Tin-Stars and Troublemakers Box Set (Four Complete Historical Western Romance Novels in One)

by Rice, Patricia

  More snipers appeared in windows, on rooftops, around the corners of buildings. Fort Worth was fighting back, but Cord could take no civic pride in the rally. He was terrified that somebody would defy chivalry and gun down Fancy.

  What the hell was taking so long inside that bank? He'd foiled a dozen or more robberies in half this time. Why weren't the outlaws running for their horses?

  Suddenly, Ned's mare screamed, spouting blood. The beast reared, and Ned cursed. Instinctively, Cord swerved Poco, and the gelding rammed the mare's shoulder. Ned snarled, and Cord lunged, knocking the outlaw from the saddle. They crashed earthward in a hail of gunfire, rolling under flailing hooves.

  Ned was heavier; he ended up on top. Bullets zinged off the ground near Cord's head. A red fog pounded in his brain as he grappled for Ned's loaded gun. When the yawning blackness of that muzzle turned toward him, Cord snapped back his wrist, freeing Blisse's derringer, and fired. Ned jolted, making a gurgling sound. He slumped across Cord's chest.

  "Ned!" Jake howled with fury, charging back to his brother's aid.

  Cord heaved frantically, pushing free of the dead man's weight. He reached for Ned's gun, but his fingers fell short. Jake took aim.

  "Cord!"

  A deafening report sounded. Blood spurted from a bullet wound in Jake's leg.

  As startled to be alive as to hear his name, Cord glanced up at the grocer's roof. Only then did he realize his neckerchief had torn free. The red-haired youth was firing fast and furiously, driving a now bloody Jake back toward the shelter of the hardware store.

  My God, that's Wes! Cord thought. What the hell is Wes doing here?

  * * *

  In the bank, time had slowed to a crawl. Fancy knew enough about robberies to realize this one was being bungled. They shouldn't be worrying about the cash box. They shouldn't be stuffing grain bags full of silver. They couldn't possibly carry it all.

  Dimly she was aware that the clattering of gunfire had increased outside, as if the outlaws were no longer the only ones shooting.

  The moment was upon them. The time had come to flee. But Goose, relishing his command—or perhaps sotted with greed—was still shouting orders.

  "Hold that bag wider," he snapped, shoving her so hard that she collided with Blisse, who was dashing past her with a chin-high stack of bills. The money went flying, and Goose reached for his Colt.

  "I found them!" Colt cried eagerly from inside the vault. "I found the plates, Goose!"

  Goose seemed to forget his quarrel with Blisse. "You sure?"

  "Sure I'm sure! This here's Bart's old strongbox. What else could be inside?"

  Reports shook the building as Colt shot open the lock.

  "Lash!" Goose was barking orders again. "Go help Colt. I'll guard the tellers."

  Lash muttered an oath as he hurried inside. "For Christ's sake, Colt, let's go! You're taking too damned long."

  Another gunshot echoed inside the safe. Fancy started, her stomach crawling to her throat. Someone laughed. It proved to be Colt. He emerged seconds later with two bags and a smoking gun.

  Goose grinned. "One down, eh, Colt? That leaves just Jake, Ned, and Harris."

  Goose rounded on the cowering bank employees. "Time to say your prayers, boys." He fired once, twice. The cashier and the teller dropped dead where they had knelt.

  Colt snickered.

  Goose's grin faded as he noticed Fancy edging toward the door.

  "Where the hell d'ya think you're going?" He caught her by the hair, jerking her back against his chest, jabbing the red-hot muzzle of his gun beneath her ribs. "Hold that silver real close now, precious, and it just might keep those pretty tits of yours safe."

  Colt was peeking out the door. "All's clear!"

  "Let's go."

  Colt was the first one to reach his saddle. Goose moved more slowly, wheeling Fancy as a shield, firing back at the sniper on the bank's roof. Above the din of the shoot-out, Fancy heard Colt shout something. It sounded like a warning about Blisse.

  Suddenly Goose jolted. He wheezed in her ear, and his arm slid free of her waist. Spinning, she felt the rise of sickness as he crumpled, falling facedown at her feet.

  Blisse's lip curled above her smoking gun. "Reckon you won't be beating me ever again, you bastard."

  For a heartbeat, Blisse's eyes—and her revolver—trained on Fancy. Then she made a savage gesture. "Run, stupid!"

  Fancy stumbled backward, dropping the coins. She feared the girl would shoot her, but Blisse had already turned with her bag of loot, racing through the bluish powder-haze.

  "Bitch!" Colt shouted, his bullets peppering the ground at Blisse's feet. She fired back, and he spurred his horse after her. A shell zinged dangerously close to Fancy's boots, and she fled, unable to watch more.

  "Fancy!"

  She heard her name as she vaulted the hitching post. The cry seemed to come from above her—behind her—she wasn't certain. Gunsmoke burned her eyes so much that they teared. Blinded, she tried to fling herself across her horse's back, but the skittish mare bucked, throwing her to the ground. More bullets whizzed past, splintering the wooden post above her ear. She rolled, scrambling to her feet.

  From out of the haze, a human locomotive charged. Steely arms drove her backward as a rifle blast shattered the bank window. She realized dimly she would have been in the bullet's way if her savior—or her attacker?—hadn't slammed her into the wall. Terror flooded her veins. Sobbing, she twisted frantically, trying to break his hold.

  "Fancy!"

  "Cord?"

  He shoved her into the grocer's alley, dragging her down behind a stack of drygoods boxes. She reeled, falling into his lap, half-afraid to believe the sight, the sound, the feel of him. "Cord?"

  "Stay down!"

  A bullet whistled near her ear and burrowed into the rain barrel beside them. She flung her arms around Cord's neck as water showered them both.

  "Cord, don't leave me!"

  "I won't, sweet. I won't. Stay close, now."

  She hugged him desperately, fearing he might change his mind, terrified that he would lose his life in the fight raging just beyond the alley.

  "Cord, I was so scared," she sobbed, clinging to his neck. "I thought I would lose you. I thought I'd never see you again!"

  He rocked her, stroking her hair. "Me too," he whispered huskily.

  You were? She swallowed hard. Then, feeling the sticky dampness of his shirt, a new fear strangled her like an iron noose. Rearing back, she clutched his collar and ran her frantic gaze over his chest. "My God! You were hit! You're covered with blood—"

  "It's not mine," he said soothingly. "I'm fine, darlin'. Just fine. I'm safe. And you are too—but you have to stay down."

  He pulled her back against him, and tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks. Even if she had wanted to, she couldn't hide the truth from him anymore.

  "Cord, I..."

  She gulped a shaky breath. Raising her head, she gazed into his eyes. Their glow—that warm and tender glow that always touched her core—melted the last of her self-conscious fears.

  "I love you, Cord."

  He caught his breath. With a hoarse sound, he pulled her face to his. "My God, girl, if you only knew how long I've been waiting to hear you say that!"

  His mouth fastened hungrily over hers. Hot and fierce, his kiss possessed her with all the pent-up longing of the last five endless days. She began to quake, as much from the feelings that tore through her breast as from the aftershock of their ordeal. When she sagged against him, he cradled her, wrapping his arms and legs around her.

  Still, she was unable to quell her tremors. She buried her face in his throat. "Goose, he—he was going to kill you," she whispered brokenly. "And Blisse. And all of them—"

  "Shh," he murmured, pressing her close to his heart. "It's over now. We can go home soon."

  Home? Had she heard him right? She had hardly dared to hope...

  "But the plates! Colt has them."

  He sighed
, pushing her head down to his shoulder. "Let me worry about Colt, love."

  She bit her lip, struggling to stave off a fresh flood of tears. He'd called her love. Love!

  But now he wanted to ride away and be a lawman again. How could she bear it if he got killed?

  God, please, don't let it start again. Please don't take him from me now.

  She shivered, listening to the gunfire. It was fading away. So were the shouts and the galloping hooves. The entire shoot-out had lasted less than ten minutes, but she felt as if another year of her life had passed.

  Cord stirred beneath her. "Wes. I have to see if..."

  Something in his voice made her gut knot. She glanced up sharply. "Wes is here?"

  He nodded, looking haunted.

  Oh no, she thought. Not Wes too. But why? What was he doing there?

  She bit her tongue as Cord helped her to her feet. They would know the answers all too soon.

  She clung to his hand, waiting behind him as he peered cautiously around the corner.

  "No one's moving yet. I can't see him." He frowned, glancing anxiously over his shoulder at her. "Wait for me here. You'll be safe."

  But she didn't want to be safe. She wanted to be with him—especially if Wes was out there hurt.

  Or worse.

  Cord eased out into the cloud-choked light. She crept after him. She had intended to shadow him all the way to the city's limits, if necessary, but the carnage spread before her stopped her cold. She nearly retched on the spot. The smoke was clearing now, leaving behind thrashing horses, broken glass, and twisted bodies. Ned, Jake, Lash, Goose—all dead. Only Colt seemed to have cheated the undertaker. She shuddered. When she spied the blood that followed his horse's hoofprints out of town, she wondered darkly if his wounds would kill him... or if the coyotes would.

  "Wes!" Cord bellowed.

  Thunder rolled. In the accompanying flash of lightning, she spied a boyish form with red hair lying motionless before the hardware steps. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

  "Wes!"

  "Over here, Cord."

  The air rushed from Fancy's lungs as she saw the youngest Rawlins, his rifle slung over his back, sliding down a pillar on the grocer's battered porch. He was unhurt. He was alive.

  She blanched at her next thought.

  Blisse.

  Battling the wave of sickness that washed over her, she stumbled to the girl's side. Blood was oozing from Blisse's chest and hip; her breaths tore from her lips in great, wheezing gasps.

  "Blisse?" Fancy whispered, dropping to her knees.

  The girl's lashes flickered, and she slowly turned her head. "Fancy." A tear rolled down her ashen face. "Is he... alive?"

  The gray eyes were glazing over. Fancy nodded quickly, taking the girl's hand.

  "Hold on, Blisse. They're bringing a doctor—"

  "No." Her fingers tightened over Fancy's ever so faintly. "It's better this way. You know."

  Fancy choked on a sob.

  No. It wasn't better. No matter how bad things got, she had never given up hope. Never.

  "Cord!"

  He'd been walking toward Applegate. Turning to see her holding Blisse, he ran to join her. When he fell to his knees at the girl's other side, Fancy saw the anguish on his face.

  "Blisse." He took her free hand, and a tiny spot of color bloomed on the girl's cheeks.

  "I didn't tell nobody who you were," she whispered. "And I kept her safe for you. I did just like you said. Did you see?"

  "Yes. Yes, I did," he said thickly. "Thank you."

  Fancy felt her throat constrict.

  "Just once... before I go... do you think you could... kiss me like you do her?"

  Cord glanced at Fancy. She nodded.

  Her vision blurred as she watched him lean forward, gently touching his lips to Blisse's. It was a sweet, tender kiss of good-bye, the kind one might give a child before she drifted to sleep.

  When he straightened, Blisse smiled, closing her eyes.

  "Now I can say I had a gentleman," she murmured weakly.

  The girl's hand grew limp.

  Fancy wept, stricken by the terrible, unfair waste.

  Cord bowed his head.

  Finally, someone cleared his throat. Dashing away tears, Fancy saw Applegate patting Cord awkwardly on the shoulder.

  "I'm real sorry about the girl, son. But you've got other problems. Bigger problems."

  Cord's brow furrowed, and he climbed to his feet. Struggling to regain her composure, Fancy hurried to join him. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Marshal Brand galloped by, followed by a dozen heavily armed, vengeful-looking men. Cord turned, whistling for Poco, but Applegate caught his arm.

  "Now hold on, son. That desperado ain't going far. Not with his wounds. And not with that storm blowing in. Brand's my best deputy when he ain't busy being the town marshal. He'll bring the renegade in."

  Cord pressed his lips together. "I never thought I'd see the day when you let a town marshal do your job, Clem."

  "Now don't you start with me, Cord. I got my reasons."

  Cord crossed his arms, waiting expectantly. Applegate glanced at Wes. Fidgeting, the boy dropped his eyes. When the sheriff cleared his throat again, Fancy realized she had never seen Applegate at a loss for words.

  "You know, Cord," the sheriff boomed suddenly, "Wes here is going to be a real fine lawman someday." He slapped the boy on the shoulder. "Why, he wasn't here but ten minutes after tracking those bastards all the way to Blue Mountain, and yet he put up a helluva fight on that roof without a wink of sleep—"

  "What bastards?"

  Applegate grimaced, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. Cord's eyes narrowed.

  "Clem?"

  Wes finally raised his head. Fancy was stunned to see how close the boy looked to tears. He squared his shoulders and clenched a fist.

  "It's my fault," he said. "I should never have let Zack ride home alone after the droving. Me and the boys stopped off at Fort Graham for a couple days of drinking and... well, you know. I only spent the night, but when I got back to the ranch—" His voice broke.

  "Some sonuvabitch nabbed Zack," Applegate said quietly. "Lally too."

  Fancy's heart lurched. The blood drained completely from Cord's face.

  "Who?" he asked.

  Wes fished in his shirt pocket. "We don't know yet. There weren't any names. Just this pasteboard with a dirk stuck through it."

  Fancy edged nearer. Peering over Cord's shoulder, she recognized the flowery pen strokes that defaced the ace of spades.

  "Diego," she breathed.

  Her blood turned to ice.

  Chapter 20

  Thunder rocked the house as Fancy quietly closed the door on the Applegates' spare bedroom. From below, she heard the rumbling bass of the sheriff himself, telling his wife he was going to town to wait for Brand. She heard the porch door bang, and she thought she heard the squishing of horse's hooves. It was hard to tell, given the din of the rain on the roof.

  She bit her lip as she glanced once more toward the bedroom. Poor Wes. He'd spent three sleepless days tracking Diego north from the Barclay ranch. He'd needed rest so badly that he'd dozed off twice during the short ride to Applegate's homestead.

  Yet nothing short of Cord's threat to exclude him from the posse could convince him to retire to a bedroom. The boy had been the unfortunate one to find the smoking ruins of the ranch and the slaughtered hands who'd stayed behind to help Lally run it. He'd also found Diego's note stabbed to the charred remains of Ginny's crabapple tree.

  I have the old woman and the boy. Bring me the plates. Signale Mountains, near Wild Horse Creek. Come alone or they die. I'll be watching.

  Diego was headed for Indian Territory, where lawlessness reigned. Rustlers, smugglers, murderers, and counterfeiters were known to seek refuge there. No wonder Wes had been so desperate to catch the kidnappers before they crossed the Red River.

  But he hadn't dared risk Zack and Lally by trying their re
scue alone. Hurrying back from Blue Mountain station, where Diego had holed up, apparently to ambush the next day's stage, Wes had made the two-hour ride south to Fort Worth in record time. He had hoped to enlist Applegate's help with the rescue and somehow send word to Cord.

  When Cord learned the full story, he'd had nothing but praise for the boy's quick thinking and grit. But Wes had refused to take solace in either Cord's or Applegate's assurances that he could have done nothing more.

  Fancy's heart had broken to see the way the boy punished himself. Unable to bear the sounds of his anguished pacing, she had finally gone to the bedroom to try to ease his mind.

  "Please stop blaming yourself, Wes," she'd murmured, taking his freckled fingers tightly in her own. "Zack has ridden home alone hundreds of times. You couldn't possibly have known this was the one time he would be ambushed. No one blames you, Wes. No one. It's not your fault."

  It's mine.

  She hadn't had the courage to speak the truth, though. Clearly, it was her ciphered message to Diego, not Wes's harmless night of revelry, that had placed Zack and Lally in danger.

  When she had composed that message in the book, she had never dreamed Diego could break out of a state penitentiary. She had never imagined he might set a fire two days after their meeting and escape with six inmates.

  But she should have known better.

  She should have known.

  Today, tomorrow, the truth would come out. It was inevitable. Cord would learn how she'd betrayed him, and he would hate her. She had risked the lives of his family, even though she hadn't meant to. How could she plead innocence? She had lied to him. She had smuggled Diego a message outlining her destination and her mission.

  Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid?

  Squeezing her eyes closed, she dragged a shuddering breath into her lungs. Telling herself she was an idiot was a waste of time. The book, the message, the deceit—she could do nothing to change them.

  But she could save Zack and Lally. The damage between her and Cord was irreparable, but maybe, just maybe, if she rescued his family, she could live with herself.