“About that,” Delilah interjected. She had stayed silent for as long as she could stand, allowing Jack to direct orders. “Perhaps you could work for the right side, just tonight?”
Jez rubbed a hand along the stubble on his beard, and his eyes narrowed. “Only for tonight? I think I could manage that, especially if my boy is to be a part of this sting. What would you have me do?”
She lifted a brow and looked at Jack. “I was hoping you could bring me some sturdy rope—and lots of it—along with the strongest canvas you can muster.”
Jez tipped his hat and left, setting off to accomplish Delilah’s dictates.
Jack chuckled, looking down at Delilah with a glint of admiration. “What in the world do you have up your sleeve?”
She grinned, blushing from the heat of his eyes. “Just a few tricks I learned from fending off my brothers.”
Jack tilted his head and leaned closer, urging her to continue.
Delilah rolled up the cuffs of her sleeve. “I used to sleep with a fifty-pound bag of flour strung near my bed. If one of my brothers, particularly my brother Tom, came near me in the night, I pulled a rope and the flour would take him out in seconds.”
Chapter 10
The road lay silent in the shadows, save only for the slight rustle of dried leaves or the occasional song of crickets. Jack stood on the edge of the porch, squinting. Stars lit the darkness like pin pricks in the blanket of sky, and the waxing moon lit the front of the cabin. Brooks and his gang would be arriving any minute. Everett, Jez, the sheriff, two deputies, and three other men—on the recommendation of Jez—lay hidden nearby.
Jack stroked his mustache. The time of reckoning had come. He only hoped his efforts and strategy would be enough. No matter how many cases Jack solved—or criminals he collected—no plan ever went without a hitch; no effort was guaranteed. Twice, Jack had encountered death’s door, only narrowly escaping.
He took in a breath, holding it as he fidgeted with his gun. Charles Brooks posed particular difficulties—namely the sheer size of his following. As long as Jack’s men, hidden in the darkness, could catch them off-guard, Delilah and Jack might have a chance at capturing their commission.
Delilah was an entirely different matter.
Case after case had conditioned Jack. When danger came to a head, he knew what to expect on his part. Adrenaline sharpened his senses, urgency quickened his movements, and experience took the reins. Jack never wavered. Decisions came easy in the moment, and instinct seemed to whisper in his ears.
But what of Delilah? Would she be so careful and composed?
This case was of enormous importance, and not to just the agency. If they lost, they might be in jeopardy of losing their very lives. So it was with every case, but especially this one. Their first run-in with Brooks had proven the man’s callousness and domineering qualities. Charles Brooks was not the type to run from trouble. Rather, Jack was sure Brooks was the type to confront opposition; Brooks would not accept defeat of any kind.
“Jack,” Delilah whispered from inside the house. “Don’t you think it’s time we settle into place?”
He spun his gun one last time, dropping it to his holster, and turned to her.
Delilah’s brows lifted in question, but her stance was steady, strong. She held a gun at her side, and her hair was fashioned into a low bun. “Is there anything you’d like to go through again before I climb to the loft?”
Jack moved inside, shutting the door behind him. “I think we’ve gone over the plan enough times.”
Light flickered from across the room, where the candle sat atop the stove. Delilah’s light eyes had taken on a different color completely, and Jack desperately wanted to make sure she was ready to face Brooks again. Jack wished to warn her once more of the dangerous reality she had chosen. But asking and warning would never do, not with Delilah. She turned up her nose each time Jack attempted any act of consideration, insinuating his efforts were the results of prejudice instead.
“You’ve enough bullets in the loft to reload?” Jack asked, taking his own gun out to examine the cylinder. He spun it in his hands. Six bullets. He hoped nothing would come to that.
Delilah smiled, dipping her chin slightly. “Yes. I’ve got more than enough.”
Neither one spoke for a long moment. They stared at one another, and Jack could only guess at what she was thinking or feeling. He was tempted to kiss her once more and send her out the back of the cabin and into the darkness. Keeping her safe was no chivalrous matter. Rather, Jack’s desire to protect her was entirely selfish; he recognized that.
Worry stretched in a frown, and Jack released a haggard breath. “Alright. Up you go.”
They silently moved to the loft, and Jack handed her up the ladder. After she reached the landing, Jack lifted the ladder up to her. He was aware that his doing so would not prevent a man from coming up after her, but at least Delilah would have more warning, more time to defend herself.
“All set?” he asked.
Her head bobbed over the edge. She nodded, settling on her stomach.
Jack sighed and moved to the table. He sat and picked up the book atop. Shakespeare. Jack scowled. Reading was not generally thought to be a manly pastime, but…Shakespeare? Marianne needed to expand her collection of props; Jack could think of no man, in all of his acquaintance, that would choose to read that book by candlelight.
Delilah and Jack sat in silence for another twenty minutes, until a muted rumble in the distance rose to a clapping of horse hooves outside their window. His jaw clenched, and he rested a hand at his holster.
Horses whinnied, and low voices sounded.
A few sets of boots tapped against the porch boards, though Jack could not tell how many. Four or five at most. From the sounds of it, the majority of Brooks’s gang remained outside.
A cracking of wood sounded, and the door splintered into pieces.
Jack braced himself. Brooks had come a calling, yet the man hadn’t the decency for a knock. He had kicked in the door, gun in hand, aiming in Jack’s direction. “Mr. Davis, we meet again. I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”
Jack stood, knocking the book to the floor. He widened his eyes in an attempt to feign fear. “Les, what can I do for you?”
“Seems you’ve been asking around about that necklace that your wife gifted.” Brooks grinned, shaking his head. His eyes scanned the room. “Where is your wife anyway? She was awfully pretty. I hoped to meet her again tonight. We had some unfinished business.”
Jack took a step forward. “You’d do well to leave my wife out of this. What is it you are wanting?”
Brooks stepped into the house, and three men followed—each of them aiming a gun in Jack’s general direction. Jack recognized the two behind Brooks as the bandits that had attempted to rob them upon their arrival to Crooked Creek.
“I’ve heard a rumor that you’ve recently come into great fortune with your marriage.” Brooks dropped his gun and lifted his hands out wide. He smiled. “I’m here to relieve you of the aforementioned fortune, one way or another.”
Jack retreated to the table once more, this time taking a small box from off the top. He clutched it to his chest. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. What you’ve heard is just that—rumors.”
“Rumors?” Brooks sent a threatened glance. “A genuine diamond necklace, and you expect me to believe Mrs. Davis is hiding a great many riches in this very room? What’s in the box?”
Jack shook his head. “Only sentimental pieces. Please—”
But one of the men from the back stepped forward, pushing the barrel of his gun into Jack’s side. “Give it here.”
Jack handed it to Brooks.
“Rumors, huh?” Brooks closed the box. “Take it to the front, Eric. We won’t be much longer.”
The man left the house, and Jack’s lips ticked. The necklaces were poor imitations, but dimness—both wittedly and physically, from the melted candle—had worked in Jack’s favor. One less man. Only
three remained.
“You’ve had your fun, now leave me in peace,” Jack said, wafting a hand at them.
Brooks folded his arms. “Your wife’s jewelry is only an added bonus. But Wilkins says you’ve got money—and lots of it.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Criminals were so predictable, but, even more so, greedy men such as Charles Brooks were predictable. They were never satisfied, always wanting more.
“Where is it?” Brooks demanded.
“The trunks over there,” Jack said, gesturing behind him.
“Well?” Brooks said to the other men behind him.
Jack scooted to the wall, so they could pass around the table, and in doing so, he knocked against a bell along the wall.
Delilah’s heart thudded to her stomach. With the bell, came her—and the other men’s— signal.
A gunshot of warning sounded outside the door; the ambush was beginning. Horseshoes clattered against the gravel, and the group of men’s voices outside began to rise.
“What is that?” Brooks said, turning at the window.
The other two men inside were perched over the trunks. One of them spoke. “The trunk, Les? Do you still want it?”
Brooks growled. He held up a hand and moved toward the porch to see what was happening.
Her moment had arrived. Delilah released the knotted rope, and the bags flew through the air with surprising momentum. Her aim held steady, and the bags knocked the two remaining men to the floor.
Jack pounced on their crumpled bodies, gun in hand.
Delilah lowered the ladder and began her descent.
“I told you to stay up there,” Jack spat.
She shook her head. He couldn’t have supposed her to stay in the loft until the end… Delilah had never taken orders that easily. “I can’t very well help up there.”
He reeled backward. “This isn’t the time to fight with me. Brooks will be back any minute.”
“Or now.”
Delilah spun on her heels. Horror stole her breath, and she inhaled sharply. His eyes—she had forgotten how dark and hard and evil they were, especially when they flooded the entire length of her body so unabashedly.
“I thought your pretty little wife was out for the evening?” Brooks darted toward her and clamped a hand around her wrist.
She tried to grab her gun with the left hand, but Brooks swung her closer and into the sling of arm.
“Unhand her,” Jack said, lifting his gun toward Brooks.
Another gunshot sounded outside, and someone mounted a horse and took off.
Brooks shifted his weight. He growled and glanced over his shoulder. “If my men are hurt, you can be sure your wife will be too, Mr. Davis.”
Delilah contemplated throwing an elbow to his gut. Brooks wasn’t nearly as large as her oldest brother Broderick. Slender arms had their benefits—pointy elbows.
“You’ve lost. Drop the gun, and we’ll talk.” Jack took a hesitant step forward.
Brooks laughed. “I don’t lose, and I don’t unhand anything or anyone. Not until I’m finished. I won’t be finished with your wife for some time.”
She winced. His condescending tone was not anything she wasn’t used to hearing. Her brothers had regarded her as less than a human, nothing more than a pet they used to torment. However, the last week, spent in Jack’s company, had been different—and now, Brooks’s objectification jolted her.
She threw an elbow to his gut, throwing her entire body into the effort. Then she kicked at his shins with every ounce of force she possessed.
Brooks doubled over, cursing as he dropped to his knees.
Jack cocked his gun. “That’s my girl.”
Warmth washed over her, and she darted to Jack’s side. He lifted an arm to her, and she collapsed into it. She buried her face into his chest and sighed in relief. The worst had past; nothing could be more unnerving than being in the grasp of Charles Brooks.
Everett appeared in the doorway. He surveyed the scene and tipped his hat. “Seems you’ve got everything in here under control, Mr. Davis.”
Jack smiled. “And out there?”
“We’re taking the rest of the gang to the jail right now.” Everett grinned. “Do you want me to stay here?”
“My partner and I will manage,” Jack said, stealing a hand over one of hers.
His voice held steady, and his eyes bore into hers with even greater strength. Emotion lifted to her throat, and she could only nod. Pressed against him, with her hand so comfortably placed inside his, was the epitome of safety. How had she thought him capable of kissing her on a whim? How could she have thought him that reckless or cruel?
She returned his gaze with a smile. “Yes, we’ll manage perfectly. Run along, Everett. I imagine we’ll see you shortly.”
Everett tipped his hat and left.
“Now, how about you stand, nice and easy,” Jack said, stepping away from Delilah and toward Brooks.
Brooks had recovered from Delilah’s impulsive jabs, and anger flared across his face. A muscle rose against his clenched jaw, and his mouth twisted into a snarl. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Mr. Davis.”
One of the bodies near her feet moved, and Delilah’s heart thudded to a stop. The man was not quite conscious, but his movement hinted at the possibilities. She looked around the room, and her eyes rested on the cast-iron frying pan. She took it into her hands, ready to clobber anyone who dared lift a head in Jack’s direction.
“Oh? And why is that?” Jack asked.
A large hand grasped Delilah’s ankle, and she instinctively slammed the pan against a man’s head. The effort resulted in a clatter and splash of blood.
Jack flinched, turning his head from Brooks. “Delilah?”
Suddenly, her eyes narrowed in on Brooks, who had taken advantage of Jack’s surprise. Brooks moved his fingers to his holster, reaching for his gun…
Jack.
She screamed, hardly aware of her body’s own instinctual movement. Delilah flew through the air, jumping in front of Jack just as a shot rang from Brooks’s revolver.
The force of the shot dropped her to the ground. She curled in a fetal position at Jack’s feet. She gasped for breath but felt no pain. Perhaps dying was less painful than she had imagined.
That or shock had taken its toll.
In the confusion, time seemed to stop. Her ears rang. The darkness closed in on her, and she remained motionless, despite the brawling men above her. Jack’s shadow loomed over Brooks, and a fist fight ensued.
Delilah rolled from the fighting men, finding solace beneath the table. She pressed her hand against her middle, flinching when she felt the moisture. Blood. She swallowed, hardly believing she had been shot. Why didn’t she scream? Her body felt jolted, perhaps even bruised from the fall, but certainly not like she was about to die.
Jack yelled a string of profanities at Brooks, and the tumbling took on greater violence.
Delilah’s throat closed. She would not allow Brooks to hurt Jack, not when she’d only just come to understand her feelings for her partner. Her eyes snapped into focus, falling upon the edge of a book at her side. She lifted it and cranked her arm.
The book soared with surprising speed, spinning on its side like a flying disc, and knocked directly against Brooks’s head. The impact startled him, and his dark eyes met Delilah’s face for a brief, sickening moment.
And then a final shot rang out.
Chapter 11
Anger, disbelief, worry, alarm—breathlessness threatened to overwhelm Jack’s senses. The scene, moments before, had almost unraveled his resolve, and Jack was quite tempted to send another bullet through Brooks—this time a fatal one through the chest.
The shot to the leg had only been enough to disable Brooks. Jack had spent the last five minutes tying the three men to the porch posts, despite the greater urgency he felt to go to Delilah’s side.
“You won’t get away with this,” Brooks said, shaking in pain.
Responding wo
uld have been futile. The man was in shock and terrible pain. Jack offered him a swig from his canteen, but Brooks refused.
“Suit yourself,” Jack said, walking into the cabin.
Delilah sat in a dining chair, scrubbing the blood from her arms and dress. Thank goodness it was that of Brooks’s men’s blood and not her own. Her hands trembled with the movement, apparently still as shaken as Jack.
“It’s over,” Jack said, stopping a few feet away from her.
She startled, dropping the rag to the floor.
Silken curls fell across her cheeks, and the low bun had nearly fallen completely from its pins. Her cheeks were pink from the evening’s exercise, and her breathing shallow. But she was safe.
Jack scrambled to retrieve the rag, knocking his knees against the edge of the frying pan and kneeling directly in front of Delilah.
The beloved frying pan.
His eyes traced the bullet marks in the cast iron. Jack had already offered more than a few prayers of gratitude. Delilah had been spared in the act of saving him. He placed the rag in her hand, lingering near her fingers. He wanted to encase her in an embrace, shower her perfect cheeks and lips with more kisses than he’d thought himself capable. But he hesitated, meeting her brilliant blue eyes with a question.
A single tear balanced along one of her lower lashes. “Did he hurt you?”
Jack shook his head, still transfixed by her loveliness. “He hadn’t a chance to do so with your quick thinking.”
She exhaled. Jack supposed the sound had more to do with relief than humor. “I imagine Brooks has never been accosted by a book before.”
“Shakespeare, no less.” Jack’s shoulders fell forward, and he placed his hands against her cheeks. “You saved me.”
Delilah placed her hands over his and brought them to her lap. She leaned in, until her cheek rested at his chest.
Jack put his arms around her, embracing her shaking frame. “But it’s over now.”
She looped her hands around his neck, pulling herself from the chair and into his lap entirely. “I thought—”
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