Jack Daltry reared back in surprise and then his expression hardened. “Goddamn you!” he snarled. He jerked forward, catching her off guard as he grabbed her by her arms, pulling her roughly to him. His beard-circled slash of a mouth only inches away, the man’s hot breath blasted Angel’s face.
But she refused to yield, even though his grip hurt her. All her life, when faced with terror and helplessness, she willed away the slightest show of pain, of vulnerability. And in its stead, she drew on a hardness of the soul that could break rocks. A hardness no one could penetrate, not with fists, not with words, not with threats.
“I’ve never hurt a woman before in my life,” Jack Daltry was telling her. “But I’ll break every goddamned bone in your body if you don’t start answering my questions right now.” His threats hissed through clenched teeth. “I know who you are. And what you are. So don’t play coy with me, Miss Devlin.” He made the title of respect a slur. “Where is my father? And you know just who in the hell I’m talking about, too. What’d you do to him? That’s all I want to know.”
Angel swallowed, certain the lump in her throat was her fear-frozen heart. This time her fading away into herself wasn’t working. She remained aware of her blood rushing through her veins, of the weakness of her limbs. She still felt the pain of his grip. Able only to breathe shallowly, her words limped out on short gasps. “I didn’t … do anything … to your father … I swear it.” She stopped to suck in a series of shortened breaths.
Jack Daltry’s blue eyes darkened, his grip tightened, almost forcing a scream from Angel, one she would have died before emitting. “Keep talking. You know more. And I’m listening,” he assured her with deadly calm.
“You’re not…” she began, but couldn’t finish. The pain … it glazed her consciousness. Then he shook her. A cry was wrung from Angel. And a confession. “He’s dead,” she yelled into his shocked face. “He’s dead. But I didn’t do it. I swear it.”
With his mouth open, his eyes unseeing, he loosened his grip some, as if he weren’t aware he still held her. Only then did tears spring to Angel’s eyes. And she hated him all the more for making her feel something, anything … even if it was pain. “You stupid bastard,” she gulped out, crying and shaking now in earnest. “Your father’s dead. I buried him out back. Go look for yourself.”
He didn’t move. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her, or understood her words. Because he just sat there, staring at her. Angel’s tear-watered gaze clashed with his for long moments. And then … it was all too much. All of it—beginning with the morning her mother died and ending right here, right now. Too much. Against her will, against her nature, Angel wilted in his grip. Her forehead slumped against his shoulder.
And he held her like that … close to him but still apart from him. Through her tears, Angel could see his chest rising and falling in heaving breaths, breaths that were coming faster, that foretold the building of further reaction. She braced herself for whatever it would be.
She didn’t have long to wait. Jack Daltry suddenly pushed back, his motion shoving her away from him. On her back, she hit the soft cushions behind her, fought for a grip on them and wrenched herself up on her elbows. Through the shadowed curtain of her hair, she stared up at the man standing over her and pointing down at her.
“I don’t believe you—that you had nothing to do with—” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, again looked down at her, and started over. “But if what you say is true … and my father’s … dead—” Again he paused, took several deep breaths. “I’m going to go out back and see for myself. If I find what you say I will—” His blue eyes blazed black “When I come back inside—trust me—you’ll want to be gone, Angel Devlin. Because if you’re not, I’ll kill you.”
Four
More composed now, her unruly hair pulled back and captured between her back and the cushions, Angel sat on the cowhide sofa and waited. She didn’t think Jack Daltry would be out back that long. Clutched in her hands again was the fully loaded Winchester. It lay across her lap, atop the same skirt she’d had on the day she was nearly lynched. Her skirt was clean now. She glanced down, looking past the rifle to the worn brown fabric that covered her legs.
Yes, it was clean. Along with her other things … her blood-soaked blouse and unmentionables. She’d washed them all that first day here. After burying Mr. Daltry and then bathing herself. Then, using a needle and some thread she found, she’d sat at the drop-leaf table in the kitchen and mended those places torn by the Henton drovers. It wasn’t so much that she liked this skirt, she told herself as she smoothed a still-shaking hand over the rough fabric. It was just the only one she owned. So, what choice did she have but to patch it?
When Angel realized the direction of her thoughts—back to that day, and then to something as silly as her laundry—she raised her head, tightened her grip on the rifle, and trained her gaze across the way. In silence, she stared at the wood-framed doorway on the far side of the great room. She knew, from a week of living here and exploring the place, that if she exited there and turned left, she’d be in a narrow hall that led past the furniture-crowded study, then on to the dining room, and finally ended at the kitchen. And the back door.
And it was that back door that held her attention. She sat there, listening. Listening for that distant door to open and then close. Listening for heavy, booted footsteps to sound on the wood flooring. And waiting. Waiting for Jack Daltry to step into the empty frame that now filled her vision and her consciousness.
Angel exhaled, her breath leaving her in a warm gust. She fully intended to kill him before he killed her. She didn’t really want to. She wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. And she felt that her sitting here and waiting on the man, giving him a chance to walk away—instead of getting up and going out back and filling him full of lead while he wasn’t looking—proved that. But beyond that, she’d killed one man already and, though she wasn’t sorry that Jeb Kennedy was dead—he’d deserved it—she didn’t like having his or anyone else’s blood on her hands. Or her soul. If she had one.
But Jack Daltry would force her hand, she knew it. Because she hadn’t lied to him about what he’d find outside, about who he’d find buried next to a woman whose hand-lettered headstone simply proclaimed her to be Lily Daltry. Was she Jack Daltry’s mother? Sister? Wife? Angel had no way of knowing, couldn’t even suppose. Nor did she think he was lying, or even exaggerating, about what he’d do to her if she hadn’t already hightailed it before he came back inside. Angel pictured herself fleeing astride that roan, in full retreat.
A chuckling snort escaped her. Then she shook her head slowly, promising herself she’d never run again. Up until now, she’d always had to, in order to keep body and soul together. And she’d hated it, hated the way it made her feel. But no more. She wouldn’t go back to the old ways. This right here, this Circle D land, was a fresh start, a new life. And it was here she chose to make her stand. She wasn’t leaving.
So, if Jack Daltry didn’t back down, she’d just have to kill him. It was that simple. Because this house, this cattle ranch, was the only home she’d ever known. And Mr. Daltry wanted her to have it, not his son. That point confused her. Why wouldn’t a man leave his property to his own son? Angel shrugged as if someone else had asked her that. Maybe there was bad blood between the two. How was she supposed to know? One thing she did know was she didn’t care. Couldn’t afford to care. Especially about someone she was maybe getting ready to kill.
Just then, she heard the back door jerk open. She tensed at the sound. Then she heard—felt it too in her chest—the same door slam against the wall behind it. All her senses were on alert. The next sound was the door slamming closed.
Jack Daltry was back inside.
Angel listened a moment … swallowed … then slowly slid the Winchester toward her body. Inadvertently she captured her skirt, pulling its length up her legs. No doubt she was exposing her lace-up boots, stockings, and some bare leg, she thought, as she listened t
o footsteps scuffing across the wood flooring and advancing toward her. Angel blinked, figuring that her exposed limbs probably would be the last thing the man would notice about her. Especially with the Winchester in her hands. She hefted it, sighted down the barrel—and aimed at where approximately his heart would be when he stepped around that corner.
* * *
With his murderous grief under tight lock and key, Jack turned into the great room, where he’d left Angel Devlin, and came to a sudden stop. There she was. Right where he’d left her. He stood there, framed in the arch of the doorway, his legs spread, his weight distributed evenly on his feet. His hands hung loosely at his sides. A gunfighter’s stance … one Jack was all too familiar with of late.
Jack stared at her, silently cursed her. She’d gotten the Winchester out of the cabinet and had it pointed at him again. The long rifle was a deadly enough weapon, one he respected. And he didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d not hesitate to use it, if he gave her enough of a reason. Enough of a reason? An abrupt, derisive sound escaped him. “You’re still here.”
She nodded. “It would appear so.”
Jack continued to stare at her, his gaze repeatedly drawn to the marks banding her neck. Only one thing, in his experience, could cause marks like that. But still, silent minutes passed, during which he decided he ought to kill her just for being so damned stubborn. But then he realized that, given all he’d ever heard about her willfulness, he shouldn’t be surprised that she was still sitting here. Shouldn’t be surprised she’d armed herself, either. Not that he really cared that she had. Not that he cared about anything at all at this moment.
Except having a drink. A man ought to be able to have a drink in his own home on the day he finds out his father is dead. On the day he realizes his father died thinking his firstborn son didn’t give a damn about him. The thought almost drove Jack to his knees. Instead, keeping his feet under him, he spat out, “That rifle getting heavy yet? I’d think it would be.”
She didn’t respond in any way. Not a word or gesture to indicate she’d heard him. Jack captured her gaze, held it. Saw no fear, no skittishness in her eyes. A muttered curse escaped him, had him shaking his head and speaking his mind. And meaning every word. “Go ahead and pull the trigger. See if I give a shit.”
With that, and not waiting for her response, he turned his back to her, making his way over to the hulking walnut liquor cabinet in a corner of the room. Opening the beveled-glass doors, he sorted through the selection of brandies, whiskies, rums, and ryes, finally settling on one of many unopened bottles of first-quality whisky.
He yanked it off the shelf, inadvertently upending a smaller bottle that crashed to the floor and shattered. Jack looked down at the mess, at the hard spirits staining his denims and his worn, dusty boots. His nose twitched at the alcoholic fumes that wafted upward. But otherwise, he couldn’t have cared less … about either the mess or the loss of the liquor. Because it just didn’t matter. And he couldn’t say if anything ever would again.
With his whisky selection fisted in one hand, he snatched up a squat cut-crystal glass from a lower shelf. Then he turned, crunching the broken glass under his feet, to face Angel Devlin. She’d lowered the Winchester. An aching cynicism had him chuckling and shaking his head, had him flinging his arms out to his sides. “What—no guts? You disappoint me, Angel. Go on … use that Winchester. Take your best shot. God knows, I am, too—but with these.” He indicated the whisky and the shot glass.
Still she didn’t say anything. But her gaze slipped from his face, traveled down the dirt-caked front of him. So she knew he’d thrown himself on his father’s grave. So what? He’d also cried like a baby. Her gaze stalled at his feet. Jack looked down at himself, at his boots, saw that he stood in the middle of the still spreading stain of … what? He sniffed the air, trying to guess what type of liquor he’d spilled. When he had it, he looked up at her and said, “Rum,” as if she’d asked. Then he added, “I’m waiting.”
She cocked her head. “For what? Me to join you in drinking that bottle?”
Ah. He’d won a response. Grim but triumphant, Jack made an abrupt gesture with the shot glass. “Hell, no, I don’t want you to join me. I’m just waiting to see if you mean to shoot me. Wouldn’t want to waste all this fine liquor, if you are.” Then he felt a need to prod her, even at the risk of his own life. “I still don’t know what you’re waiting on. Especially since you’ve been itching to fill me full of lead from the time I rode up.”
“Yep. I reckon I have,” she agreed instantly. But her expression could only be called somber. “Still, I’m not one to shoot a man when he’s down.”
“‘When he’s down?’” Jack repeated. His eyes narrowed as he set himself in motion. With the slow, unhurried gait of a man used to setting the pace, and having others follow it, he approached her, stopped in front of her—almost on top of her—and looked down at her. “You think I’m down, Angel?”
She sank back, away from him, as if she meant to pull into herself. Jack’s gaze slipped to her hands, saw them tighten around the rifle, whitening her knuckles. Again, he searched her expression, expecting finally to see fear shadowing the black eyes staring back up at him. But there was none. Nor did it flavor her husky voice when she spoke. “Yeah. I do. I think you’re way down.”
As he stared at her, as his mouth and his chin quivered with a fresh stab of grief, Jack knew she was right. Knew he wanted nothing more than to forget who she was, what he thought she’d done, and throw himself down at her knees, bury his face in her lap, and hold on to her. Knew that in his gut-wrenching pain, in his need for the simple warmth and solace of another living soul … any living soul … he wanted to cry out to someone.
But … like hell he would. Jack locked his knees, stiffening his stance and his resolve against such an unforgivable act. Because this was Angel Devlin he was talking about. Seek warmth and solace from her? Under these or any other circumstances? No.
Having thus put an iron-clad lock on his feelings, and seeming more in control of himself, Jack said, in a conversational tone, one that belied the volatility of his emotions, “You know what, Angel? You’re right. I am down.” He hefted the whisky bottle and the crystal glass, gesturing with them. “But with the help of these two friends here, I’ll soon be down a lot lower.”
He paused, cocked his head, and ran his gaze over her. Angel Devlin. Sitting in his house, all prim and properlike. It was actually funny, in a way. He grinned, and with the casual cruelty of one pushed too far, one whose soul was tearing apart, one who truly did not care about anything, told her, “What I said before … about killing you if you were still here when I came back inside? Well, I haven’t forgotten that. Still intend to do it, too. Because I do believe you’re the one who—well, you know what I think you did. But … I’m a fair man, Angel.”
With that, he stepped around her and sat down beside her on the sofa, his shoulder all but touching hers. Propping the whisky bottle between his legs, against his crotch, he crossed an ankle atop his opposite knee and lay back against the cushions. Then he rolled his head until he was looking at her profile. With a slow swivel of her neck, Angel faced him.
She hadn’t moved over. Or away. Jack respected that. “I like you, Angel. You’ve got grit, a lot of spirit. So I’ll give you another chance to save your worthless skin. See, I’m taking my friends here with me to my room upstairs—”
He cut off his own words when an errant thought sidetracked him. Using Angel’s face—she really was a good-looking woman—as a focal point for his concentration, he tried to recall what had flashed in and out of his mind too quickly for him to grasp. Then, finally, he had it again. With his elbow, he poked her arm, making sure he had her attention. “We never did settle to your satisfaction just who I am, did we? Well, I’m Jack Daltry, all right. Son of Wallace Daltry. Pleased to meet you.”
She didn’t react in any way, not even to say a word. But he saw the quick intelligence in her eyes, knew she ab
sorbed every word he said. So he gestured broadly with his glass, making a sweeping pass of the room. “I know the layout of this entire house, Angel. Hell, the entire spread. Every one of these hundreds of acres. I can tell you about each hill … where every drop of water is—and isn’t. And if you’ve been snooping around upstairs yet—and I suspect you have—then you’ll know that in the first bedroom … on the left … at the head of the stairs … are my belongings, the ones I left behind four months ago.”
He then shifted slightly, looked right into her eyes … the widest, shiniest eyes he’d ever seen, he had to admit. “You convinced yet? Or do I need to haul your ass up there and show you?”
Obviously one to pick her battles carefully, Angel said, “I’m convinced.”
Jack nodded. “Good. Now where was I?”
Angel nodded toward the liquor and the glass fisted in his hand. “You and your friends were going upstairs to your room. And then, something about killing me.”
A chuckle escaped him, had him taking yet another look at her. “That’s it. Thanks for reminding me.” Now he noticed the feminine fineness of her features. And all that dark hair, thick and soft-looking. That high forehead, and black-winged eyebrows. The straight, slender nose, the full reddish lips. And that stubborn jaw. “All in all, Angel Devlin,” he surprised himself by saying out loud, “you’re one good-looking woman. I’ll give you that much.”
Jack’s words hung in the air between them, seemed to thicken, to wrap around them like a caress. But then, her voice cool and distant—and dismissive—Angel said, “You’ll give me nothing.”
Poof. The wispy moment of intimacy evaporated, leaving Jack wondering what the hell was wrong with him, that he’d say such a thing to her, of all people. “Okay, I was going upstairs,” he said abruptly, taking up his tale again. “Where I’m going to drink this entire bottle of fine grain alcohol. And then … I’ll probably get some more. And drink it, too. But eventually, I’m going to sleep it all off. Now when I do, and I come to, and come back downstairs—however long that takes—you make sure you’re gone. You hear me?”
Captive Angel Page 6