice, her eyes fixed on McFarland.
Monroe went cold.
“That’s preposterous!” Turner boomed. “She only wants to see me brought down because she threw herself at me like some kind of loose woman, and she’s angry that I refused her.”
McFarland held up a hand to indicate he should shut his mouth, as Miss Sinclair gasped, shaking her head.
Could it be true that Turner started the fire? Monroe watched Turner for any sign, but the man was as rigid as a tree and showed no emotion beyond outrage. But Emma . . . Her eyes widened just a bit, almost as if something finally made sense for her. Monroe forced himself to breathe.
“That’s quite a serious charge. What makes you think that, Miss Sinclair?” McFarland asked.
“He . . . he mentioned once, a week or so back, before Emma and Mr. Hartley were let go, that he’d like to burn the place to the ground.” Her voice gained power the more she spoke, almost as if she were exacting her own revenge for the way Turner had used her.
Turner threw up his hands. “You can’t believe a word she says.”
“You’d best keep quiet and let her speak.” Monroe kept his words level, not betraying the rage that threatened to burst through. If what Miss Sinclair said was true—and he suspected it was—it was going to take every man here to keep him off Turner. It explained why Turner was nowhere to be found while they were all working so hard to put the fire out. He conveniently appeared when it seemed they would be successful.
“Go on,” McFarland said to Miss Sinclair. “Why’d he say such a thing?”
“Because it was almost finished. He wanted to build it from scratch under his charge. He’d be paid more as the builder, and it would be his rather than a project that was really someone else’s. If . . . ” She swallowed hard. “If you look in his tent, I imagine you’ll find a quantity of empty whiskey bottles.”
At that, Turner lunged for Miss Sinclair. She froze as his hand clamped around her arm.
Emma held fast to her other arm and pounded at Turner’s hand. “Let her go, you . . . you . . .”
It was as if she couldn’t think of a word vile enough for the man. Monroe leapt forward at the same moment McFarland wrapped his arms around Turner. It only took one good shot to Turner’s gut to make him release the girl. Emma pulled her back toward the other ladies as McFarland wrestled Turner to the ground.
“Quick,” Monroe shouted to the girls. “Get some rope.”
Miss May ran for the barn.
He turned to the man on the ground and spat. “You’re lucky it’s not me that’s got you down there. You’re done, you hear me? You’ll never so much as look at Miss Sinclair or Miss Daniels again, never mind put their lives in danger.”
Turner sputtered something, but it was drowned out by McFarland’s command to keep quiet.
Miss May was back quickly with an armful of rope. Together, McFarland and Monroe lashed Turner’s hands together behind his back.
“I’ll take him down to my place and then send someone to retrieve the bottles in his tent. We can ride for the sheriff in the morning. Why don’t you get back to saving your hotel?” McFarland heaved Turner forward, down toward the tracks, leaving Monroe standing, his chest heaving, as he watched them disappear.
His hotel. He dared not hope.
“You heard what he said, girls.” Emma’s voice, ragged but determined, rang out behind him. “Let’s save this hotel!”
With renewed vigor, Emma’s friends rejoined the line. Emma wrapped an arm around Miss Sinclair’s shoulders and said something that made the girl smile before she let go and the girl raced to join the others. As Emma went to follow them, Monroe reached for her hand. It was small and warm in his own, but he also knew it was strong. He drew her toward him until she was but a breath away.
“Thank you,” was all he said. It summed up everything in his heart—her effort to put out the fire, her trust in him before he broke it, her return to find him, her kindness toward Miss Sinclair.
“I should be the one thanking you,” she said. “You found me when I thought for certain he would . . .”
Her breath was warm on his face. He wanted so badly to kiss her, to wipe away all that had happened since Turner had found them by the creek. But he wouldn’t, not until he’d asked her what he should have last week.
“Emma? May I ask you a question?”
Chapter Thirty-five
Her breath caught in her throat. The way Monroe was looking at her, his dark eyes intent on her own, nearly melted her in the heat of the remaining fire. It felt as if months had passed since they’d last stood like this, rather than merely a week.
“Yes?” she said, almost hesitantly. Her voice scraped against her throat, raw from shouting and smoke.
He fell to one knee, still holding her hands. She swallowed hard.
“I made the biggest mistake of my life last week.” He kept his eyes pinned on hers. She couldn’t look away even if she’d wanted to. “Instead of asking what you wanted, I assumed I already knew. That was wrong. You aren’t like any other woman, and I shouldn’t have made that decision for you. I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t matter to me where I am or what I’m doing, so long as you’re with me. If I have you, I can be happy anywhere. So now, I’ll ask you. I love you and I want you to marry me, Emma Daniels.”
Emma’s chest bloomed with warmth. Emotion threatened to choke her, and it took everything she had not to let the tears stream from her eyes. How badly she’d wanted him to say those words that last day at the house. And now, here he was, finally asking for her. Except, he hadn’t actually asked . . .
“But,” he continued, “I need to know what you want. Do you want to live the life of a builder’s wife, moving from place to place every few months? Or would you prefer to settle into a fixed home in a town somewhere? If you want land, we could start a small ranch. If you’ll have me, that is,” he added quickly.
Emma opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he dropped one of her hands and held up a finger.
“Before you answer, know that your decision—whatever it may be—is perfect for me. I’ll do what you wan
t to do.”
Emma’s mouth fell open. “You mean you’d give up the career you’ve worked so hard for . . . for me?”
“Yes,” he said, his face perfectly serious, “I will, if that’s what you choose. And you will never hear a word of complaint from me.”
Her heart dipped. He was willing to give up his life’s dream, all for her. Tears pricked at her eyes again, and she blinked them away rapidly. “Monroe, I would never do such a thing. I love you. So yes, I will marry you, and yes, I will follow you anywhere. I want to see everything you can build. I want to see every corner of this country with you.”
She could swear his face pinched just a little, almost as if the emotion were too much for him to handle. He hesitated, still kneeling. “Are you certain?”
“I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life,” she whispered. “I came to realize that when I returned home.”
He swallowed visibly. “I . . . My first wife, Colette. I told you that she died.” He paused again, almost as if he was struggling with the words. “What I didn’t say—what I’ve never said to anyone—is how it was my fault.” He looked at her intently, almost frantically.
“I don’t understand,” Emma said. “How could it be your fault?”
Anguish creased his brow as he held tightly to her hands. “You should know I would never wish the same to happen to you, so if you change your mind, I understand.”
“Monroe.” Emma sunk to the ground herself, her hands still in his. She was thankful the smoke mostly obscured them from view. “Tell me. Please.”
He kept haunted eyes on her as he spoke. “Soon after Colette and I were married, I found the work of my dreams. A nearby rancher had seen what I’d done with the outbuildings at Colette’s family’s ranch. He asked me to build a new home for his family. I agreed, and Colette and I moved there so I could complete that project. Not long after that, a visiting friend of his asked me to build him a home back in Denver, so we then lived in the city for a few months. It kept on like that, following jobs wherever they took us. Denver, mining camps, railroad towns, Pueblo, Colorado Springs, ranches. It was my dream. But it wasn’t Colette’s. She missed her family, missed the friends she’d made when we lived briefly in Denver, and she hated the mining camps and railroad towns.”