by Pam Crooks
Elliott had ordered two drafts made out to James Steadman and Stephen Larson, each for exorbitant amounts.
Hannah drew in a slow breath.
“What were these for, John?” Quinn asked. “Why would Elliott pay these men this much money?”
“A small fortune, isn’t it?” Mahoney grimaced. “I don’t know for sure. It wasn’t my place to ask, and Elliott certainly didn’t volunteer his reasons. But my suspicions were aroused, I assure you.”
A sickening feeling spread inside Quinn.
“He seemed to have a run of bad luck after that,” the banker explained. “A prize bull took sick and died. We had a couple harsh winters, and he developed an interest in the poker table . . ..”
Mahoney’s words droned inside Quinn’s head. The balances spiraled downward, page after page. In a span of four years, Elliott had managed to squander a majority of the Star L assets.
Assets that had taken T.J.--and Quinn--a generation to build.
Quinn snapped the ledgers closed. He’d had enough.
“Have you advised Elliott about this?” he demanded. “Christ, he’s damn near run the well dry.”
Mahoney appeared offended. “Of course, I’ve advised him. Elliott is quite aware of the Star L’s affairs. The ranch is still solvent, I assure you. But it’s not as stable as it once was.”
Quinn rose and took Hannah’s elbow. Rage kindled inside him, flaming higher with every word the banker spoke.
He had to see Elliott.
“There’ll be a few bills coming in,” he said, yanking the office door open and hustling Hannah out. “From the hotel, clothing stores and such. See that they’re paid.”
“As a show of my faith in you, I will,” Mahoney answered.
Quinn strode past the cluster of desks, his fury growing with each step. Mahoney hastened to keep up. “I don’t want Elliott to get another dime. Not one.”
He’d raised the interest of the other bank officers. The gentleman in the deep green suit now sitting at a bench along the spindled railing, too.
“I understand your concerns, Quinn, but how could I possibly enforce your request if Elliott should come to me?”
Quinn spun and clutched the front of the banker’s shirt.
“You’re working for me now, that’s how. Elliott is no longer entitled to any Star L money. Do you hear me?”
Mahoney held himself stiffly against Quinn’s temper. His throat bobbed. “Quinn, you’re making a scene.”
He didn’t care. He had a point to make. “The ranch is mine. Elliott will learn that soon enough.”
The graying head nodded. “We want the same thing, Quinn.”
Quinn released him. “We’re in agreement?”
“Yes. Quite in agreement.”
Rapt silence had fallen over the bank’s lobby and the curious patrons who filled it. Quinn’s sharp gaze swept them all, a dark challenge to anyone who dared to defy his command.
To defy him.
A movement in the corner of his eye jerked his attention, a flash of green near the door. He stabbed a glance at the bench along the railing.
It was empty.
Obviously, the man had overheard the entire conversation. Had he fled to someone who would use the information against Quinn?
The law?
He bolted after the man, saw him dash across the street at a full run, and disappear into the crowd. Quinn halted on the boardwalk and swore at the thought of being arrested again. Not now. Not when he was just about to confront Elliott.
John Mahoney joined him on the boardwalk, Hannah following close behind. She slipped her hand into Quinn’s.
“Who was he, John?” Quinn asked, holding onto her tight.
The shrewd eyes glared into the crowd. Quinn sensed the banker’s keen disapproval.
“It was Steadman,” he answered. “Mr. James Steadman.”
Chapter 20
The Star L ranch sprawled over the Texas horizon, a monstrous parcel of land that had been part of Quinn for most of his life. With a slow, sweeping glance, he drank in the harshness and the beauty, the twisting ravines and jutting buttes, the thorny mesquite and swaying winter grass.
He drank and drank. Sweet Jesus. He thought he’d never see it again.
“Is it all yours?” Hannah asked, eyes agog.
“Ours, dear wife. It’s all ours.”
He squinted against the setting sun. He’d taken the Star L with its privileges and challenges in stride once. A lifetime ago. Now, it pleased him to have Hannah with him to share them.
“Where are the boundaries?” she asked. “The land seems to go on forever.”
“It does.” Her awe touched him. Had he ever thought of the Star L the way she thought of it now? “I can’t show you the boundaries in a day, Hannah. I’d have to use a map.”
“Glory, glory.”
He slapped the reins, and the team of black geldings lurched forward. He’d rented a buggy and harnessed Fenwick’s horses for the trip out. Now, they were almost there.
Home.
A thousand times, he’d dreamed of this ride. Of this moment. Of this road, leading to the two-story frame ranch house with his big, warm bed and clean clothes and a pantry stocked to overflowing with food.
He dreamed of the welcome they’d give him, too. The entire Star L outfit gathered to cheer him on his return. They’d thump him on the back and tell him how much they missed him and how he’d been wronged. They’d give him a cold beer and an expensive cigar, and they’d celebrate until dawn.
Now, it was enough he had only Hannah beside him. She graced him with a new beginning.
He pulled into the yard and expected to see Elliott with a posse of lawmen waiting to arrest him, to shatter the dreams all over again. He braked the rig and saw no one.
“He’s not here,” Hannah said, bemused.
Quinn’s glance swept the empty ranch yard. He could be anywhere. The Star L was massive. It wouldn’t be unlikely for Elliott and the Star L outfit to be out on the range with the cattle. Quinn warred with relief at the delayed confrontation--and disappointment in not seeing it through.
Dismounting, he reached for Hannah and helped her down. Quinn wanted to hold her for a while before they went inside. She gave him power. Control. She helped him keep his troubles in perspective.
But he refrained. Elliott was nowhere to be found, and she seemed entranced with the house, the wide porch curving along the front and around to the side, the ornate gingerbread trim gracing the eaves, the tall windows with their glass panes trimmed in blue.
“It’s so big,” she murmured, tilting her head back to peruse the second level. “I can’t imagine anyone owning something like this.”
The size was formidable, he supposed. A tribute to the ranch’s success. He’d never thought about it much, but after what he’d lived in the past four years, well, the place was a castle.
“Better get used to the idea, Mrs. Landry,” he said with a slow smile. “Come on. I’ll show you the inside.”
She handed him the black flannel bag he’d entrusted to her care during the ride out, along with another in leather, filled with his own money withdrawn from the bank. He intended to keep them both in the hidden safe in his office until he met with Elliott. Elliott didn’t know about the additional safe and would have no idea what was stored there.
They climbed the stairs in silence. Quinn ran a critical eye over the steps, discerned a board or two that needed replacing and noticed that the slat siding could use a fresh coat of paint. Even the lawn needed more care. He frowned. Elliott had been lax in the maintenance.
The interior of the house suggested the same. The rooms needed airing; clutter was everywhere. The wooden floors, once shining from polish, were dull and dirty. The furniture showed layers of dust. Soot and ashes covered the fireplace.
“Never been one for housework myself,” he scowled in annoyance, eyeing a dead plant on its wrought-iron stand. “We always had a housekeeper who came in and cleane
d for us.”
“Looks like she quit,” Hannah observed drily and absently righted a picture hanging askew on its wire.
“If T.J. could see this, he’d throw Elliott out on his ass,” Quinn said. “He never tolerated laziness.” He hissed out a breath through his teeth. “Sorry, darlin’. I wish the place was in better shape for you.”
She made a soft clucking sound and went to him, curling her arms around his waist.
“Don’t apologize to me, Quinn. It’s not your fault. Besides, there’s nothing here a little soap and water won’t cure.”
Reaching up, she touched her mouth to his in a brief kiss of reassurance. But retaining hold of the black flannel bag and the leather money pouch in one hand, Quinn slid the other along her spine, pressed her tightly against him and lengthened the kiss.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered and nibbled the curve of her jaw. “And I’m glad you like the house, mess and all.”
“Mmmm. I do. Know what?” Her tongue trailed seductively along his throat, drawing a ragged breath from him.
“Tell me.”
“I want to see the bedrooms next. Your bedroom.”
His pulse leapt, and the blood warmed in his veins. For the moment, he was glad Elliott was gone. He chuckled and stole another kiss before reluctantly drawing back.
“You’re insatiable, Mrs. Landry. I’m hard-pressed to keep you satisfied these days.”
Her sultry laugh curled around him, seducing him. “And you, Mr. Landry, run a mean race. Every woman should have a man like you in her bed.”
His loins stirred hot. He threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her toward the office.
“I have to put these bags in the safe before we go up,” he said, maneuvering the knob and pushing the door open with his hip.
“Be quick with it, then. I have this wild need to strip naked and--.”
She saw Elliott before he did.
The glint off the revolver told Quinn he was there, sitting in the darkened office at the mammoth desk once used by their father. Elliott had been waiting for them, he realized. Just as Quinn had waited to confront him for four long years.
The time to settle their score had come.
“Get out of here, Hannah,” he said roughly, never taking his eyes off Elliott and the weapon he wielded. “Wait outside until I come for you.”
“No.” Elliott cocked the hammer, the sound lethal in the stillness of the office. “I want to see her.”
Quinn’s fingers tightened reflexively over Hannah’s. “This has nothing to do with her. Let her go.”
“Open the drapes, Hannah. That’s what he called you, wasn’t it? Hannah?”
A tremble went through her. “Yes.”
The revolver jerked toward the window. “Open the drapes. Like I told you.”
Elliott had never been a patient man. Quinn gestured to Hannah to obey, hating it when her hand left his, that he could no longer protect her with the shield of his body.
A dusky light spread inward with the parting of the heavy fabric, and Quinn studied his brother. A shock of unruly hair had fallen over his forehead. He needed a shave, clean clothes. The collar of his rumpled shirt hung open at the throat, his tie slung forgotten around his neck. A bottle of Cyrus Noble Whiskey sat in front of him. Its contents were nearly gone.
Elliott had always been fastidious about his appearance. And he could never hold his liquor.
His heavy-lidded gaze dragged over Hannah, from the feathers on her hat down to the toes of her kid-leather shoes and back up again.
He turned to Quinn.
“I heard you had a woman with you. You married to her?” he drawled.
“Yes,” Quinn said, and knew James Steadman had not been gone long from the house.
“You work fast. Go into prison a condemned man. Escape. Come back married. Christ.” He tossed back the last of the whiskey in his glass and refilled it. “Welcome to our happy family, Hannah.”
She stiffened at his mockery. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His mouth formed a cold smile. “She’s a polite little beauty, Quinn. You could always get ‘em, couldn’t you?” He waved the crystal glass in the air. “The most beautiful women in the land, falling at the almighty Quinn Landry’s feet.”
“It wasn’t like that, Elliott, and you know it.”
“The hell it wasn’t.”
“Sarah was prettier than most.”
The glass hurled against the fireplace. “Sarah was a whining bitch!”
Hannah flinched.
“She was as fine a ranch wife as a man could find,” Quinn shot back. “She loved you.” He strode forward, his bitterness, four years’ worth, straining to burst free. “Why did you kill her? If you hated me so much, why did you kill her?”
Elliott glared at him, looking like the devil himself. He took a gulp of whiskey, straight from the bottle. “I didn’t intend to at first. It just happened.”
“You planned to overdose me with Manny’s medicine that night at the hotel. You started early, slowly, increasing the dosages as the night wore on.” Quinn took a step closer to the desk. To Elliott.
The revolver jerked. Hannah emitted a whimper of alarm.
“How much did you pay the barmaid, my dear brother, to sedate me with so much bromide my heart would stop beating?” Quinn said with a snarl, a feral sound in the confines of the room. “What was it worth to you?”
“It was a bargain!” Elliott yelled. “She was the best damned deal I ever made!”
Quinn steeled himself against the pain those words inflicted. “But you failed, didn’t you? I didn’t get enough of the bromide. Sarah interrupted your plan to finish me off in my room. You raped her, and then you killed her. And Humphrey too.”
“No!” Elliott leaned forward, his eyes bloodshot. “I never killed Humphrey.”
“Yes, you did. You killed him because of what you did to Sarah. He saw everything.”
“You can’t pin the old man’s death on me.”
“The hell I can’t.”
“You’re lying.”
Quinn was relentless. “Stephen Larson supplied you with the sedatives. You paid him well for his trouble.”
“How do you know that?”
“Then you hired a shyster lawyer from the East to manipulate the evidence and send me to prison. And you finished your job by paying James Steadman to print the story--your version of it--in all the papers.
Elliott’s throat bobbed. He’d grown pale in the shadow-streaked room. “No one will believe you. You’re a convicted murderer. Your reputation is ruined. No one will believe you, damn it!”
“I’ll make them believe it.” Quinn spat the vow. “I have the evidence.”
Panic flashed across Elliott’s features, his control fast slipping in the light of Quinn’s revelations. “What evidence?”
He tossed the black flannel bag onto the desktop.
“Everything is there. George Larson’s coroner’s report on Sarah. His notes on me. On Manny. All the information on bromide any judge and jury will ever want to know.” Quinn tossed the money bag aside and leaned against the desk, gripping the edges tight. “Everything.”
Sweat beaded on Elliott’s brow. He fell back against his chair. “How did you get this?”
“It’s called survival, big brother.” He pushed away from the desk in disgust.
Elliott’s breaths came in quick pants. “You’re just saying this to scare me.”
“Open the bag. Read what’s inside.”
“I’ll destroy everything.”
“Go ahead. Jody has carbon copies.”
Elliott swore, flitted a wild glance over Hannah, and finished off the last of the whiskey in one gulp.
“I ought to kill you right now,” he said hoarsely, giving the revolver an unsteady swing. “Both of you.”
Quinn faced him squarely. “Are you going to kill everyone who gets in your way? You won’t win. Not this time.”
“Y
ou think you have all the answers, don’t you?” he sneered.
“Most of them.” He watched Elliott closely, tried to gauge how long before he’d break. “There’s one thing I don’t know.”
Sweating, Elliott waited.
“Rosa had Manny with her on the day she died. After she was thrown from her horse, did you hit him?”
He appeared taken aback. For a long moment, he didn’t reply.
“He was crying,” Elliott said finally, the words slurred. “Rosa had taken the horse--a mare we were trying to breed. I was angry she’d taken it. The kid wouldn’t stop crying. Christ, he wouldn’t stop, and so I thumped him on the head.” He lifted his eyes to Quinn. “Just a little thump.”
Tears snaked down his unshaven cheeks. Quinn gaped at him.
“Then he started having those damned seizures. I know it was my fault he went insane--.”
“Insane?” Quinn frowned. “It was the epilepsy.”
“He wasn’t normal, I tell you!” Elliott grew agitated again. “He was touched in the head! He belonged in an asylum, but you were determined to take care of him. You and Sarah. And then Sarah started whining to have a baby of her own.” A strangled sound wrenched from his throat. “What if she had one like Manny? Another lunatic?”
“He wasn’t a lunatic!” Quinn roared,
Hannah flew to him. “Quinn, please.”
“So you quit giving him his medicine?” he demanded, incredulous, furious.
“How the hell did I know he’d die from one of those attacks of his?” Elliott snapped, chest heaving. He swiped his coat sleeve across his cheek. “It wasn’t my fault he died!”
“Yes! It was!”
“And I suppose it’s my fault this damned ranch is falling apart. And my fault that T.J. loved you more than he ever loved me. Christ, the sun rose and set on you, y’know that? Sometimes, it made me so sick to see him look at you, I’d have to go somewhere and puke.”
Quinn swallowed, stunned.
“He didn’t even want me calling him Pa. Bet you never knew that, did you? Made me call him T.J., like everyone else. God, he was a hard-hearted sonuvabitch!”
His pain, all the more powerful for the years he’d kept it locked inside, rocked Quinn.