The Lawman's Redemption (Wells Cattle Company Book 3)

by Pam Crooks

  The accusation was out before she could catch herself, and he stiffened. “I do not expect you to understand.”

  “But I do. More than you know.”

  She had Bess Reilly to thank for enlightening her. Along with the Ketchum gang, her mother stole untold thousands of dollars for the mere thrill of the crime with no thought of the people she hurt. Her life never improved from all that money. The opposite, in fact. She’d paid the ultimate price, at a terrible cost to the family she left behind.

  But Grace didn’t understand why Carl was part of the scheme. What would he know of these people, the Métis? Why would he care? As far as she knew, he’d never crossed America’s northern border or had reason to be involved in Canada’s political strife.

  A gust of wind whipped through the hillside and slapped her with a harsh reminder of the deepening chill. Daylight was fast fading, and she’d yet to uncover the truth she craved most. The location of the stolen money.

  She took a breath. “Is Charles Métis, too, Alexandre?”

  Boone stood, unmoving. Just stared at her with those fierce black eyes, bloodshot from fatigue and the hate and resentment simmering inside him. He seemed oblivious to the cold, and Grace found it frightening he could be so unfeeling. So driven with no thought of himself.

  His silence unnerved her, and the first stirrings of fear crept into her awareness. Maybe she’d been wrong to come all the way out here to use herself as bait, attempting to win his trust so that he’d reveal the whereabouts of the Society’s stolen money. Maybe she should’ve trusted Jack to solve the case his own way. She already knew his reputation as a shrewd lawman, one of the best.

  A piece of gold paper somersaulted toward her, plucked by the wind from the open saddlebag nearby. The sight of it distracted her for a moment, and she almost bent to save it from being blown away.

  Until she reminded herself she couldn’t take her eyes off Boone and the weapon he wielded.

  “Go on, Grace,” he said softly. He sauntered toward her, one step, then another and another. “Pick it up. Read what it says. Then you’ll know the truth about Charles Renner.”

  Her heart tattooed against her chest. His mockery unleashed her insecurities, freeing them to rush forward and remind her of the all the times she’d struggled to keep from looking stupid. From feeling stupid, most of all.

  He growled from her dawdling. “Pick it up, I said.”

  The coward in her refused, compelled by the personal secret she was loathe to expose, now of all times. “Why don’t you tell me what it says, Alexandre?”

  The paper tumbled between them, and he caught it from rolling past with a quick stomp of his boot.

  “Don’t play games with me, woman.”

  Grace didn’t dare test his patience further, and reluctantly she bent and pulled the note out from beneath his boot sole. She straightened again, brushing away bits of snow with her gloved fingers.

  “What is this?” She stalled for the time her brain needed. “A telegram?”

  She raised the paper, then lowered it, pretending she needed better light in the gathering dusk.

  SLCNE HRE RFO GODO. LD

  SILCNE RHE RFO GOOD. DL

  Grace squinted, straining hard to read the letters jumping back and forth with a life of their own, until they fell together in proper order.

  SILENCE HER FOR GOOD. LD

  Oh, God.

  A crippling mix of horror and anguish choked her. She swayed. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

  Boone stood in front of her. So close he could reach out and grab her by the throat. Tiny ice crystals sprinkled his dark beard and moustache. She smelled the stench on him. The lust. His eyes glinted like black diamonds, hard and bright.

  “Charles doesn’t want you around anymore, Grace,” he purred. “And if your grandmother hadn’t died first, he would’ve killed her, too.”

  Pain seared Grace’s breast, into her heart. All those months he’d worked with the Ladies Literary Aid Society, with Lucille Reilly at the helm, Grace at her side, he’d been plotting to kill them?

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  But deep down, she did. Because now, everything made sense. The scandal and ruination of their library plans, the embezzled money planted in Allie’s trunk, setting her up for robbery, all for the sake of his cause.

  All that remained was seeing them dead.

  How could she have been so blind?

  “I know him far better than you ever did, Grace,” Boone taunted. “I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

  His arrogance stung. She scrambled to corral her self-pity and reclaim her pride. Charles didn’t know of the papers she’d brought with her, the evidence she intended to find with Allie to incriminate him.

  “You’re right, Alexandre.” It took all her willpower to keep her voice steady and her chin up. To keep the game going, so she could win. “Charles is far away. Let’s forget him for now. It’s you I’m here to talk about. Not him.”

  A pathetic hunger flickered in his expression, and he dismissed the disturbing telegram with appalling ease. He stepped closer, his hand outstretched, as if he intended to take hold of her arm. “You’re very beautiful, Grace. Did Charles ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

  The last time Boone had told her that, he’d almost kidnapped her. Grace stepped back, putting as much space between them as she dared. “No. Nor did he tell me what a terrible friend he is to you.” To both of us. She clucked her tongue in disgust. In broiling hurt. “Expecting you to live like an outcast while he enjoys the life of the privileged. He conspires with you to steal money, yet it’s you the law is after, while he hides behind his powerful alibis in Minneapolis. Protected and safe.”

  Boone’s nostrils flared.

  “Let me be your friend, Alexandre.” She forced herself to say the words. Not that she was so naive to think he’d reveal the location of the Society’s funds but garnering his trust would be the first crucial step. She hoped. “Take the food I bring you. Will you do that for me?”

  He appeared to fight an inner war. “This kindness you show me—”

  “Is just that. Kindness. Nothing more.”

  She had to build his trust, little by little, for him to believe it was real. Emboldened by his silence, she turned back toward the bag of food she’d left on the ground… and spied Jack crouched behind a jutting snow-covered rock, with his gun leveled at Boone’s back. Grace couldn’t see Mick, couldn’t know where he might be, but her heart pounded from what would happen when Boone learned they’d come.

  She couldn’t feast her eyes on Jack or let him know how glad she was he was here. She didn’t dare lest Boone see him, too. Did Jack have any idea of the mess she’d put herself in? That she had no idea how to get out?

  Her mount snuffled and pranced. Boone froze at the horse’s nervousness. His dark gaze whipped around in suspicion.

  Grace quickly hefted the bag to turn his attention back to her. “Please, Alexandre. Take this, and then I’ll leave. It’s gotten terribly late, and—”

  A gunshot thundered through the mountain. Boone’s lips pulled back in a snarl; he snatched the rifle to his shoulder.

  But it wasn’t Jack he aimed at, but the rider barreling down the hill at breakneck speed, so unruly, so thoughtless of the ice and snow, the very real possibility his mount could slip and fall and kill them both.

  Carl. Oh, Carl. Crazy wild as always and riding straight toward Jack with a revolver in one hand, the reins gripped in the other.

  “You ready to die, Jack Ketchum?” he yelled. “’Cuz you’re gonna, y’hear? You’re gonna die right now.”

  Jack rose up from behind the rock. Fearless and powerful and hauntingly calm, he extended his arm and aimed his gun with a steady hand. He bided his time, defying the certainty of the bullet. Defying death. Giving Carl precious seconds to change his mind and keep from killing a man in cold blood.

  Grace screamed. Jack’s name or Carl’s, she didn’t know.
But her heart pounded in terror for the man who would fire too late and inevitably breathe his last….

  The shots came, a split second apart, shattering the mountain’s stillness and yanking time hideously still.

  Jack’s arm lowered.

  Carl’s body jerked. His wild expression contorted in shock. The revolver fell from his grip, then the reins, and he dropped from the saddle with a sickening thud.

  Suddenly time began to race, too fast to stop, instilling Grace with the horrible knowledge that she would never get back what she was about to lose. That too much time had been wasted, had been taken for granted, and it was all her fault. It would always be her fault.

  Grace broke into a run toward Carl, a tiny part of her realizing that Boone had begun to run, too. From somewhere above her, or behind her, another shot rang out. Somewhere in the trees, or maybe from the rocky outcropping, but it didn’t matter what was happening. What Jack yelled, or Mick, or where Boone was headed. Whose horse clamored over the snow or whose bolted into the mountain stream, splashing clear, icy water in his wake.

  Only Carl mattered, and she dropped to her knees beside him. An awful gurgling sound pushed from his throat, and she ripped his coat open to help him breathe.

  “You stupid fool!” She choked the words out, past her sobs, an overwhelming grief for her troublemaking half-brother tearing through her. “What were you thinking?”

  “Gracee.” His lashes fluttered open, then closed. “You were always as slow… as a snail on a greased log.” He wheezed a cackle, amused even now. Like this. “So I… had to do the killin’ for us.”

  Nausea churned in her belly, but she forced it back. “Hush, Carl.” Blood trickled out from his mouth, down his chin. She swiped at it with her glove, making the ugliness go away. The violence that was so much a part of him. “Don’t try to talk.”

  “Ma did love you.” He drew in a rattled breath. “Jus’ so you know.”

  Grace fell still. “What?”

  “You were her… little china doll.” His eyes opened, and his mouth formed a weak grin. “That’s what she used to call you.”

  “No.” Riveted, Grace shook her head. “Never—I never heard her say that.”

  “She did.” He grimaced against the pain. “’Cuz you wasn’t… tough like us.”

  Hot tears burned her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her lips to hold in a sob. “Mama said that about me?”

  He gagged on the blood. Didn’t answer for oh, so long.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, his eyes struggling to stay open. “Lots of times.”

  “Oh, Carl.” Tears spilled over and streamed down her cheeks.

  “That’s why she sent you away. She wanted you to live like… a true lady. ’Cuz that’s what you were.”

  Grace couldn’t speak. Too much of her was dying inside, right along with Carl.

  “She loved you. Always… meant to tell you, y’know?” He sucked in air. “But, Gracee?”

  His voice had fallen perilously weak, and she huddled over him so she could hear.

  “I’m not… goin’ to tell you… where we hid the money.”

  Her head jerked up. His jaw sagged. The wheezing fell silent. And as fast as that, he was gone.

  “Grace.” Hasty steps crunched snow behind her. Lean fingers grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her aside. Jack sounded grim. “Let me see what I can do for him.”

  Fueled by the hurt and anguish raging through her, Grace swung toward him and flailed her fists against his chest. “You killed him! Damn you, Jack! You killed him!”

  He grabbed her wrists, held them hard. “He didn’t give me a choice. You know he didn’t.”

  “You’ve taken everyone from me now, haven’t you?” The accusations flew free, hurled from a terrible pain deep inside her. “I’ll never forgive you. Never, ever!”

  Slender arms pulled her from him. Allie, in all her compassion and understanding. “She’s distraught, Jack. She doesn’t mean what she’s saying.”

  “Can you get her home for us?” Mick’s voice was as grim as Jack’s. “We have to take care of matters here.”

  “Yes, of course. I know the way.”

  “Help me get her on her horse.” Jack took her again, bundled her tight against him, yet Grace was past caring. Beyond thinking. Too emotionally drained to fight him again.

  But after he lifted her into the saddle, after she and Allie began their ride down the hill and back to Lindell’s, Grace knew her time for revenge had come.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She waited for Jack to come.

  He would, of course. They had unfinished business. He’d want to know why she defied his orders and conspired with Allie to track down Boone. It wouldn’t even matter they overcame the risks and succeeded. He’d only care that Boone had gotten away, taking the location of the stolen money with him.

  Again.

  Grace took another sip of wine. Warmth slid down to her belly, through her blood, and numbed her pain.

  Jack would want to know how she was doing, too. She wouldn’t tell him it took her half-brother’s dying for her to learn the one thing about her mother she would always treasure: that Bess had loved her in her own way. But why did Carl’s death have to be the price she had to pay to hear it?

  Still, she couldn’t deny Jack’s concern would be genuine. He was a hard man, but not an indifferent one. Grace had only to think of the passion in his kisses, the hunger in his gray-green eyes whenever he looked at her, to know he wasn’t immune to her.

  Far from it.

  He wouldn’t expect her to want to kill him, though, and that would be her biggest advantage. One she had to use at the perfect moment. When he least expected it.

  The fire in the grate snapped and hissed. Grace sat cross-legged on the bed and absorbed the flickering heat. She had no idea how late it was, only that darkness had long since fallen. Even so, she hadn’t bothered to light the lamp on the bureau; her morose thoughts were better suited to a shadowed room than a well-lit one.

  He’d be here anytime. She could hear the low rumble of his voice downstairs, making his goodbyes to Mick and Allie before they left for Paris Gibson’s apartment, where they intended to spend the night.

  By the time Grace refilled her glass, the voices had quieted, the door had been pushed closed, and footsteps ascended the stairs.

  One after the other they came, down the hall, closer to her room. Her gaze dropped to the threshold, to the shadows planted beneath the door, on the other side.

  Though she expected his knock, the firm sound of it rattled the quiet of her room. Rattled her. She threw back a little more wine to calm her nerves, drew in a breath, and set the glass aside.

  “Come in, Jack.”

  The door eased open, and there he was. All six foot plus two inches of him, pure muscle and power and so much damned virility her mouth up and dried.

  His glance took in the darkened room. The half-empty bottle on the bedside table. Her. She imagined how she must look to him, sitting here on the red-and-brown checkered quilt with her hair loose and still damp from washing, and dressed in her nightclothes. It wasn’t proper for a lady to invite a man into her room when she looked like this, but then, this was a night unlike any other, wasn’t it?

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  He took a step inside and closed the door behind him. He filled the place with his presence, consumed her senses, her every thought.

  “Then you’ll know why I’m here.” He came closer but halted at the foot of the bed.

  She cocked her head and regarded him with a cool look. “To see to my, oh, so tender sensibilities?”

  A muscle in his jaw moved. “That, and to clear up a thing or two between us.”

  “Meaning Carl and Boone.”

  “You decide which one we’ll talk about first.”

  “Hmm.” She tucked long strands of hair behind her ear. “Let’s s
ee. Since you killed him tonight, let’s start with Carl.”

  He wasn’t amused by her sarcasm. “What the hell did you expect me to do, Grace? Let him come at me, screaming like a banshee?”

  “Spare his life, for starters.”

  “When he had no intention of sparing mine?”

  “You didn’t have to shoot him dead, Jack!”

  “Yes. I did.” Raw fury emanated from him. He leaned forward; her gaze followed him down. He braced both hands on the quilt and snared her with a hard look. “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  The secrets she’d kept for so long started to slip out of her grasp, like they were greased in butter. Little by little, until she could no longer hold on to them.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Who is he?”

  She shouldn’t be so afraid to let the secrets go and let Jack know who she really was. It was all part of the plan, after all. To throw the humiliating truth at him, so she could kill him.

  “Were you in on the embezzling scheme with them, Grace?” he taunted.

  She jerked back. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Were you working with Carl and Boone so you could have a cut of the loot? I’ll bet you’re not really with the Ladies Literary Aid Society, either. Am I right, honey? You’re really part of their gang.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have been insulted at the accusation. But she was. Her bosom lifted from growing outrage.

  “No, I’m not, and you know it!” she snapped.

  “Then who the hell is Carl?” Jack roared.

  “He’s my brother, damn you! My brother.”

  If Grace had reached out and slapped him, Jack couldn’t have looked more stunned.

  “Your brother?” he choked.

  “Half-brother.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Reilly.” She strove for the composure she desperately needed to see her plan through. “Carl Reilly.”

  Jack stared at her, as if she’d sprouted a second nose.

  Then, abruptly, he pushed off the mattress and swung away from her, raking a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of it all. Grace reached behind the pillow and curled her fingers around cold metal.