by Robin Gideon
“I’m going back to the bank,” Gregg told Tookie. “Make sure nobody sees you going to Helen’s homestead. And once the fire’s going, don’t ride straight back to Whitetail Creek. Make sure you’re not being followed. Come see me tomorrow at noon at Pamela G’s. I’ll give you and your boys a nice bonus.”
Tookie nodded his understanding. He had never eaten at Pamela G’s restaurant, though he knew it was the most exclusive eatery in Whitetail Creek.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Neilson,” Tookie said after a moment. “Me an’ the boys’ll do a good job for you. There won’t be a twig left standing on her homestead.”
“There’d better not be,” Gregg replied then tapped his spurs to the palomino’s flanks.
The horse bolted into an easy trot it could maintain for hours. Gregg felt markedly better astride the palomino now that Tookie and his gang were receding in the distance. Gregg accepted as fact that Tookie and his ilk were necessary cogs in the gears of the Neilson profit-making machine—he just wished that he didn’t actually have to see, talk, or hear the man or his minions.
Gregg tapped his heels to the mare. He needed to get to the bank, where everyone could see him, before the smoke started filling the sky. He wanted there to be plenty of witnesses who could testify where he was and what he was doing when his fiancée’s home and barn went up in flames like a tinderbox.
* * * *
“What’s going through that brain of yours, Gregg Neilson?” Helen asked, standing in the doorway to his office at the bank.
Gregg leaned back in his swivel chair as he laced his fingers behind his neck. The buttons of his vest nearly popped at the pressure put on them. Wealth, and a penchant for the delicious apple and blueberry pies—and always topped with a generous scoop of the vanilla ice cream she had imported from St. Louis in a refrigerated freight railcar—sold at Pamela G’s restaurant located just a mere one hundred yards from the bank, had been adding steadily to his girth for going on two years now. He seemed oblivious to the inescapable fact that the new wardrobe he bought each year had to be a size or more larger than the previous year.
“I was just wondering when you’d finally make up your mind on a date to get married, Helen,” Gregg replied after several seconds. In a tone less cordial, he added, “You still haven’t given me a date.”
Helen felt the blood drain from her face. This was not the conversation she wanted to have with her fiancé. For weeks she had been avoiding the question. Now, after having had her eyes opened in a thousand different ways by an utterly enigmatic and thoroughly erotic man named Jared Parker, Helen most definitely didn’t want to engage in that particular topic of conversation.
“Gregg, there are a lot of difficult things going on in my life right now that—”
“Yes, I know. You’ve told me all about your brother,” he said sharply, cutting her off. His tone suggested something less than empathy toward her financial plight. “The instant you marry me, he won’t be a financial burden to you.”
Suddenly discovering that a lie might be much more palatable to Gregg than the truth, Helen adopted an expression of utter seriousness. She replied, “He’s my responsibility, not yours.” Gregg’s gaze focused on her, and Helen knew she’d better make the lie one that her so-called fiancé wouldn’t want to hear. “My darling, if you married me now, you’d be burdened with my burdens. That wouldn’t be fair to you. I couldn’t look myself in the mirror if I knew that our marriage had caused you to become liable for all of my brother’s medical bills.”
Gregg cocked his head a little to one side, looking rather comically like a dog who has heard a sound it doesn’t recognize. In a low, wary tone he asked, “What do you mean by saying that his bills would become my bills?”
Helen batted her lashes and looked away, showing in her posture and demeanor that she was searching her memory. She could feel Gregg’s gaze upon her, studying her, waiting for her next sentence. She knew it had to be a good one. Lying didn’t come naturally to Helen, but despite her inexperience she knew that her next one she told would have to be the most believable one of her life.
“I’m certain that I read about it in the newspaper several months ago,” Helen said, dissembling as she went on. “The territorial governor signed the law into effect. It had to do with a husband assuming the responsibilities of his wife’s financial obligations.” Liking the way the lie sounded—and, more importantly, liking the way that Gregg had suddenly gone pale—Helen leaned toward. In words barely above a whisper, she said, “I just couldn’t hold my head up with pride if I knew that our marriage forced you to pay the bills from that sanitarium in Colorado. My brother’s getting better, but he’ll still have to be there for months and months, and there’s no real telling what that will cost.”
Unable to look Helen directly in the eyes, Gregg turned his chair toward the windows and said, somewhat ambiguously, “I had no idea our marriage might be so…expensive.”
Helen studied his expression, afraid that she would put a curse upon herself for thinking bad thoughts, yet desperately wanting Gregg to be the one to call off the wedding. Should she suggest, softly but with great sincerity, that she would understand if Gregg didn’t want to marry her? He might jump at the idea. But, then again, particularly when one considered how many times he’d demanded a date for their wedding—which she always ignored—her plea of understanding might well come off as being the lie that it was.
“Step into the office, Helen,” Gregg said quietly, turning his chair to face her. “What we’re discussing shouldn’t become grist for gossip by Marcus and the others.”
Helen stepped into Gregg’s office and closed the door behind her.
“I’m so glad you’re being understanding about—”
Helen’s words were cut off in mid-sentence when Gregg grabbed her by the shoulders, twisting and pushing her simultaneously until her back was against the oak paneled wall, and leaned into her, his fleshy lips searching for hers.
“Gregg! What are you—”
This time her sentence was cut off by Gregg’s mouth, which was fleshy and slippery with an overabundance of saliva when it sealed over hers. The kiss was painfully harsh, punishing, defiling. The hands that went rapidly from Helen’s shoulders to her breasts were no less unpleasant, masculine fingers that had never known a callus digging painfully deep into pliant feminine mounds.
She had been kissed before by Gregg, but now that she had Jared to compare him to, the sensation of having her fiancé’s lips pressing hungrily, desperately against her own was so offensive it nearly made her retch. Twisting her head around sharply, she ended the kiss. Even more shockingly, she put her hands on Gregg’s chest and shoved with all her might. With her back to the wall, and Gregg flat-footed and self-assured, the banker went toppling backward, landing first on his fleshy backside, and then tumbling backward further until his head connected rather soundly—with a resonating thunk!—against the hardwood floor.
He immediately pushed himself to a sitting position. The look in his eyes was murderous, and Helen saw it for precisely what it was. But then, after only a few seconds, the expression evolved into one of imperious benevolence.
“Obviously, I made a mistake,” Gregg said.
He had to roll over onto his hands and knees before he could push himself up to a standing position. Watching his laborious moves, Helen was appalled at the coordination difference between Jared and Gregg. It was like trying to compare the sleek, effortless agility of an alpha wolf to the movements of an aging, overfed housedog. One was primal and one was a pet. Helen, coming to this awareness, damn near laughed aloud.
“I do apologize, dear,” Gregg said conversationally, as though he hadn’t just been knocked on his ass by a woman. “Perhaps it’s best I get back to work. When the work day’s done, I’ll give you a ride back to your homestead.” He smiled openly, without malice. That, in itself, was enough to make Helen suspicious. “And I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”
Helen was trying
hard to not smile victoriously. Straight-faced and pretending affront, she replied, “Thank you, Gregg. That will be appreciated.” And then she left her fiancé’s office, hoping and praying that she would never again have to be sullied by his lips touching hers, his slender fingers touching her breasts, his tongue searching for a response that he could never possibly inspire from her.
* * * *
Marcus stepped up to Helen’s elbow as she worked at her high, slanted desk. Helen looked at him and smiled, but Marcus did not smile back.
“Are you angry with me?” Helen asked in a whisper. She had spent a lot of time thinking about the things that she had done with Marcus, but no amount of cogitation seemed sufficient to bring mental clarity. “If you are, I’m very sorry. I wouldn’t ever want to do anything that would destroy our friendship.”
Marcus gave her an almost imperceptible shake. His eyes flittered left and right to make sure that his words would only be heard by Helen. “I was just wondering if you were mad at me.”
Helen’s brow furrowed, and she felt an instant sense of relief. “Why would I be mad at you?”
Marcus stepped even closer. “Let’s face it. Jared’s your beau, not mine. You were decent enough to let me experience”—words failed him for a moment, before the single, perfect word came once again to mind—“divine. Yes, you allow me to experience divine by loving me enough to share Jared. That’s something I’ll never be able to thank you enough for.”
Helen made a passing move with her hand as though to physically wipe away any sense of obligation. Marcus shook his head, refusing to let his friend so casually diminish his indebtedness.
“It wasn’t just Jared, it was you, too,” Marcus whispered as his cheeks began to color with embarrassment. “You…well, we both know what you watched me do.” This brought color to Helen’s cheeks as well. “I feel like there’s an obligation to you that I haven’t fulfilled.” The tip of his tongue slipped out to moisten lips that had suddenly gone dry. “I’ve never felt so filled in my life.” His eyes closed, and a shiver worked its way through his slender body. With wonderment in his tone, he added, “My God, Helen, the things that I felt. I can’t possibly find the right words to describe what I experienced.” He shivered again then looked Helen straight in the eyes and squared her shoulders. “So whenever you want me to repay the favor, all you have to do is ask.”
Helen smiled, but before she could think of the right reply, Samantha Murchison and Amanda Nichols, friends of hers as well as Marcus’s, walked into the bank. From inside his office, Gregg called out in his annoyingly imperious voice, “Come into my office, ladies.”
“What do you suppose that’s about?” Helen asked, quite willing to let the topic of conversation take a radical change.
Chapter Thirteen
Twenty minutes later, Helen watched as her friends stepped out of Gregg’s office, both looking rather white-faced and shaken. Helen noticed that Gregg hadn’t bothered to be gentlemanly enough to escort the women to his office door, much less out of the bank. In fact, he hadn’t even shown them the respect of rising out of his chair.
To Marcus, Helen whispered, “Go after them. Find out what Gregg did that’s got them both looking white as ghosts.”
“I can’t leave my desk. Mr. Neilson would—”
“You just let me worry about Gregg,” Helen replied sharply.
Marcus hurried out of the bank, his departure unnoticed by Gregg. Helen eased out of her chair and was halfway to Gregg’s door when Jerome Neilson stepped into the bank. Striding purposefully, he stepped into his son’s office.
“We’ll have that chicken ranch soon,” Gregg said, smiling. “And at a price you’ll like.”
Jerome’s back was to Helen as he nodded. “Good. But just to be on the safe side, send a couple boys to their house ’round midnight. Let them know that the price keeps going down the longer they hold out.” He chuckled, and the sound of his soft laughter made Helen feel hollow inside. There was no joy in the sound that Jerome emitted. Just heartless greed and kingly ambition. “And send some riders over to that other place by the chicken ranch. Scare the hell out of them.”
“Sure,” Gregg replied. “I know the place you’re talking about. A father and some of his boys.”
Helen went back to her desk, her head spinning. She had known that Gregg and Jerome were evil, but nothing her imagination had concocted could prepare her for the truth—that the Neilsons were prepared to use violence to get property they wanted. Even worse, they were prepared to use violence against women.
She heard Gregg say, “Come on in and close the door. It’s been one hell of a good day.”
Helen went back to her desk, her heart beating furiously, her breath coming in desperate little gulps. She had to warn Amanda Nichols and Samantha Murchison that bad men were coming. And who had property near their poultry farm? Someone else was going to have a very bad night, as well. Helen wished she knew who to warn.
* * * *
The tears rolled silently down Helen’s cheeks. She sat speechless with sorrow in Gregg’s lavish carriage, staring at the smoldering remains of what had been her house and barn. The unmistakable stench of burning flesh and hair told her that her mare had died in the barn.
“This wasn’t an accident,” Helen whispered then sobbed. She had lost everything. Everything.
“Had it been just your house or just your barn, it might have been an accident. Both burning tells me that this fire was intentionally set,” Gregg replied.
Gregg put his arm around Helen’s shoulders. She flinched at his touch and pushed his arm away. “Please don’t,” she said.
“I’m only trying to comfort you.”
There was no doubt in Helen’s mind as to who was responsible for the fire. Gregg. He wasn’t the one who actually set the blaze, but he was surely the one who gave the orders. Though she wanted to curse and scream and shout of her hatred for the man, for now the only real emotion in Helen toward Gregg was one of utter contempt. She also knew that she couldn’t allow him to be aware of her real emotions. She couldn’t let him know that she saw through his false businessman’s facade to the unspeakably vile monster that was so carefully hidden.
“Come home with me,” Gregg said quietly. “There are plenty of rooms. You’ll have everything you could ever wish for. Come home with me, Helen. You’ll live like a queen.”
Helen dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief already damp with tears. “No, that wouldn’t look right. Will you please take me back to town? I…I can stay with Marcus until I can figure out what to do next.”
“I don’t give a damn about appearances or about what anyone in Whitetail Creek thinks,” Gregg continued. “Besides, how would it look to have you staying with Marcus?”
Helen gave him a look of incredulity. There weren’t many people in town who would think anything illicit was happening should she spend a few nights in Marcus’s small, tidy home.
“Come home with me,” Gregg continued. “You can have a room to yourself. Hell, you can have a whole wing to yourself. And don’t worry about appearances because, if somebody starts talking, I’ll make sure they shut up quick. Real damned quick.”
By having your hired gunmen beat them up or kill them? thought Helen, knowing that she could never put such thoughts to words.
“Please, just take me to Marcus’s.”
Gregg slapped the reins to his carriage horse, muttering, “You can be the most stubborn woman Whitetail Creek’s ever seen.”
* * * *
Jared and Helen arrived at the poultry farm shortly after eight o’clock. Since Helen had lost everything in the fire except the clothes she had worn that morning, Jared had paid for the rented, fifteen-year-old gelding from the livery stable, along with a saddle that looked every bit as old as the animal. But the horse, to its credit, was gentle, well-trained, and sure-footed—necessary requirements, since Helen had ridden in a saddle less than a dozen times in her life.
“Jerome told
Gregg to send some men here around midnight,” Helen explained, inside the house but still standing near the front door. “We’ve still got hours to prepare.”
Samantha, younger than her friend and feisty enough to have refused marriage repeatedly, said through clenched teeth, “That bastard told us that if we didn’t sell out to him within a week that we could expect accidents to start happening. Amanda and I have worked hard building up this place. We’ve got nearly two dozen brooding hens and three times that many butchering and stew-pot chickens. In a year, maybe two, we’ll have twenty times that number.” She looked to Amanda for confirmation. “Folks in Whitetail Creek like their eggs and chickens fresh, and we can deliver that to them.”
Jared, standing behind Helen, said, “But you can’t make a profit if you’re dead. And it’s damned hard to earn a living when everything you’ve got burns to the ground. What happened to Helen’s homestead could happen here, too. Tonight is most likely just going to be a show of force, a little something to scare you. Later on, Gregg won’t play around. If he wants this property, he’ll just burn everything to the ground—most likely with you two in it—and take what he wants.” He put his hands on Helen’s shoulders and sighed softly, tired of dangerous, vile men foisting their grandiose schemes on an unsuspecting world. “I hope you’ve got some guns around this place.”
The nearest ranch belonged to friends of Samantha’s and Amanda’s, a man in his fifties with his two sons in their late teens. They had been trying for years to scratch out a living selling beef and leather to merchants in Whitetail Creek while at the same time prospecting in the hills for gold. At best, the man and his sons had been moderately successful in both business ventures.
“You can’t miss their place,” Samantha said to Jared. “Follow the road maybe three-quarters of a mile. It’s just over the hill. You’ll see it on your right.”