by Pam Crooks
The outlaw's harsh gaze bored into Allethaire and chilled her blood, rocking her with the certainty she'd seen those eyes before.
"You're coming with us," he said.
She drew back in horror. "I'll do no such thing."
That voice muffled behind his bandanna--she'd heard it before, too, but before she could identify it, put a place, a name, to the man, Margaret clutched Allethaire's arm in a protective grip.
"Ach! What is the meaning of this, young man?" she demanded. "What do you want with her?"
"Please, Miss Gibson.” The conductor ignored Margaret. He stood stock-still, clearly afraid to move with the revolver against his temple. He appealed to Allethaire with a panicked expression. "He wants to talk to you."
"About what?" she croaked.
"Get up and walk out of this car with us," the outlaw grated. “Or he dies."
Margaret's grip tightened. "Talk to her? What is going on here?” She faced the outlaw head-on. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"
"Shut up!” His arm lifted as if he intended to backhand her. Fearing he would, Allethaire bolted to her feet.
"All right!” she gasped. “I'll go with you.”
"But Allie!" Margaret protested.
"I'll accompany her," said the scholarly passenger across the aisle. He rose. "She shouldn't go back there by herself."
His concern touched Allethaire. What had she done to deserve it?
"I'm not afraid, sir," she lied, her heart pounding from the knowledge the outlaw wanted something from her. That he’d known she’d be on this train. In this car. He’d sought her out in this godforsaken country for reasons she couldn’t yet fathom.
The shadowed eyes, so familiar, yet elusive, kept her riveted. A hard shade of green, cold and unforgiving.
He clasped her shoulder, yanked her away from her seat and into the aisle.
“Go on,” he snarled.
Allethaire caught herself from stumbling to the floor.
"Don't touch me," she snapped.
"To the back. Move."
The revolver lifted just long enough to punctuate the command. Allethaire didn't dare refuse. She couldn't risk anyone getting hurt on her behalf, especially the terrified conductor, most at the outlaw's mercy.
She began to walk, haltingly at first, keenly aware of the stares of each passenger upon her. Of how they sat frozen in their seats, too afraid to help her or the wounded conductor, and did the outlaw intend to kidnap her? Hold her for ransom like Woodrow Baldwin did?
No. It couldn’t be. Surely not.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Please not.
She kept walking, purposefully, one step at a time. A part of her noted how her gait was surprisingly steady. That the train had come to a complete stop, held captive by the ruthless outlaw and his accomplices who had ridden in out of nowhere to lay claim and find her, of all people...
The back door swung open, and another man wearing a bandanna appeared. He grasped her elbow and hustled her through, forcing her to step down onto the metal grate between the cars. The cold Montana air smacked into her, making her eyes water and her breath catch, and another quick step up took her through the opened door of the adjoining car.
The baggage car.
Trunks and valises of all shapes and sizes filled shelves on both sides of the compartment. In the corner, bound and gagged, a man sat with his knees pulled up. He appeared unharmed and was clearly helpless, though very much alert. By the badge he wore, he was some sort of security agent for the Manitoba, but he'd been no match for the outlaws who had overpowered him. A third man with a bandanna covering his face stood guard over him, and at Allethaire's arrival, he straightened sharply.
"You found her," he said.
"I told you she'd be here.” The outlaw pulled the door closed with a resounding slam. He pushed the frightened conductor toward the captured agent. "Sit over there and keep your mouth shut. Or else."
The trainman didn't have to ask what 'else' meant. He scurried toward the agent and cowered beside him, drawing his knees up, too.
The three masked men swiveled their stares onto Allethaire. She swiveled hers to the lone trunk on the dusty floor. The trunk set apart from all the others.
Her own.
She recognized the brass plate, monogrammed with her initials in elegant script, and the edges trimmed in rich brown leather. The trunk was a gift from her father on her last birthday.
Why was it sitting there?
"Open it," the outlaw said, his voice chilling through the red, cotton fabric.
She faced him. Thought of all she'd brought with her. Ordinary things any woman would pack on a journey west. Unease filtered through her. "Why?"
"Because I told you to."
He could have opened the trunk himself. Any one of his gang could. It would take only a shot, a single one, to blow through the lock...
But they wanted her here. They wanted to prove something. They'd gone through a great deal of risk to bring her out here and force her to open her own trunk.
Why?
The gripping green eyes held her on the brink of recognition.
"Who are you?" she asked. Familiar, elusive, those eyes. A haunting glimpse of someone in her past. “Tell me your name.”
“Shut up.”
She reached out to yank the bandanna from his face, but too quick, his arm swung, connected with her wrist, and she staggered sideways in a burst of pain.
She clutched the wounded limb to her chest and fought tears. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much she hurt.
"Open the trunk," he ordered.
The outlaw seemed perilously close to losing his control, and Allethaire gave up the fight. She'd open her trunk. She'd show him she had nothing of interest to anyone. Certainly not to him and his gang of roughnecks.
She fumbled in her purse, found the key, and knelt in front of the trunk. Her attempts proved awkward with her throbbing wrist, but she managed. The latch flipped up. She managed to unbuckle the leather straps, too, and they fell free. Finally, she yanked up the trunk's lid.
And there, lying on top of her navy blue serge dress, was an envelope. One she had never seen before. A parcel, really, thick from the contents it held.
"Well, well, well," the outlaw crooned. "Look at that. A package. What d'you suppose is in it?"
He'd moved closer to Allethaire. So close the toes of his scuffed boots stood on the hem of her dress, pooled around her. She could smell the greed in him. The anticipation of the coming moments.
"I have no idea," she grated.
But she intended to find out. Someone had invaded the privacy of her personal belongings. Someone the outlaw knew about. He knew the parcel would be there, and she'd bet her father’s Bible he knew what was inside, too.
Her fingers ripped at the envelope and yanked out a stack of green bills. Thousands of dollars, planted in her trunk.
A small fortune.
She dropped the bundle as if it’d suddenly caught fire.
The outlaw snatched the money back up again. He riffled through the stack, as if the greenbacks were playing cards, and cackled his glee.
"Tsk, tsk. Don't you know it's wrong to steal someone else's money, Miss Gibson?" he drawled. "Shame on you."
She rose to face him. A warring mix of confusion and alarm stirred inside her. "I haven't stolen anything. You know I haven't."
“Let’s just say the Literary ladies aren’t going to be very happy with you when they find out.”
She blinked. “The Literary--what are you talking about?”
He stuffed the money into an inside pocket of his coat, but tossed aside the envelope. "Let's get out of here, boys."
A slip of paper fell out of the tattered envelope. A copy of a bank draft, marked as ‘Paid’. Drawn off the Ladies Literary Aid Society’s bank account, and suddenly, a horrifying rush of dread clutched Allethaire by the throat, choking the air she tried to breathe.
The account contain
ed the funds for the new library she’d tried to build. Money raised from her hard work and so many others’, too. Every dime intended for the City of Minneapolis to use.
The draft had been made in her name, but it was a payment she'd never asked for. Or authorized. Or knew about.
Horror rocked through her. Someone had set her up, making her look as if she’d stolen the money and fled to Montana. An embezzling scheme, with all the evidence pointing to her, and the Manitoba's conductor and security agent acting as witnesses.
Who was that someone?
Who was the outlaw working for?
"Who are you?" she cried, swinging out with her sore wrist to yank the red bandanna from his face.
This time, she succeeded. Recognition tore away the last three years of her life and threw her backward into time. Into the horror from being kidnapped and held for ransom. The men responsible. Woodrow Baldwin and one of his accomplices, a man she knew only as Reggie.
Reggie.
No longer in jail for the crime but here, in this rail car, setting her up for a crime she didn't commit.
He shoved her aside, against her trunk, in his haste to escape. Her balance lost, she toppled to the floor with a cry, and the other two in his gang rushed past to flee with him.
But before they could, the railcar’s door burst open. A man loomed, wielding a Winchester rifle. Black-eyed and dark-haired and erupting out of her past, too.
The last of Woodrow Baldwin’s accomplices.
Mikolas Vasco.
His expression cunning and fierce, his glance sliced through the compartment. He cocked the rifle. The sound cracked through the stunned silence.
"Nobody move!" he ordered.
Chapter Three
In the span of a single heartbeat, Mick’s brain registered trouble.
Big trouble.
The commotion he’d heard on the other side of the railcar’s door had warned him as much, but he never expected to see a gang of armed and masked train robbers coming at him, on the brink of escape.
He figured the surprise of his arrival and the threat of a cocked Winchester gave him the advantage. At least for now.
But not for long.
"Hold it right there," he ordered.
The men froze in mid-step.
"Put down your guns real slow," he commanded. "Then get your hands up."
"Well, I'll be damned," one of them said. "It's Mikolas Vasco."
Mick's gaze latched onto the man closest to him. The leader, considering he was the first in line to try to save his sorry ass. He hadn't bothered to obey Mick's orders, and neither had the other two, but Mick guessed being recognized was enough distraction for them to forget to shoot him--at least for the time being.
"It's Reggie," the outlaw said, his voice sounding carefully hopeful through his bandanna.
Mick hid his surprise. His unease. He'd never again expected to see the lowlife who had helped destroy his stepfather's flock of sheep three years ago. Along with Woodrow Baldwin, Reggie had been instrumental in helping Mick make the biggest mistake in his life, and did he think Mick owed him any favors for it?
Like letting him and his gang out of this railcar? Scot-free?
"Fancy meeting you here.” Mick held the green eyes with his own. "Like this."
"Didn't know you were out of jail," Reggie said, non-plussed.
"Didn't know you were, either.”
"I ain't going back. Just so you know that, too."
Mick understood the warning Reggie gave. The three barrels leveled at his chest proved he meant every word.
"Depends on what just happened in here," Mick said evenly.
"He stole my money!"
Mick slashed a startled glance sideways to find a woman he hadn't even realized was there pick herself up off the floor. Nearby, two men sat huddled in the shadowed corner, disarmed, roughed-up and made captive by Reggie and his men.
"Don't let him go," she pleaded.
She took a frantic step toward Mick, and if he'd never expected to see Reggie again, he sure as hell never expected to see Allethaire Gibson.
A thousand times never. Not here, on this train, victim once again of a crime leveled against her... and damned if she wasn't as beautiful as ever. More beautiful than even his lustiest fantasies.
Three rifle barrels swung toward her, and Mick's protective instincts kicked in. She didn't seem to notice she could be shot in a blaze of reckless fury, or if she did, she didn't much care, so great was her desperation.
"Give the money back, Reggie.” She reached an arm out, as if she intended to take it right off his person. "We all know you stole it. Give it back."
Mick angled his body to keep her from getting closer, no easy task when he had to keep his eye on Reggie and the others and keep the door blocked, too, so they wouldn't all run out.
"It's in his coat, Mikolas," she said, straining to maneuver around him. "I have to get it."
"Let me handle this," he growled. His unease ballooned from the situation fast spiraling out of his control. He couldn't corral a fretting female and a gang of hoodlums desperate to escape at the same time.
"Get away from the door," Reggie said, his rifle abruptly swinging back to Mick.
"Can't do that just yet," he said. Every muscle inside him coiled.
"It's three rifles against your one."
"I can count."
"You want shot?" Reggie snarled. "Move!"
As if on some unspoken signal, one of the gang--Mick never saw who--rammed into Allethaire, like a billy goat against a fence post. She cried out and fell against Mick. At the same moment, Reggie hit Mick from the other side. Hard. So hard Mick catapulted into the racks crammed with baggage, and he went down in a tangle of petticoats and passenger bags, bringing Allethaire with him--and damn!
His rifle went off, finding its mark in the car's ceiling.
Reggie yelled. Boot heels clamored. Cold air swirled into the compartment. And Mick swore.
"They've gone!" Allethaire scrambled off him.
One-handed, he hurled a canvas satchel from his chest and bolted to his feet. His glance clawed through the open door to hear the crisp staccato of horses' hooves. A lone rider flashed by, tearing off into the distance.
Mick flung the door wider and glimpsed the other outlaws escaping, too, each in different directions.
His jaw clenched in frustration. They'd be hell to find scattered like they were, but he had to try. He swung toward Allethaire. "I'm going after them."
She'd already gotten up from the floor. "I'm going with you."
"You're not going anywhere, Miss Gibson."
They both whirled toward the conductor, who was no longer cowering in the corner with the security agent but hastening clumsily toward a revolver, likely kicked aside during his scuffle with the outlaws. He scooped up the gun and swung toward them, holding the gun high in a two-fisted grip.
"I'm afraid we have to detain you with regard to the funds found in your trunk," he said.
She drew back in alarm. "Detain me?"
Mick's challenging gaze lifted from the revolver. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Behind them, the security agent wrestled with the ropes around his wrists. No longer gagged, thanks to the conductor who helped untie him, he jumped to his feet.
"There's been a large amount of money found in Miss Gibson's possession, sir, of which there's considerable question regarding its rightful ownership.” Mick doubted the man was a day over twenty, but he took his duties as seriously as someone far more experienced. He straightened to his full height, clearly exerting his authority. "I intend to find the truth in where that money came from, even if it means I have to have her arrested to do so."
"Arrested?” Allethaire's fingers flew to her mouth in horror.
"Yes. You’ve been accused of stealing the money. The authorities will ascertain the truth.”
"It’s stolen, all right," Mick gritted.
And the longer he stood there, the
farther away the money got, and the harder it would be to find Reggie and his gang, too.
But something kept Mick where he was, with his boots planted on the floor. Something in Allethaire's expression--genuine and vulnerable and terrified--that coiled in his chest and inspired in him a fierce need to shield her from all that made her hurt.
Right along with a healthy dose of guilt from how he’d failed her three years ago on account of his part in holding her hostage alongside Woodrow Baldwin, making her an innocent victim for his own selfish gain.
"The sheriff will attend to the robbery. It’s his job,” the agent said, giving Allethaire a stern look. “Mine is to protect this train and everything on it. I simply want to ask you a few questions.”
“You have no right to accuse me,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, miss,” the agent said.
“The hell you’re not,” Mick growled.
The agent hurled him an imperious glance. “We must know what that money was doing in her trunk. The draft says--”
“I don’t know how that draft got there,” she said.
“And yet the lock on your trunk is in perfect condition, with no sign of tampering.”
“But--”
“And you alone have the key.”
The blood drained from her cheeks. She trembled from the implication of the evidence mounting against her.
“She’s staying, mister,” the conductor said to Mick. “But we’ve got to notify the sheriff immediately.”
"You do that," Mick drawled.
But his mind was working. Gauging the distance between Allethaire and the door he hadn't yet bothered to shut. The door opposite the one which the conductor inched toward...
Still holding the revolver high, the trainman slid a quick glance at the security agent. "Keep your eye on her, Richard. Here's your gun. Let's hope she'll cooperate, and you'll have no need of it.”
Allethaire made a tiny sound in the back of her throat, revealing her dismay that they could think her dangerous enough to shoot. That they had no intention of letting her go any time soon.
The little sound convinced Mick he had to act fast, and he took keen note of the seconds ticking by. Reggie was long gone by now. So was the money. And Mick had to get the hell off this train...