The shot went wide. The bullet hit the gilt mirror over the mantel. Shards of silver-backed glass flew like deadly, dislodged stars. Larger pieces cascaded down to the marble hearth, where they shattered and popped. The clatter couldn't drown out the sound of another shot that rang out as Lane fired again. The bullet hit Stuart in the hand. He dropped the shotgun.
With a scream of pain, Stuart cradled his hand and bent double. Rachel let go of the drapery and started to run toward Lane, who was still framed in the open doorway like an avenging angel.
The last thing she saw before the world went black was Lane staring over her shoulder, his expression one of fury and horror.
Without taking his eyes off Robert McKenna, Lane knew the minute Rachel started toward him, just as he realized that the Gentleman Bandit was down but not out. As Rachel plunged headlong toward him, her eyes wide and frightened, her hands outstretched, reaching for him, Lane saw Robert raise his gun.
Time slowed for Lane. The scene unfolded from heartbeat to heartbeat. Rachel darted between him and Robert. McKenna raised his arm to fire the derringer again. Lane yelled, "No!" He sprang and lunged at Rachel, knocking into her, shoving her down with him. As they fell, he took aim at McKenna and fired off three rounds. In the same instant, Robert got off his second shot. Lane clasped Rachel around the waist and rolled, attempting to keep from landing atop her when they hit the floor.
The echoes of gunshots faded, replaced by curses and screams. Loretta McKenna stood in the open double doors to the hallway. She stood there frozen, clutching her robe closed, her face drained of all color. She stared at the body of her son. Robert lay in a pool of blood on the parquet floor. Beside her was Mary Margaret with her hands on either side of her florid, flushed face. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Her hair stood out as wild as mad Ophelia's. The robe she had thrown over her nightgown hung off one shoulder.
Certain that Robert was no longer a threat, Lane left Rachel long enough to confiscate Stuart's rifle, giving the injured cattleman no more than a cursory glance. The old man ranted and swore as he pressed his wounded hand against the bloodied front of his nightshirt. Never taking her eyes off Robert, Loretta moved across the room like a sleepwalker.
Lane carried the rifle back to Rachel's side, laid it cradled her in his arms. She was still unconscious, but beginning to stir. The sight of the blood that streaked her hair just above her temple scared the hell out of him. His heart pounding, Lane brushed Rachel's hair back to inspect the damage. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found only a flesh wound.
Rachel moaned. When Lane held her closer, she pressed her cheek against his shirtfront.
"I'll see you hang for this, Cassidy," Stuart McKenna threatened. Blood smeared the front of his nightshirt.
Loretta sat on the floor beside Robert's body, holding the lifeless hand as tears streaked silently down her cheeks. She ignored Mary Margaret's keening, just as she did the sight of Rachel in Lane's arms and Stuart's ranting.
Finally, Stuart bellowed, "Shut up, Mary Margaret, and send someone after the sheriff!"
Mary Margaret spun around and ran down the hall, her hair streaming out behind her, her robe flapping.
"Wh-what happened?" Loretta stammered, looking around as if coming out of a daze.
Stuart shuffled across the room and stood beside her, glowering down at Robert's body. "I found Cassidy holding Rachel and Robert at gunpoint. He was spouting a lot of shit about being a Pinkerton and Robert being the Gentleman Bandit."
"I am a Pinkerton."
"Mama?"
Lane heard Ty shout from upstairs. He started to put Rachel down and go to the boy, but she clutched his sleeve as if, even half conscious, she couldn't bear to be parted from him. He noticed Loretta had looked up when she heard her grandson's voice. Lane appealed to her for help.
"Go to him. Tell him everything's all right now and that his mother will be up to see him in a while. Keep him in his room."
With a last glance at her son, Loretta stood and visibly pulled herself together. Her eyes blazed with determination as she hurried off to Ty. On the heels of her exit, three of McKenna's cowhands rushed in through the veranda doors. Guns drawn, they awaited Stuart's orders.
"Don't let him move an inch." Stuart nodded curtly in Lane's direction.
"The sheriff's been sent for," the eldest of the trio told his boss. "So has the undertaker."
Stuart Senior rubbed a hand across his eyes and turned away from the sight of Robert's body. "Somebody get a blanket for my son while I see about this hand."
Lane ignored the three men holding him at gunpoint. He bent down and placed a kiss on Rachel's cheek, smoothed her hair back off her face again and then whispered her name.
Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned. He ran his forefinger along her cheek. "Rachel? Come on, honey, wake up. Please."
An entire battalion of men could have been staring down their sights at him, but Lane knew he would sit there forever if that was what it would take to bring Rachel around. He cursed himself silently. The entire explosive scene had been his fault. He had let his emotions run away with him again, had been driven by anger instead of caution when he confronted Robert. He had been compelled to protect Rachel, yet here she lay unconscious in his arms, having survived death by a hairsbreadth. She had befriended him when no one else would, defended him, given him more of herself than she had ever given anyone—and his impulsiveness had nearly gotten her killed.
"Rachel?" he whispered again, hoping beyond hope that when she opened her eyes he would see recognition and clarity in them.
He was about to ask one of the men guarding him to go for water when her lashes fluttered against her cheek and she slowly opened her eyes. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve.
"Lane?" she whispered.
"I'm right here. You're all right, Rachel, just scratched."
"Where's Ty?"
"He's still upstairs. He's all right, too, but he'll probably feel better once he sees you." He knew the sight of her son would bring her around faster than anything else.
She struggled to sit up, then closed her eyes against the pain that ramrodded through her head.
"Take it easy," he said, his voice near her ear.
"Help me," she bid.
Lane assisted her to a sitting position, and immediately regretted it when her gaze drifted to Robert's body.
"Oh, my God," she whispered.
Lane slipped his arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to kill him…"
Memory slammed back with the force of the bullet she had just barely escaped. She recalled running toward Lane, hearing him shout a warning, then feeling a burning sensation on the side of her head. She raised her hand to her temple and shivered when she stared down at her bloodstained fingertips.
"You got in the way of the bullet meant for me," Lane told her.
There was dark sorrow in his tone. The heavy lacing of guilt was obvious. Rachel cupped his face with her palm.
"I would come between you and a thousand bullets if I had to, Lane Cassidy," she whispered loud enough for his ears alone to hear.
An unbroken stare was all that passed between them until Stuart returned.
"Get up, Rachel. Go to your boy," Stuart told her.
Rachel didn't move. She looked to Lane for support. He nodded slightly. "Go to him. We have a lot to straighten out here." He helped her to her feet. When he started to walk her to the door to be certain she could make it on her own, one of McKenna's men stepped in front of him.
Rachel turned on Stuart Senior. "Tell them to put away their guns. Lane is a Pinkerton. You have no right to treat him like a prisoner. It's Robert who—"
Stuart reacted immediately. "Enough! Don't you dare slander my son's name in my own house. Do something decent for a change and go to your son. Don't try my patience."
Lane squeezed Rachel's hand. "Don't worry about me. The sheriff will be here soon. Go to Ty. Tell him I'll see him later."
&nbs
p; Rachel hesitated a moment, weighing the situation. They were treading on what little was left of Stuart's self-control. The three cowhands in the room worked for the McKennas. One word from Stuart and Lane could be dead.
"I want Mama," Ty called out.
With a last furtive glance at Lane, she hurried out of the room. Once she reached the foyer, she paused beside an ornate hall tree positioned between two massive wall-mounted buffalo heads. The animals' glass eyes stared blindly down at her. Leaning toward the mirror, she pulled her hair back off her face to survey the damage Robert's bullet had left behind. Aside from her ghostly pallor, a deep scrape and some blood that was matted in her hair, she looked none the worse for wear. Reaching down for the hem of her skirt, she carefully turned the black bombazine inside out and used the hem lining to clean her wound as best she could, so that she would not frighten her son.
That done, Rachel smoothed her hair back with her fingertips, then headed for the stairs, feeling more collected than she would have guessed she'd be in the wake of such a storm. When she reached the center of the wide, sweeping staircase, Loretta appeared at the top. The two women eyed each other warily. Rachel raised her chin a notch and kept ascending. Loretta waited at the top, her eyes as cold as a mountain lake in winter. There was nothing but open hatred and contempt in their depths.
"Are you happy now?" she asked Rachel when she reached the second floor. "You have managed to kill both of my sons."
Rachel stared at the woman who had given her nothing but grief since the day she had become engaged to Stuart. She thought of all the years she had held her silence in order to promote peace in the family, peace for Ty's sake, so that he would know his grandparents. She reminded herself that Loretta was distraught, that the woman had just lost her only remaining son. Rachel refused to even imagine how she would have coped with Ty's death, let alone walk in and find he had been killed beneath her own roof.
But even as she considered all the reasons behind Loretta's hatred and present state of mind, she would not allow the woman to force her to shoulder the blame and guilt.
Glancing at the open door of the guest room, where Ty waited, Rachel stepped toward Loretta and lowered her voice. "I know how you must feel, given the circumstances, but I'm not going to let you blame Robert's death on me. He tried to kill Lane. Lane shot him in self-defense. I've no doubt he would have killed me, too, because I know what he was."
"How dare you?"
"Your precious son was a thief and a murderer. As you seem to conveniently have forgotten, Stuart died in a whore's bed. You can't accuse me of murdering your sons. They killed themselves."
"You drove Stuart away, you with your cold—"
"No." Rachel shook her head furiously. "I'm not cold. Stuart was inept as a lover, that's all. I know that now, and—"
Loretta gasped. "You have slept with that murderer."
Rachel refused to feel shame. "Yes, Loretta, I slept with Lane Cassidy, and for the first time in my life, I know what it's like to have slept with a real man."
With nothing further to say, Rachel left Loretta gaping after her as she hurried to Ty's room. She found her boy looking small and frightened as he waited in the middle of the big bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. The smattering of freckles across his nose stood out in bright relief against his pale skin.
With a picture book lying neglected in her lap, Martha sat quaking in a rocking chair she had pulled up beside the bed. The girl looked years younger than eighteen. Her eyes were wide with fright, her hands trembling. Her black uniform only accentuated the pallor of her skin.
"Is everything all right now, ma'am?"
The girl's fear easily communicated itself to Tyson. Rachel tried to smile, to reassure Ty as much as Martha, then asked the girl to wait in the hallway. As Martha left the room, Ty threw the covers back and stood up in the middle of the bed. He held his arms out to Rachel, who hurried to his side, knelt upon the bed and pulled his sturdy little frame into her arms.
"Are you all right, Mama?" His arms were locked around her neck so tightly she could barely breathe. "I heard shots. Is Lane all right, too? Grandmother said he was downstairs and that the sheriff was coming to take him away and we'd never have to see the likes of him again. I don't want Lane to get taken away, Mama."
She smoothed her hand up and down the back of his nightshirt, trying to hide the turmoil pulsing inside her, fighting to communicate calm. "Nobody's going to take Lane away. Don't worry yourself about that."
"Is Uncle Robert dead? I heard Grandmother in the hallway, I heard her tell Martha—"
Rachel took a deep breath. "Uncle Robert is dead."
"Why?"
"Ty, I really don't—"
"You gotta tell me the truth, Mama. You said you'd always tell me the truth. I'm the man of our family now. You said so. It's not fair not to tell me the truth about family things."
Rachel blinked back tears, thankful that he couldn't see her face. "Your uncle is dead. He was very mixed up and tried to hurt me—"
"And Lane's the fastest draw in the whole wide world and he shot him."
"Lane didn't want to kill him, Ty. He didn't mean to kill Uncle Robert."
Ty pulled back and nodded sagely, reaching out to dry one of Rachel's tears. "I know, Mama. But a man's got to do lots of things he doesn't always want to do—that's what makes him a man. That's what Lane told me."
Rachel sniffled. "He did?"
"Yep. The night he told me I had to wear a nightshirt around ladies even though all he wears to bed is a gun belt."
Rachel closed her eyes and drew him close, squeezing so hard he protested with a squeak. "I love you so much, Ty."
"Aw, Ma."
She smoothed his hair. "Will you be all right? They'll need me downstairs."
"Sure." He sounded very unsure.
"How about if I send Martha back in?"
Rachel kissed him, smoothed his nightshirt over his shoulders and then urged him back under the covers. She kissed him once more, closing her eyes to inhale his soap and talcum scent. He felt fresh and pure, and for a moment just holding him grounded her in the reality of what was, instead of the insanity of what had just occurred downstairs. Regretfully, she let him go, crossed the room to adjust the shade at the window, then walked to the door. Pausing in the doorway, Rachel turned back to smile and blow him a kiss.
"I'll be downstairs if you need me."
"Grandmother's pretty mad. I think Lane needs you more than I do."
"I think you might be right."
"Mama? If the sheriff tries to take Lane away, don't let him."
Downstairs an hour later, Rachel found herself trying to do as Ty bid as she argued with Arnie Wernermeyer.
"It's out of the question for you to arrest Lane, Sheriff. He's a Pinkerton. He's told you that again and again."
Frustrated, she looked around the room. Naturally, there was no support from any corner. Still in her robe and nightgown, Mary Margaret reclined like a fallen diva on the settee, one hand covering her eyes. Every few moments a sob escaped her. She managed to bat teary lashes at the three cowhands, who were still hovering near the door, ready to defend the McKennas if necessary.
Loretta was fully dressed, hair combed, all her jewelry in place. Jet drop earrings adorned her ears and a fist-sized brooch closed the throat of her black gown. She avoided looking at Rachel. Stuart was still half dressed, his bloodstained nightshirt shoved haphazardly into his trousers. He stood in the doorway glaring at Rachel and Lane. For the past twenty minutes he had done nothing but demand Wernermeyer take Lane into custody and throw him in jail. He even threatened to gather his ranch hands and "lynch the murdering swine" himself.
Robert's body had been discreetly removed from the room and carried to town by the undertaker and his assistant.
Wernermeyer hesitated beside Lane, who had been handcuffed, more to appease the McKennas than anything else.
"I can't turn him loose without proof that he's what he says he
is, and he said himself he don't have any papers to prove it," Arnie argued.
"Send a wire to the Pinkerton headquarters in Denver and you'll have your proof," Rachel assured him.
"I can't do that until tomorrow morning."
"If you don't lock him up, he'll be long gone by then," Stuart warned. "Besides, he claims Robert was the Gentleman Bandit. Where's his proof?"
Rachel's gaze met Lane's. He gave no sign of what he was thinking or what she might do to help. Frustrated, she finally asked, "Sheriff, can't you release Lane on my word that he won't go anywhere?"
Arnie shifted from foot to foot. He cleared his throat. His color began to rise, slowly igniting his face. "Mrs. McKenna, I'd like to oblige you, but after what's gone on lately, the kidnapping and your… your friendship with Cassidy here, well, I got to admit I don't think your word will be enough."
Rachel had thought she would never again suffer humiliation of the sort Stuart had put her through when he'd died in the arms of a whore. Now she was being told her word of honor was worthless.
Lane felt her pain and humiliation, and cursed himself. He was the cause of it, he told himself. He refused to let her suffer at the hands of a cretin like Wernermeyer.
"Lock me up," he told the sheriff.
"No," Rachel argued.
"Let it go, Rachel. Tomorrow you can wire Boyd Johnson and let him know what's going on. Everything will be all right."
As she stepped up beside Lane, Stuart McKenna moved away from the door. Cradling his bandaged hand, he walked up to Rachel and glared down at her. "Nothing will ever be right again, you can take my word on that," he promised.
She ignored him and turned to Lane. "I'm going with you. I'll just go and get Ty—"
Loretta stood up but didn't make any effort to cross the room. Her voice was high and strained.
"Do you really think it is in Tyson's best interests to go into town with you when you clearly intend to accompany this man to the jailhouse? You heard the sheriff. Do you think anyone else in town will be less forgiving? At least leave the boy here until this situation is settled. You may hold no special feelings for any of us, but you must know we love that child and would never see him come to any harm."
Last Chance Page 22