by Pam Crooks
Quinn reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a pair of rolled cigarettes. Flicking his thumbnail over a match tip, he lighted one and handed it to Bobby. The foreman accepted with a nod. Quinn lit the second cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Ed can handle it from here,” he decided, speaking of the cowhand riding flank with the herd. Ed Simpson was the most experienced of the trio. “We’ll head on over to the ranch and let Juan know they’re coming.”
Bobby agreed. “What’s Hannah plannin’ for supper?”
“Stew and biscuits, I think.” Amused, Quinn glanced over at him. He wasn’t blind to the foreman’s change of topic or his way of thinking. “Want to join us?”
“No, thanks,” he sighed.
“She’s got mince pie for dessert.”
Bobby glanced at him beneath the Stetson’s brim. “Mince, eh?”
“Peach, too.”
His windburned face reflected temptation. “Reckon if I had a wife like her, I wouldn’t want to share her company. I’ll eat at the bunkhouse.”
“She’d be pleased to have you with us.” Quinn’s gaze roamed the horizon. He pulled in another drag from the cigarette. “The invitation stands. I won’t ask a second time, Bobby.”
Three horses descended into the valley. With them, someone on foot.
He hardly heard his foreman’s response. Quinn exhaled, leaned forward in the saddle, and strained to see into the distance.
“That look like a woman to you?” His muscles coiled, one by one.
Bobby pulled his attention from the herd. He studied the group hard. “She’s leashed to ‘em. Like a dog.”
“It’s Hannah. Christ.” Quinn flung the cigarette into the dirt. He rose up in the stirrups, slid a sharp, piercing whistle through his teeth. Ed and the two cowboys rode up immediately. One look into the valley, and they knew there was trouble.
Quinn unshucked his rifle from the scabbard. The men reached for theirs. “Whatever happens, I don’t want her hurt. Hear me?”
Their somber nods assured him, and Quinn kicked his horse into a run, the others close behind. The iron hooves thundered down the hill. Hannah’s head lifted. She bolted toward Quinn, but the length of rope jerked her back, the gag muffling her cry.
Quinn halted with a savage yank on the reins. Bobby and the others fanned out on either side of him. The simultaneous cocking of their rifles split the air.
“You lousy sons-of-bitches,” Quinn said with a snarl.
“We meet again, Mr. Landry,” Fenwick said, signaling the others to pull up. “And my, my, it is a pleasure.”
Quinn longed to ram his fist down the man’s sarcastic throat. “Untie her!”
“In time, in time.” A smile, cool and lethal, spread across Fenwick’s face. “But, of course, that won’t be possible until all your men have put down their weapons.”
He’d expected the ultimatum. Fenwick was no fool.
“This has nothing to do with Hannah. Let her go,” Quinn ordered. “It’s me you want.”
“I do, indeed, want you, Mr. Landry,” Fenwick said softly.
“She ain’t going nowhere, and you’re stupid if you think she is!” Briggs spat. “Now let’s cut to the chase and have your men put them damned rifles away.”
“I’ll handle this, Warden,” Fenwick snapped.
“All this pussy-footin’ around ain’t getting us nowhere!”
“I said I’ll handle it!”
The two men glared at each other. Between them, Hannah fidgeted, her anxiety to be free pulling at Quinn.
“I want her set loose,” he said to Fenwick. “My men will take her out of the valley. Then we’ll settle this your way.”
“Our way includes your lovely wife. Removing her from the situation is not part of the plan.”
“I’ll come to you unarmed.” Quinn spoke between his clenched teeth. “I’ll send the others back to the ranch.”
Titus leaned forward. “I say let her go, like he wants. He’d be defenseless. We’d have the advantage.”
Briggs and Fenwick stared at him.
“Will you just keep your damned fool mouth shut, Titus?” Briggs shouted.
The scar leapt on the guard’s cheek. Abruptly, he hurtled from the saddle, stepped around Briggs’ horse and snatched Hannah by the arm.
“I’m sick of you yellin’ at me to shut up, Warden,” he screamed. “This woman ain’t guilty of nothin’! Now give her over so’s we can take care of Landry and be done with it!”
He yanked on Hannah, but Briggs kept the rope taut, and she swayed like a marionette on strings.
The warden swore and moved for his Winchester. The rope loosened, and Hannah leapt forward, but Fenwick reached down and grabbed a handful of the auburn curls on her head, jerking her back. He pressed his rifle to her temple.
Quinn’s heart forgot to beat. Briggs cocked his gun and fired. Titus spun and fell to the ground, writhing, blood spurting across the front of his chest.
Lightning quick, Bobby and the rest of the cowboys leveled their weapons on Briggs.
“No!” Quinn roared. “I don’t want Hannah hit!”
The warden fired again, and the guard lay motionless.
A tremor went through Quinn. It could have been Hannah lying in the tall grass.
Sweet Jesus. It could have been Hannah.
Resolutely, he tossed his rifle to the ground. He commanded the others to follow suit.
“You crazy, Quinn?” Bobby hissed under his breath.
“Drop ‘em!” He swung out of the saddle, taking his gloves with him on the way down.
One after the other, the grim-faced men discarded their rifles.
“Now get back.” Quinn kept Briggs and Fenwick in his range of vision. He pulled the gloves on, snug over each finger. “Do it, Bobby.”
He lifted his hands into the air and stepped forward cautiously. He didn’t look back to see if his men obeyed. The muffled trod of retreating hooves told him they did.
“All right. You got me,” he said. His glance darted over Fenwick and Briggs. “I’m unarmed. My men won’t interfere. Now let Hannah go.”
A cold, mirthless laugh left Fenwick’s throat. “I’ve been waiting a long time to destroy you, Mr. Landry.”
“She had nothing to do with your damned drug. Don’t hold her accountable for something I did.”
“How much is she worth to you?” he demanded. “As much as my Solution?”
“More.” The word rumbled from the cavern of his chest.
“I thought so.” He jerked harder on Hannah’s curls, yanked her head at an awkward angle and kept the gun at her temple. “My Solution meant a fortune to me. You knew that, didn’t you? A fortune.”
Quinn said nothing.
“Fifty thousand, at least. Maybe a hundred.”
Hannah whimpered, squeezed her eyes tight.
“The Star L ranch is worth that, don’t you think?”
Quinn thought of John Mahoney’s ledgers, of the accounts Elliott had squandered.
“I don’t know,” he hedged.
“Quarter-million acres,” Fenwick went on. “That’s a helluva lot of land. Sell them acres off, one after another. You’d be a rich man.” His lip curled. “Or should I say, I would.” He yanked again on the silky curls. “Is she worth a quarter-million acres, Mr. Landry?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
Hannah’s eyes flew open again. She shook her head vehemently, twisting beneath Fenwick’s grasp. Hazel-green eyes beseeched him to refuse.
“The Star L is yours,” Quinn said. “Just give me my wife back.”
“He’s lying to you, Fenwick,” Briggs snapped. His features contorted with disdain. “He ain’t gonna give up his ranch that easy. Don’t think that he is.”
Briggs tossed the end of the rope into Fenwick’s lap. His fingers flexed over the handle on the cat o’ nine tails.
Slowly, he rode the horse forward. The knotted ends of the “cat” dragged along the grass.
/> Quinn eyed the warden closely, the nightmare of the whip still vivid in his memory. Fear gnawed at his belly that Hannah would feel its sting, that her soft flesh would be ripped open by the slash of the leather.
He moved. Away from Titus’ dead body. Away from Hannah.
The whip cracked, sent the tops of the grass flying.
“I know your kind, Landry,” Briggs jeered. “I spent half my life in that stinking prison with men just like you. You’re lying to us, ain’t you? You got no intention of giving us a dime. Not even for that pretty wife of yours.”
“You won’t know until you hand her over to me, will you?” Quinn pulled his Stetson from his head, threw it aside.
“You toying with me, boy?”
“Just laying a few ground rules.”
“You always was an arrogant cuss, wasn’t you? Better than anybody else in that prison. Like the rest of us was horseshit.”
“Yes,” Quinn said darkly. “Horseshit.”
The warden snarled and lifted his arm. The “cat” snaked through the air, bit across Quinn’s shoulder and chest.
He hissed in a breath at the pain searing through his shirt, across his nerve endings.
Briggs kept the horse moving.
Stalking him.
“You like the feel of that, Landry?” he taunted. “Show your wife what it’s like to have a whip across her back. Just so she knows what it’s like when it’s her turn.”
“She’s a mite smaller than you, Briggs,” Quinn rumbled. “Makes you feel good to overpower a woman, doesn’t it? Especially when she can’t defend herself.”
“Shut up, Landry!”
The whip slashed again, a deafening crack in his ears.
But this time, Quinn knew just how far the “cat” would reach, how many fractions of a second Briggs needed to use it. His body swiveled, and the whip missed its mark.
Briggs let out a bellow of rage.
“I’m gonna make you pay for breaking out my prison, Landry. And she’s gonna pay for helping you do it!”
His arm flung back again. Quinn lunged and met the “cat” as it was coming down. His gloved palms stung from the union and curled around the leather tight.
He gritted his teeth and hung on. Briggs dug his heels into the stirrups and stood up straight-legged to wrestle the whip free. But where Quinn clung with both hands, the warden had only one, and he was nearly pulled from the saddle for his efforts.
He swore viciously. The rifle in the other hand raised and leveled over Quinn.
A shot exploded behind Briggs. He jerked. His eyes bulged. His mouth fell open in surprise. The “cat” fell free, and Quinn stumbled back from the unexpectedness of it.
Briggs toppled from his horse--dead in a pool of blood.
The Star L rifles still lay in the grass. Quinn whirled in search of the man who fired the shot.
Bobby and the others twisted in their saddles, searching, too.
But no one searched harder than Fenwick. His Winchester trembled in his hand, Hannah forgotten in his quest to find the unseen killer.
She bolted. The cowboys raced toward her, enclosing her in a protective circle, shielding her with their horses and bodies. Quinn grabbed the rifles, tossing one to each of them, taking the last for himself.
Riders streamed down the hill at the opposite end of the valley. They were led by one man, dressed in black and wearing a beaded sombrero.
Fenwick went white. His gaze raked over the bodies lying on the ground.
He stood alone against them all. Quinn and the Star L cowboys stood in front of him. A band of Mexican bandeleros in back. All heavily armed.
He seemed panicked, unsure whom to shoot at first. He yanked the reins in one direction, then the other. The horse whinnied and pranced at his indecision.
The Mexican leader rode toward him. Fenwick licked his thin lips and took aim.
But the bandelero was ready for him. His horse never broke stride and he fired the shot.
It took only one bullet to the heart. Fenwick fell to the ground with the others and went limp.
Relief thundered through Quinn. Bobby bent over and undid the kerchief stretched across Hannah’s mouth, then untied the rope binding her wrists. The circle of horses parted, and she ran to Quinn’s side. He rasped her name and held her hard against him.
A carriage appeared on the horizon. Black and gold and gleaming with elegance. One of the bandeleros left the band and escorted the rig closer. The leader slowed, letting them catch up.
The snaggle-toothed Mexican, Miguel, braked the rig to a stop. Beside him, Ramon Huerta held a tiny bundle in his arms. Tomas Huerta took the bundle, held it affectionately against him, and rode toward the leader.
Together they rode toward Quinn and Hannah. They paused only to flit their dark-eyed glances over the dead bodies. Then the leader tossed back his sombrero onto its chin cord.
Long, black hair tumbled from inside the crown. Sophia smiled, proud and motherly. Tomas leaned over and set the bundle into her waiting arms.
“At last, mi bebe precioso,” she said. She opened the blanket and pressed a tender kiss to the baby-soft forehead inside. “Frank Briggs is dead, and he will never chase us again.”
Chapter 23
“I could not rest until I knew they were dead,” Sophia said, strolling with Hannah through the newly-planted flower garden in the Landrys’ backyard. “I had to see them with my own eyes--their bodies in the dirt, their hearts no longer pumping the lifeblood through them. Only then, could I raise my son without fear.”
“Yes,” said Hannah somberly, understanding.
After the pass into their hideout had been blasted shut, the Huertas and the bandeleros had hidden in the hills until Frank Briggs, Titus and Roger Fenwick were long gone. They returned for the rustled cattle and wild mustangs, then herded them south. On the journey, Sophia’s baby was born.
Thinking of him, Hannah turned and rested her gaze on the wicker basket on the porch where the little one slept, oblivious to the danger his parents had endured for his sake.
“I feared Briggs would find Tomas and take him from me again,” Sophia said, bending to touch a vibrant red rosebud. “And from our son. Always, the fear was there, and I tired of it.” She straightened again, her dark eyes showing no remorse from what she’d done. “So we headed north to Amarillo. I wanted to find you and Senor Landry. I knew Frank Briggs would want to find you, too.” She shrugged. “Then I knew it would only be a matter of time.”
“I can’t bear to think of what might have happened if you’d arrived too late.” Hannah shuddered at the terror she’d endured with Quinn in Sundown Valley. “God forgive me, but those men’s deaths are a relief to everyone.”
“Si.” Sophia paused, and in a rare show of affection, took Hannah’s hands into hers. “I am pleased with my matchmaking. You are very happy with your new husband, no?”
Hannah’s throat welled with emotion. “More than you can imagine.”
“So there will be a baby in your arms when I see you again.”
A baby. Sudden tears filled Hannah’s eyes. How could she possibly think of having Quinn’s child some day?
“What’s this?” A slender finger brushed a stubborn drop of moisture from Hannah’s cheek. “Something is wrong. Tell me.”
She blinked furiously. “I cannot stay here.”
“What?” Sophia was astounded. “But you have just told me you are very happy with Senor Landry.”
“I am. But--but I have taken vows at the convent, Sophia. Because of them, I should not have married Quinn. I must return to Mother Superior.”
“Oh, I see.”
Hannah’s misery deepened at the seriousness in Sophia’s tone.
“He will not let you go,” Sophia said with conviction.
Unable to speak, Hannah could only nod.
“But you must go back. This I understand.”
“Yes.”
Impulsively, Sophia wrapped her arms around Hannah’s shoulders.
Hannah clung to her strength.
“Por Dios. It will not be easy for you. But you must promise me this.” She drew back and cupped Hannah’s cheek. “Return to the convent when the time is right in your heart. Only then, will you be able to decide your future with a clear conscience.”
Hannah clutched the small leather pouch in her palm. It held enough coins to buy her a ticket to the convent. The Huertas had long since left, and a thousand times she’d recalled Sophia’s advice.
Now, the time was right in her heart. Hannah could delay the trip no longer.
Calving season was over, and the promise of large herds roaming Star L rangeland gratified Quinn, as well as John Mahoney. The ranch accounts showed signs of stabilizing, and Quinn’s prominence as a cattleman remained strong.
He’d brought her to Amarillo for a few days of shopping and visiting with newfound friends. But he had gone on to a neighboring cattleman’s ranch farther east, taking Bobby with him to consider the purchase of some fine-blooded bulls to breed with the Star L stock.
He’d left just this morning. She could still taste his kiss on her lips.
He promised her an elegant evening out when he returned. Dinner. The theater. And, afterward, as much fiery lovemaking as she could give him in their big hotel bed.
She wouldn’t be here when he came back. She would do none of those things with him.
Hannah dabbed a lace handkerchief to the corner of her eyes and grew impatient with the emotion that arose when she least expected it. She cried too often of late. She had to be strong.
A knock sounded on the hotel door. She blew her nose quickly, dabbed a cool washcloth to her eyes, and drew in a long, steadying breath.
“Come in,” she said.
Jody stepped inside, punctual as usual. Quinn had asked him to take her to lunch and entrusted her to his care while he was gone. There were few to whom he would have given the privilege, and Jody had been quick to accept.
He removed his bowler and grinned a wolfish grin.
“At last, pretty lady. I have you all to myself now that that rutting stag you call your husband is gone.”
Her lip quivered.