by Carol Finch
“No accident?” Quin wheezed unsteadily. “What does that mean? Murder? Manslaughter? How? Why?”
Boston and Butler shrugged helplessly while Quin reread the note—three times.
“Why send this note two years later?” Boston questioned warily.
“This might be a cunning scheme to prey on your emotions and extort money,” the accountant speculated.
Boston eased a hip onto the edge of the desk, then leaned toward him, forcing him to raise his downcast head and acknowledge her. “I don’t think you should go, Cahill,” she advised. “This note has disaster written all over it.”
“I agree with her,” Butler chimed in. “Given the rustling, butchering and fires in this area, this note is too suspicious. Just another way to separate you from your money.”
Anger and frustration roiled inside Quin. “What if it was a robbery turned disaster, not a hapless accident? My parents might still be alive and nothing would have changed on the 4C,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “There wouldn’t be a rift between my brothers and sister and me. Although Bowie had already left home to tame the rough towns in Deer County, Chance and Leanna might have delayed their departure, instead of flying off on the wings of an argument.”
Boston laid her hand on his rigid shoulder. “Quin, are you all right?”
“Hell, no!” he burst out. He stared into space, reliving the anguish of losing both parents suddenly and the torment of the angry argument with his surviving family. Not to mention the grief and guilt that constantly plagued him because he had waylaid on the cattle drive to indulge in selfish pleasure.
A robbery attempt on his parents might not have been so easy if he had been on hand that fateful evening. Or the outcome might have turned out differently if Bowie or Chance had accompanied their parents to Wolf Grove that day. Another set of eyes and ears and an expert shooter might have made a difference between life and death.
“If it was a robbery attempt gone wrong, then I want to know the details,” he muttered harshly. “I want to know who was responsible for killing my parents.”
Boston clasped her hands around Quin’s and got right in his face. “You go traipsing off to Phantom Springs, carrying that much money to meet who knows how many thieves that might set upon you, you’ll end up dead.”
“She’s right, you know,” Butler chimed in, his expression grim. “This might be a clever trap designed specifically to plot your murder. You have no way of knowing if there is one or five scoundrels waiting to attack.”
Quin pulled his hands from Boston’s grasp, then scraped his fingers through his tousled hair. He tried to think logically. Boston and Butler were right, of course. There were all sorts of potential pitfalls awaiting him. But if his parents had been a target of robbery, because they were driving a wagon heaped with supplies, then Quin had to know. He wanted justice and he wanted revenge for the way his family had been torn apart and for depriving his parents of years of life!
When Quin bolted to his feet, Boston blew out an agitated breath. “Do not do this, Cahill.”
He stared at her somberly for a long moment. “If the situation were reversed and you learned one or both of your parents had been victims of a fatal crime, would you want to know?”
“Of course.” She met his gaze head-on. “But racing off in the dark, with a fistful of money, doesn’t guarantee you’ll receive any valuable information.” She flung out her hand in frustration. “What if I received a note offering information about who stole my Herefords and planted them in your pasture? What if the sender named you as the guilty party? That wouldn’t make it necessarily so, would it? We are discussing outlaws, Cahill. They have no credibility.”
“Unless this unidentified informant saw or overheard what happened to my parents and wants traveling money so he can hightail it out of the county before he’s hunted down and silenced,” Quin speculated.
“He makes a valid point,” Butler said to Boston.
“Valid or not, I still don’t like it,” she grumbled.
“Neither do I,” Butler admitted. “It’s too dangerous.”
Boston crossed her arms over her chest and stared unblinkingly at Quin. “Then it’s settled. You are not going.”
“You and Butler don’t get a vote,” he said dictatorially.
He lurched toward the cabinet, then hunkered down to retrieve the money from the safe.
“Be careful that you don’t take Adrianna’s money for this foolhardy crusade of yours,” Butler said, and scowled.
Quin glanced over his shoulder and smiled faintly. “I have plenty on hand since I withdrew money from the bank last week to make payroll. Not to worry, Hiram.”
“Dinner is served,” Beatrice announced from the hall. “It’s one of Elda’s mouthwatering specialties.”
“Tell Elda we’ll be there directly.” Boston turned back to Quin. “If you insist on this dangerous folly, then I’m going with you.”
Quin stared her down. “No, you aren’t,” he said slowly and succinctly. “I expressly forbid it. This is not your concern, Boston.”
She tilted her chin to a defiant angle. “Yes, it is. You are our gracious host. If you get yourself robbed and killed, then where are we supposed to go? My house hasn’t aired out completely. And I’m not going to ride back and forth from town to see how many cattle were rustled during the night. You do not invite guests to your home, then get yourself ambushed. If you had proper Eastern manners you would know that.”
He almost smiled at her sassy retort, but the possibility of his parents being senselessly killed for money and a wagonload of supplies weighed heavily on his disposition.
“Think it over during supper,” she insisted as she whirled toward the hall. “Maybe delicious food and time will bring you back to your senses.”
When Butler turned to leave, Quin said, “Hiram, I know you don’t like me much but I need a favor.”
Butler pivoted around to give Quin the evil eye. “I wouldn’t like any man who slept with Adrianna, especially one who wasn’t married to her.”
Quin shifted uncomfortably beneath Butler’s narrow-eyed glare. Then a thought occurred to him and he smiled wryly. “But you’re going to keep silent and grant my favor because you are sleeping with Bea. You don’t want me to throw it in your face, do you?”
Butler scowled. “What’s the favor, Cahill?”
“Make sure Boston doesn’t follow me tonight.”
Butler nodded, then headed for the door. “I had planned to do that without a prompt from you, Cahill. Consider it done.”
When Butler exited, Quin tucked the stack of money in the bottom desk drawer for safekeeping. He was going to meet the mysterious informant tonight, come hell or high water—or both.
There was nothing Boston could do to stop him, short of shooting him down, before someone else beat her to it.
Chapter Nine
Adrianna had a bad feeling about Cahill’s evening excursion. Blast it, too many things could go wrong. There were enough problems with the rustling and arson that plagued both ranches. True, other ranchers had been targeted—Womack, Fitzgerald and Burnett, to name only a few. But it seemed to Adrianna that the most frequent criminal activity centered on Cahill and her and was written off to the supposed feud between them.
She had no idea what that implied—maybe nothing. Yet, she wondered if someone was using the feud to explain the rustling and fires, and letting the “curse” take the blame. If someone might have upped the ante to extort more money by preying on Quin’s emotions concerning his parents’ deaths.
What better way to get a man to do your bidding than to suggest the family wagon wreck was no accident? Adrianna didn’t trust this mysterious informant. Unfortunately, Quin was personally involved and burdened with grief and guilt. He was risking peril by venturing out alone at night, carrying money. His family had imploded after the untimely deaths. He wanted to believe someone else was to blame for the tragedy.
But why now? W
hy two years after the wagon wreck? she asked herself repeatedly. It was too suspicious not to raise concern and doubt.
Bearing that in mind, Adrianna pocketed her pistol in her jacket, then exited Quin’s former bedroom. She nearly jumped out of her own skin when a shadowy silhouette pounced on her.
“I knew it,” Quin muttered sourly. “I told you that you aren’t invited to this meeting tonight and I damn well mean it, Boston!”
“You are not my boss, my father or my husband,” she sniped as she jerked her arm from his grasp.
“Butler!” Quin called out loudly.
“Tattletale,” Adrianna snapped at Quin.
Hiram Butler—the traitor—stepped around the corner. Adrianna glowered mutinously at him, then glared pitchforks at Quin. “What did you do? Pay him to side with you?”
“No, that’s your tactic.” Quin smirked. “I lost my foreman to that trick, as you well know.”
Adrianna stared down Butler when he walked up beside her. “I thought you were my loyal friend and part of my family,” she said, trying to shame him.
“I am,” Butler affirmed. “Which is why I have no choice but to stand guard over you while Cahill rides off on his foolhardy errand.” He glanced meaningfully at Quin, then Adrianna. “No sense both of you walking into a death trap.”
Quin clasped her shoulders, turned her around, then gave her a nudge over the threshold of his former bedroom. No doubt, he didn’t want Butler to know she and Quin had become intimate in the master suite. She should tell her overprotective accountant about last evening’s escapade so he would be tempted to shoot Quin, she thought spitefully. And she would be happy to load Butler’s gun for him.
“And stay there,” Quin barked sharply. “Butler will be sitting outside the door until I get back.”
She glowered at Quin. “What if you don’t come back? Am I supposed to stay here forever?”
“If the news of my demise arrives in a day or two, then take over the house and run the ranch as you see fit,” he offered generously.
“And deal with your wayward family?” She scoffed in annoyance. “They might swoop in like vultures after you’re gone. No, thank you. I have my own problems so I have no need of yours, Cahill.”
She did have a serious problem. She was very much afraid that she was in love with Cahill. She must be, because the thought of him walking into a trap and never coming home terrified her. She had never felt so protective of a man, never felt so content with a man. Cahill challenged her, amused and aroused her. She didn’t want to lose him.
When Quin shut the door—slammed it was more accurate—Adrianna flounced on the bed. “Butler, you are not going to hear the end of this!” she shouted at her turncoat of an accountant.
“I didn’t expect to, my dear,” Butler said from the other side of the door. “But it’s for your own well-being.”
Adrianna blew out an exasperated breath when she heard Quin’s footsteps recede in the hall. Taking advantage of the noise Butler made by scooting a chair in front of the door to block her exit, she opened the window. She glanced speculatively at the private balcony outside the master suite, then she surveyed the sloped roof outside Quin’s former room.
Back in the day at her country estate, she and Rosa had performed disappearing acts and acrobatic maneuvers so they could sneak from the house for midnight rides and walks along the river. The only difference between now and then was Adrianna was inspired by the noble purpose of saving Quin from disaster.
Quietly, she straddled the windowsill, then eased onto the steep roof. She made as little noise as possible, so as not to alert Bea and Elda, who might be part of the conspiracy with Butler. It wouldn’t surprise her, considering their loyalty and affection. She loved her overprotective, adopted family despite their misguided intentions, she mused as she inched along the wooden shingles to reach the balcony. She slung a leg over the railing, then glanced around, trying to decide how best to descend to the ground without breaking her neck.
The only sensible escape route was to crawl along the overhanging tree branch that was a few feet beyond the railing. She pulled off her boots, then tucked them in the waistband of her breeches. Apprehension sizzled through her as she balanced on the railing and extended herself to grasp the branch. It was a long way to the ground, she noticed. One misstep and she would nosedive to the lawn. She would do Quin no good whatsoever if he became the victim of an ambush and she landed in a broken heap.
Adrianna inhaled a bolstering breath, then sprang forward to grab the limb. Reverting to her hoyden days, she crawled along the branch, then picked her way down to the tree bough. She cursed sourly when she saw Quin trotting the bloodred bay gelding from the barn. If she didn’t quicken her pace, she would be too far behind to follow his trail to the place called Phantom Springs.
She hopped lightly to the ground, then darted from one tree to the next to prevent being seen. She cast an occasional glance toward the window of the room where Quin had imprisoned her, hoping her well-meaning guard had yet to realize she had snuck out. Adrianna couldn’t spare the time to saddle Buckshot. She dashed toward the bunkhouse where two saddle horses—a strawberry roan and a brown gelding with three white stockings—were tied to the hitching post. She borrowed the closest one to her. She’d explain later, she decided as she mounted up and raced off in the darkness.
Quin trotted Cactus through the shadows, headed toward the wooded hillside where the cool springs bubbled from a jumble of rocks to flow across a rapid-filled stream. The creek meandered southeast, eventually providing the water supply for Cahill Crossing.
Anticipation crackled through him as he glanced this way and that, searching the swaying shadows in the trees. Boston’s objections rang in his ears, but the prospect of discovering what happened the evening Ruby and Earl Cahill died overrode the possibility of personal danger. True, there was the dangerous curve that overlooked a rock-filled ravine on the road to Wolf Grove. But if his parents had been chased by thieves and were driving too fast in the overloaded wagon, Quin wanted to know. His father, who had been nursing an injured wrist, could have oversteered the wagon in his attempt to beat the outlaws back to town. The robbery could have caused the disaster.
Damnation, Quin and his family had been through hell after their parents’ sudden deaths. He just had to find out what had happened at the site the locals had named Ghost Canyon after the accident. The incident, Quin hastily corrected. By the time he had returned from Kansas, Marshal Hobbs had investigated the site and removed the bodies. Quin had stood on the cliff at the bend of the road, listening to the Texas wind whisper through the canyon like voices calling from the Great Beyond.
The thought gave him cold chills, especially when he was headed for Phantom Springs where the murmur of water rushing over the rapids created a sound similar to the wind whipping through Ghost Canyon. Quin didn’t want to end up dead during his crusade to discover the truth.
Just to be on the safe side, Quin retrieved one of his six-shooters, then dismounted. He had dealt with plenty of dangerous situations during trail drives and he was accustomed to proceeding with caution. Tonight was no different. There were plenty of trees and boulders in the area to conceal bushwhackers. He did not intend to ride up to the site, making a racket to invite an ambush.
Guided by dappled moonlight, Quin crept forward. A dozen questions chased one another around his mind as he sought out the mysterious informant. Why now? How did you come by this information? Who was involved? How can I contact you later to serve as a witness at a trial?
The sound of twigs snapping in the darkness brought Quin to high alert. He aimed his pistol toward the sound, then tethered Cactus on the lower limb of a nearby tree. As a precaution, he left the money in the saddlebag, in case this was a hoax and he stumbled into a trap, as Boston predicted.
Cautiously, he crept toward the springs. He blinked in surprise when he saw a man lying facedown, his head dangling in the water. There was a bullet hole in his back.
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br /> “Damn it,” Quin muttered as he squatted down to grab the man by the shoulder and ease him to his back. The would-be informant—or bushwhacker, Quin wasn’t sure which—had sandy-blond hair, bowed legs and a skinny physique. The dead man was in no condition to convey information.
Quin studied the man’s features closely, then recalled that he had brushed shoulders with this character at the wedding party. He hadn’t recognized the man as a local and he hadn’t given him another thought—until now.
Setting aside his pistol, Quin dug into the pockets of the dead man’s wet jacket, breeches and shirt. He found a few coins but no identification.
“Damnation!” he growled irritably.
Quin was about to rise to his feet when he felt a presence behind him. He made a grab for the pistol but someone clobbered him over the head. He swayed on his knees when stars exploded in front of his eyes. He took a blind swing at whoever had snuck up behind him but he received another blow to the skull for his effort. A boot heel slammed between his shoulder blades, sending him sprawling beside the dead man.
His last thought, before he blacked out, was that if he wound up with a bullet in his back his last memory would be Boston’s voice ringing in his ears, reminding him that she’d told him so….
Adrianna heard the gunshot in the distance and felt her heart shrivel in her chest. Blast it, she should have pushed the borrowed horse to a swifter pace so she could keep a closer eye on Quin. Now he was likely dead and she was no use to him whatsoever.
Damn him, why hadn’t he listened to reason? If she had been nearby, things might have turned out differently.
She winced, remembering what Quin had said about feeling guilty because he hadn’t been home the fateful day his parents drove to Wolf Grove—and never made it back alive. Now she knew how he felt—angry, guilty and full of regret. She should have pitched a royal fit until he agreed to let her accompany him. She should have descended the tree faster so she could have been on hand to help him spot the bushwhacker….