by Jill Gregory
Frank Mangley. Disgust broke over her as she realized the implications of his words, added to what she’d heard at Cougar Pass. “Do you mean that Frank Mangley is behind this? He … he wants to murder his brother’s widow and daughter? Why? Because he doesn’t want to share the mine with them?” she asked incredulously.
Ratlin’s grin was pure evil. “That’s about it, Miz Spoon. Not every family’s as cozy as yours. Especially since Mangley found a new vein of silver—worth five times what the rest of it was. The widow Mangley doesn’t even know anything about it—I mean, she didn’t know anything about it. And now… she never will,” he finished with a dry chuckle.
“You’re despicable,” she whispered, shaking her head. Dazed horror filled her. “And as for Mangley …”
Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t think of anything low enough to say about Frank Mangley. Ratlin merely shrugged again and poured more coffee into his tin cup.
“Mangley’s a smart man. He worked out this plan with Sleech. Sleech got word to me—knowing I was getting out soon—and to Jenks, who came to Lonesome and got himself a job as a wrangler at some ranch. I brought in your uncle—who, by the way, insisted he wouldn’t do the job without his son and nephew. Yep, we put ourselves together a good bunch—all hard men, experienced. And now all that’s left is to divvy up the money. And take care of you,” he finished matter-of-factly.
“You don’t have to kill me. I won’t tell anyone—I wouldn’t turn in my own family,” she said. But it was a lie. Once, perhaps, it would have been the truth, but that was before … before the murders. She knew that changed everything, and, she feared, so did Ratlin.
The thought of turning in Jake, Pete, and Lester ripped her apart, but she’d do it if she got away. She couldn’t let them go unpunished for cold-blooded murder. They might kill again …
A lump of grief filled her throat, so painful she could scarcely draw breath. But Ratlin just shook his head at her, then set down his cup in the dirt.
“We can’t take that chance, honey. Now can we? For all we know, you’d run straight to Clint Barclay. Jenks said you were sweet on him.”
A tremor shook her. Sweet on him. “Jenks was wrong.”
He cocked his head at her. “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. But once he gets back here, I promised him he could have some fun with you. So … you’ll have a little more time.”
Emily fought back the tears that burned behind her eyelids. She sagged back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. And she wouldn’t give up.
The odds were that she’d never get away, never see Clint again, never have the chance to tell him she loved him or to be held once more in those strong arms. She’d never know the fire of his kisses or feel again the beating of his heart against her own.
But she was going to try.
“Could I have… some of that coffee?” she whispered. She was pleased by how weak her voice sounded. She made her body go limp, as if she lacked all strength. “I… feel… faint.”
“Faint, huh? Better not. Jenks is gonna want you conscious—alive and kicking, as they say. He likes a woman to have a bit of fight in her,” Ratlin remarked. He studied her across the flames, then suddenly reached for a tin cup in his pack.
“Just don’t try nothing else. You saw last night, you can’t get away. You don’t want me to have to raise my fist to you again, do you?”
Emily shook her head. Last night, after she’d cut through the rope and Ratlin had caught her trying to mount his horse, he’d struck her across the face, then tied her hands again, even tighter than before. Her cheek still throbbed, but if he believed that would stop her from trying to escape, so much the better.
Her heart pounded as he poured hot coffee into the cup and brought the steaming brew around the campfire to her.
Emily stayed completely still as he set the cup down on the grass and squatted before her, working at the rope.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She took a moment to rub her bruised wrists before picking up the cup. Still, Ratlin knelt before her, eyeing her with cold indifference.
“Better drink up quick, because any time now Jenks is going to—argghh!”
He screamed as Emily hurled the hot coffee into his face and then before he could do more than recoil, she shoved against him with all her might. The outlaw tumbled backward, sprawling across the campfire and as flames enveloped him, he screamed in agony.
Emily was already up and running. Ratlin’s horse was saddled this morning, and she tossed a foot in the stirrup and swung herself up. The outlaw had rolled from the fire, trying to smother the flames as he writhed about in the grass. She knew if he caught her he’d kill her on the spot, Jenks or no Jenks. Desperately she lifted the reins, barely glancing at him as she spurred the horse toward the trail.
She heard the thunder of hooves coming toward her even before she could see the oncoming rider. Oh, Lord—Jenks. Panic raced through her but she kept going, her heart in her throat. Suddenly a horse careened around a curve and loomed on the trail just before her. She screamed and tried to ride past, but the rider reacted like lightning, swerving to block her path and she saw the dark flash of a gun barrel in the sunlight.
“Emily!”
It was all she could do to stay in the saddle as Clint reined in and stared at her, a blaze of relief suddenly transforming his grim features. Behind him, Pete and Jake yanked their mounts to a halt.
“Sis—you all right?” her brother demanded.
“Where’s Ratlin?” Clint was asking and as her dazed gaze flew back to him, she saw the steely coldness return to his eyes.
There was no time to answer, no time to absorb the shock of seeing Clint and Pete and Uncle Jake together, riding hellbent up the trail—because at that moment shots rang out from behind and Clint charged forward toward Ratlin and the campfire, blocking her from the gunfire as he aimed and fired. Pete and Jake did the same, their mounts leaping forward, guns blazing, and she heard only the thunder of shots, one after another, echoing in deafening succession through the mountain. Gun-smoke filled her nostrils, she heard an agonized shout, and then silence.
From the brush came the chatter of a squirrel. Her horse pranced nervously, and Emily turned him in time to see both Clint and Pete dismount and stalk toward Ratlin, who lay fallen near the campfire. He’d managed to put out the flames and draw his gun … but he was the one who’d been shot.
He wasn’t moving. His mouth was open, slack. Blood soaked the grass, not far from where Emily had been sitting only moments before.
Emily clung to Ratlin’s horse, shaking, her gaze fixed on the bearlike man lying in his own blood. She watched Clint kneel beside him, heard him say something to Pete, who threw a satisfied glance at Uncle Jake, then holstered his gun. Then they both wheeled away from the dead man and walked toward her, and she couldn’t do anything more than clutch the reins of Ratlin’s horse in hands that felt numb.
“Emily. Are you all right?”
Clint’s voice. Gentle. Quiet. Laced with something. Was it fear?
Pete was staring up at her. “Sis. It’s over…”
“Jenks” was all she could mumble, thinking blindly that she had to warn them. Jenks was coming back …
“He’s in custody,” Clint said. He reached up for her, grasped her gently, slid her down from the horse. “It’s over, Emily. It’s all over.”
She sagged against him, her knees buckling, as weakness and shock took their toll. She felt too dazed to understand what had happened; she only knew that his arms felt safe and strong, so strong as they closed around her.
“The stagecoach,” she whispered. “The passengers… you don’t know …”
“I know. I know all of it. Everyone’s safe. Thanks to your brother and your uncle here, and to Lester.”
At his words, another shock jolted through her. Uncomprehending, she gazed from him to Pete to Uncle Jake, still seated on his horse, his face as gray as his hair.
“But… ho
w? I… I don’t…”
Clint’s arms tightened around her as he pulled her close and brushed a gentle kiss across the top of her head. “We’ve been working together to stop the holdup and to catch Ratlin and Jenks in the act. Your uncle has been cooperating with Hoot McClain, the federal marshal from Denver, but he filled me in on the day of the box lunch social—after you left with Joey. We set up Ratlin and Jenks, and now all we have to do is pick up Sleech and Mangley back in Denver. But all that can wait, Emily …”
“You’ve been working together?”
Jake cleared his throat. “We had to play along with Ratlin, sign on for the job. So’s we could find out the whole plan and who was behind it,” he said gruffly.
“You don’t think we’d go along with murder, do you, Em?” Pete shook his head. “We couldn’t tell you because we didn’t want you involved—”
“Involved?” She couldn’t be certain she was hearing right. Caught between the urge to weep and the desire to burst into crazed, hysterical laughter, she could only shake her head slowly, as her chest knotted with a new unfamiliar pain.
“We wanted to protect you,” Clint said, cupping her chin, tilting it up so that she could see his eyes. They were filled with concern, worry, and tenderness. “We thought the less you knew till it was safely over, the better—”
“Oh, you did, did you?” Emily whispered, a catch in her throat. A dangerous sparkle burned in her eyes. “How could you!”
Emily wrenched out of his embrace and stared at him, then at her brother, then at her uncle who looked as frozen as a statue. Her knees were trembling so badly she thought she’d collapse, but sheer will and a sweeping fury kept her on her feet. “I knew something was going on, but I thought… I thought you were going back to your old ways,” she told Pete and Jake. She rounded on Clint. “And I thought you wanted to arrest them.”
“Emily,” he began, but she interrupted him, her eyes glittering.
“I was caught in the middle—do you have any idea what I went through?”
“We never meant for it to be like this, you weren’t supposed to have any suspicions.” Clint’s color was ashen. “Listen to me, Emily, when you calm down you’ll see—”
“That night… that night when Uncle Jake rode out—you knew. You let me think the worst, even though you knew it had to be tearing me apart—”
“I was trying to protect you. We’d made a pact to keep you out of it. We knew it would be over soon. We didn’t want you mixed up with Ratlin—he’s a killer. And Jenks is—”
“I know all about Ratlin and Jenks. Or haven’t you noticed?”
She held up her bruised wrists, and saw him glance at them, then his gaze shifted to the mark Ratlin’s fist had made on her cheek.
He sucked in his breath.
The anger and hurt in her eyes battered at him, but not nearly as much as the sight of her injuries, the thought of what she’d suffered. His gut wrenched with pain. And with a raw tenderness that was so fierce and overwhelming he could barely see straight.
“Emily, I’m sorry.” Were any words ever more inadequate? he thought bitterly. He reached up, touching her face very gently.
“I swear to you, I never meant for any of this to happen—it was the last thing I wanted.” He threw a quick glance over at Pete, standing miserable and silent beside him. “The last thing any of us wanted. You have to believe me, you were supposed to be safe, and then we were going to tell you—”
“It’s the truth, Sis. All any of us wanted was to keep you clear of this—”
“Don’t you dare say another word, any of you.” She twisted free of Clint again, stepped backward, and almost stumbled. As Pete reached instinctively for her arm, she knocked his hand aside.
“Don’t touch me. Get away from me.”
A sick exhausted dizziness was spinning through her head. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, hadn’t slept, and the emotional turmoil of death and danger was taking its toll. She’d never felt so weak, so angry, so lost, or so alone.
Even more alone than when Aunt Ida died.
She needed to get away from them, from all of them. Except… Joey.
A new kind of alarm hummed through her. “Where’s Joey?”
Uncle Jake shook his head. “We don’t know. We haven’t been back to the cabin since yesterday. We left you a note.”
Emily couldn’t speak. Anxiety and confusion and heartbreak swirled through her. Her head swam. But she pushed the lightheadedness away as she turned back toward the horse.
Clint caught her arm, pulled her toward him. “You’re not in any shape to ride back to the ranch yet.”
“Don’t try to stop me. Or protect me. Or tell me that you care about me. Just let me go, damn you!”
She jerked free and took two steps toward her mount.
And then the air roared through her ears, a sickly gray darkness descended, and the ground rushed up to meet her as she fainted dead away.
M-LY, NOW HOW MANY MORE DAYS till my mama comes for me?”
Joey was galloping around the kitchen table with Jumper clasped in his hand, pretending the horse was running alongside him as Emily removed golden biscuits from the stove and set the pan on the counter.
“Only four more days, Joey. Please stop running, you’re making me dizzy.”
The little boy drew up short and grinned at her. “You going to bake that big chocolate cake like you said you would?”
“I surely am,” she replied almost but not quite smiling for the first time in days as she blew a strand of hair back from her eyes. “One thing about me, Joey,” she added with a caustic irony, which, unfortunately, none of the members of her family were around to hear, “I always tell the truth.”
“Oh, boy!”
A week had passed since her capture by Ratlin and Jenks and the foiling of the stagecoach holdup. A long, lonely, empty week. Her physical scrapes and bruises were fading, but the emotional hurts were still as raw and painful as if they’d just been inflicted today.
“They’ll be coming back from the range soon—it’s time to go wash up.” With a sigh she turned her attention to the fragrant pot of beef stew simmering on the stove, thick with meat and potatoes, carrots and green beans.
Joey skidded toward the door. “You going to talk to Uncle Jake and Pete and Lester tonight, Em-ly?”
“What?” She paused in her stirring of the stew and stared at the boy. “I always talk to them.”
“Well, you say please pass this… and thank you … and all that,” Joey acknowledged, as he stuffed Jumper into his shirt pocket. “But you don’t talk to them like you used to. You’re still mad at them, aren’t you, Em-ly?”
He rushed on before she could answer. “I didn’t mind staying at the Smiths all night that time—and the next day. Really I didn’t. Don’t be mad at them because of me.”
“I’m not mad because of you, Joey.” She gritted her teeth. “I’m just upset—because they didn’t tell me the truth. They didn’t tell me about their plan to help Sheriff Barclay catch those bad men—and he didn’t tell me either.”
“So … you’re mad at Sheriff Clint too?”
“I didn’t say I was mad at anyone,” she said sharply.
“I can tell you are.” Joey peeped up at her. “Sheriff Clint came here to see you three times and you wouldn’t come out of your room. And Pete and Lester told you how much they liked your pumpkin tarts last night and you didn’t even look at them or smile or anything. You’ve hardly smiled at all lately,” he finished. “You always look sad.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m fine. So shoo. Out you go.”
But as the door banged shut behind him and Emily plunked the biscuits onto a plate and brought them to the table, her shoulders slumped. She’d tried to behave as normally as she could in the aftermath of her kidnapping, but she was finding it more and more difficult. If not for Joey she’d have left the cabin days ago and gone to live in Nettie Phillips’s boardinghouse.
She couldn’t be
ar it here—not anymore. But she couldn’t leave, not while Joey still needed her.
Once the cabin had been home, a cherished home, a place she would have protected with her life, filled with those she loved and counted on and trusted. But now it was awful living in these close quarters with Uncle Jake and Pete and Lester. It wasn’t that she didn’t still love them—it was only that nothing felt the same. They’d lived under the same roof with her the entire time they were planning to trap Ratlin and Jenks and stop the stagecoach murders, but never once had they confided in her or told her what was happening right under her nose.
They had wanted her to believe in them, wanted her to trust them, but they hadn’t trusted her.
And Clint Barclay—she couldn’t even begin to think about Clint Barclay. He must have known she suspected her uncle of plotting once more to break the law, and he must have known she was frantic with worry, but he’d kept quiet too. All supposedly to protect her.
Tears filled her eyes. The pain inside her sliced deep and hard. It seemed to grow worse every day. She suspected it was never going away.
Love means trust and honesty and faith, she told herself, stomping around the kitchen, setting plates and mugs and flatware on the table. But she had none of that, apparently had never really had it—not with her family, not with the man who had made love to her in the dark, hay-scented barn and mercilessly lassoed her heart. They hadn’t trusted her, been honest with her, or had enough faith in her to tell her the truth.
Well, that was just fine. I don’t need them anyway, she told herself. I don’t need anyone.
Oh, they’d all tried to explain. Tried to make her understand. She’d heard the whole story, more than once. How Uncle Jake had met Ben Ratlin in prison, and when Ratlin learned that Jake was headed to Forlorn Valley, Colorado, when he got out, to take over a ranch he’d won in a poker game, Ratlin had befriended him.