by Pam Crooks
Ross grunted and let his kid sister talk. At sixteen years of age, tall, slender and dark-haired, she loved to gossip, like the rest of the Ida Grove townspeople.
But he wasn’t interested in the happenings in town. Never was. He made a habit to distance himself from the old hens who had nothing better to do than cluck about everyone else in the community roost.
He was determined to finish the design of his latest furniture project, a revolving bookcase, before he went to bed tonight. The fewer questions he asked, the sooner Chat would get her story told, and the sooner she’d get dinner on the table.
“There was a terrible commotion in her room. Sarah and I were in the library. We couldn’t imagine what was happening.”
Dishes clattered on the table behind him. She was in a hurry. She’d gotten home late from spending the day with Sarah Kelley, her best friend. Ross suspected dinner would be scorched more than usual because of Chat’s tardiness.
“By the time folks rushed upstairs to see what was happening, she was gone. Escaped right through the window! Can you believe it? Why would she do such a thing?”
“Damned if I know.” He jotted down a series of measurements and began adding them together.
“Then, her attacker escaped, too, when everyone’s back was turned. Now, both of them are gone. Pphht! Like that!” Chat snapped her fingers. “Isn’t it just the strangest thing? Why would she run? Why wouldn’t she get some help for herself instead?”
“Can’t say.” He repositioned his ruler, drew a perfectly straight line, then measured it.
“Ross.” Chat sounded exasperated. “Aren’t you even curious who it was?”
“Figured you’d get around to telling me eventually.”
The oven door slammed shut. “That pretty bank teller Mr. Templeton hired, that’s who. You know, the one with the French name?”
“Never met her.”
Ross had never set foot in the Ida Grove Bank, either. Nor did he intend to, not after what happened to Pa back in Muscatine. Ross had damn near sworn off banks because of it.
“She was the nicest person. Pretty with that rich, red hair. And smart with numbers. Why ever would anyone want to attack her?”
Ross grunted again.
“You know what I think?” Chat plopped into the chair next to his desk.
He narrowed his eye and contemplated the sketch in front of him, his mind more caught up envisioning the bookcase with beveled glass than his sister’s opinions. Chat huffed a breath, reached over and plucked his pencil right out of his hand. He scowled and reached for it, but she held it behind her back.
“I think you should help her,” she said.
He stilled. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Ross Santana. The best bounty hunter in this part of the country. She needs you!”
“The hell she does.” Impatience rolled through him that Chat would even come up with the idea. She knew better.
“What kind of man would attack a defenseless woman? A bad one, that’s what kind. And your specialty is hunting down bad men.”
“Not anymore.” He rooted in his desk drawer. Where was another pencil? “Those days are long over, so don’t bring it up again.”
He finally found one, but the lead was broken. He swore, then scrounged among the drawer contents for his sharpener.
“You lost an eye,” she said. “So what? You can still shoot. You can still track. And you’ve got more guts than anyone else I know.”
Ross gave up trying to find the sharpener. He tossed aside the worthless pencil and sat back in his chair. He glared at his sister with the one good eye he had left. The other, rendered useless when he took a hit from a shotgun blast, was covered by a black leather patch.
“Guts aren’t worth a damn when a man has to defend himself and can only see half of what the man shooting at him can.” His words were a cruel reminder of all he had lost, the price he paid to enforce justice. At first, death had been preferable to partial blindness. The dizzy spells, the headaches, had been debilitating when he’d never been sick a day in his life. Worst, though, had been losing trust in himself. Who would protect him if he couldn’t protect himself?
His abilities to hunt down some of the country’s most wanted criminals were destroyed with a single pull of a shotgun trigger, and Ross had been devastated by the loss.
“Yes, but—”
“No buts.” He made a gesture toward the kitchen. “Check those biscuits before they burn, will you? And you’d best finish getting the table set, too. It’s getting late.”
“Ross Santana, if you weren’t my brother…”
She threw his confiscated pencil onto his paperwork and returned to the stove in a huff.
His determination to finish the bookcase design fizzled into frustration. He rose from his chair, strode outside into the night. He lived only a few miles outside of Ida Grove, and the town’s lights shone like tiny white stars on the horizon. He leaned a hip against the porch rail and lit himself a cigarette.
He drew in deep, and his thoughts drifted to the woman attacked in her sleeping room. He tamped down the urge to think about her, about why a man would hunt her down with such calculated precision. He tamped down the urge to worry about her, too. About where she’d run to. Or why.
One thing was sure. She knew something—or had something—or else the lowlife who was after her wouldn’t have gone through so much trouble to get it. And whatever it was must’ve been important for her to run like she did.
She was in deep trouble.
But those troubles were her own, he told himself firmly. He’d have no part in them, no matter what Chat wanted him to do.
So why was he thinking about her?
A buggy rumbled down the road, and his thoughts evaporated. Wasn’t often he got company this time of night. Might be Chat had friends coming to call.
He lit the lantern hanging on a nail outside the door. The buggy pulled up, braked, and Father Baxter stepped down. Ross hid his surprise.
“Evenin’, Ross.”
“Evening.”
His glance slid to the driver’s seat, to the passenger sitting there. A woman, draped in a hooded black cape, as if she wanted to blend into the night.
“Would you have a few minutes to spare for us?” the priest asked.
Hell. Ross had a pretty good guess who the woman was. And why the priest had brought her here.
She needs you….
His resistance teetered from Chat’s words. Ross wrestled it firmly back into place.
“You’ve wasted your time riding out here, Father.” He inhaled again on the cigarette, forced himself to keep from looking at her. “I heard what happened in town. I know what you want. You’ve got the wrong man for the job.”
“I’m convinced you’re exactly what we need, considering the trouble she’s in.”
…the best bounty hunter in this part of the country.
His resistance teetered again.
“Hung up my guns a while ago,” he said. “I’m out of the business. You know that.”
“This time it’s different. There’s a woman involved.”
A woman. His mouth quirked. Last time he took on a case that involved one, he almost got himself killed over her.
“A woman, Ross.”
He dragged his gaze back to the driver’s seat. She looked small inside that black cape. Vulnerable.
What if she was innocent? What if her attacker had chosen her at random? That she fled through her second-story window out of sheer fear for her life?
“Talk to her, at least,” the priest pleaded. “Hear her story. Would you do that?”
Could be she deserved none of the trouble she was in, despite the speculation of Ida Grove’s gossipmongers, and what was left of his resistance crumpled right through his fingers.
“All right. If she wants to talk, I’ll listen.” He took one last drag off his cigarette and flicked the stub into the darkness beyond the lantern light. “Come in, then.”
Father Baxter inclined his head gratefully. “Much obliged, much obliged.”
He helped the woman from the rig. They climbed the stairs in silence, but at the door, the priest halted.
“I won’t be coming in,” he said. “Not much else I can do anyway. You’re the only one who can help her.” He took the woman’s hand and gave her a reassuring pat. “Things will turn out just fine, you’ll see. You’ll be safe with him.”
From within the shadows of her hood, she looked doubtful. The priest nudged her firmly into the house, clambered back into the buggy and was gone.
Ross frowned. When was he coming back? And what was Ross supposed to do with her until he did?
Well, hell. His frown deepening, Ross pulled the door shut, then on an afterthought, locked it.
She stood before him. The tension in her was palpable, as if being here was the last place she wanted to be. Most likely, his reluctance to talk to her didn’t help matters any. He hadn’t been polite about it. Ross suspected if he didn’t watch her close, she’d bolt first chance she got.
He held out his arm. “I’ll take your coat.”
She shook her head, and the hood slipped a little. “It’s not mine, actually. Father lent it to me, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just keep it on.”
“Ross, is someone here? I thought I heard voices.” Chat stopped in midstride on her way out from the kitchen, a plate of darkened biscuits in her hand. The woman turned; her hood slipped down further, and Chat gasped. “Oh! It’s her. Mrs. Kelley’s boarder. The one I was telling you about.”
The woman made a soft sound of dismay. “You know what happened? Already?”
“Yes.” To Chat’s credit, the word held a wealth of sympathy. She extended her free hand. “I’ve seen you at the bank. My name is Chat. This is my brother, Ross Santana.”
“Yes.” She turned back to him. “I know.”
She didn’t offer her own name, and he didn’t ask. He strode toward Chat, took the plate of biscuits and set them on the table.
“Your room,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “But Ross! Dinner’s ready, and—”
“You heard me.”
She slid a disappointed glance toward the woman, and her mouth curved downward in a pout. But she didn’t argue. “All right.”
After the door shut behind her, the woman lifted her chin. Weary pride shone in her expression.
“I’m intruding on your evening,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Ross held her gaze. There was something about her he couldn’t place. A stirring of familiarity.
“Evidently the good priest thought otherwise,” he said. “Sit down.” He indicated the couch, but she didn’t move.
“This was a mistake,” she said stiffly.
“I’ll decide that.”
“We have nothing to discuss. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m sorry.” She pivoted and headed toward the door.
What did she think she’d do? Walk back to town? Alone?
Not a chance, given her circumstances. And not until he figured out who she was, what happened to her tonight—and if he’d ever seen her before. He reached out, grasped her elbow. She cried out, and he immediately let go.
The attack against her was worse than what folks knew, evidently. No wonder she refused to relinquish the black cape.
“You’re hurt. Let me see,” he commanded.
“I’m not hurt. I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, but I’m leaving. Really, I must.” She swung back to the door, faster than before, but Ross was wiser this round. He clasped her other arm in one hand, removed the cape with the other.
The left shoulder of her dress had been slashed open, and blood caked the fabric to her skin. He’d been knifed a time or two himself. He knew firsthand the wound hurt like a bitch.
“Who did this to you?” he growled.
“No one you know,” she snapped, pulling against his grasp. “He’s none of your business, besides.”
“You’ve got that wrong, woman. You showed up on my doorstep bleeding and on the run. Whoever’s after you could find you here. That affects me and mine, so I’m making it my business.”
She sucked in a stricken breath. Obviously, she hadn’t figured Chat into the repercussions.
“Sit down,” he said, the command quieter, but no less firm.
This time, she obeyed. She looked more worried than ever. “I won’t be staying long.”
“I’ll decide that, too.” He hunkered in front of her, carefully pried the fabric from her skin. The blade had left a gash several inches long, but she didn’t need stitches. “A flesh wound. You’ll live.”
At her silence, he glanced up. She stared at him intently, a slight frown knitting her brows. Maybe she’d never seen a one-eyed man before. Maybe the patch he was forced to wear repulsed her, or fascinated her in a macabre sort of way, like it did with most folks in Ida Grove.
He hated it when people stared at him. Hated it with a passion.
Did she pity him?
Ross stood suddenly. He needed space away from her. He didn’t want her pity, and he had to break that odd pull she held over him.
It was easier to contemplate her when he wasn’t so close, and he contemplated her with outright boldness. He could see her pride, her strength. She’d endured his probing of her shoulder with surprising tenacity, considering the burn she’d be feeling. He knew Chat wouldn’t have been as stoic.
But the woman was pale, a sign she’d been hurting for awhile. Exhausted, too. Neither took away from the attractiveness she wore casually, as if vanity was never part of her thinking. Long lashes graced eyes that were a rich shade of brown, tinted with a hint of red, like the finest quality of mahogany wood. Eyes like that didn’t often have hair with the same rich color, auburn, almost a deep red, and with wavy strands just a little wild…
“Who are you?” he asked in a low voice.
“My name is Lark,” she said, sitting stiffly on the couch. “Lark Renault.”
Ray-nau. French, like Chat claimed. Spoken in a tone that was low and husky. Easy on a man’s ears.
But he’d never heard it before. He’d remember a name like hers.
“You work at the bank in town?” he said.
“Yes.”
“The man who attacked you tonight. Is he a customer? Someone who might be dissatisfied with the bank’s handling of his financial affairs?”
“No, no. Mr. Templeton insists that the bank’s customers are treated fairly and with the utmost respect.”
It was easy to see she held her job in high esteem. Ross knew she’d treat the people she dealt with the same way.
“A lover, then,” he said. “Someone you’ve spurned lately?”
She rolled her eyes, made a sound of disagreement. “Not hardly.”
She was a beautiful woman. Why wasn’t she married? Or betrothed? Why didn’t she have a half-dozen men panting at her skirts?
His mouth tightened. It wasn’t like him to speculate about a woman and the men she might have attracted to her. Why was he doing it now? With her?
“I can stand here and interrogate you all night long, Lark,” he said, his tone brusque. “Unless you tell me who’s after you, and why, you’re going to end up dead. And what a waste of time that would be for both of us.”
Her throat moved in a hard swallow. His gaze followed the motion, and he was reminded yet again how strong she was. How stubborn. And determined as hell to keep him from helping her.
Seemed Father Baxter had made a mistake bringing her all the way out here. Fine. The least Ross could do was treat her wound, feed her some dinner, and take her back to town. Her decisions were her own. So were the ramifications that came with them.
But his scrutiny lingered. That pull again. That deep-down gut instinct which told him he’d crossed paths with her once before.
When?
“There’s really nothing you can do,” she said quietly. “I appreciate you trying. And you’re right.
This has all been a waste of our time. Father Baxter meant well, didn’t he?”
Ross grunted. “Stay put. You need cleaning up, and I have some medicine that will help your pain.”
He expected her protest, but she said nothing more. Just sat there, staring at him, looking small and vulnerable in that damn cape.
He strode into his bedroom and closed the door. He kept assorted pharmaceuticals on a shelf above his washbasin. But it was the bureau he headed for, and the bottom drawer he kept under lock and key.
Once he opened it, he found the flat, rectangular box he was looking for. He removed the lid, tossed it aside, his urgency growing as he rifled through the papers he kept within. Reports he’d penned. Payments he’d received. Documents from his past life as a bounty hunter.
Wanted posters.
He yanked out one in particular.
And there she was.
Lark Renault. Alias Wild Red. Once part of the notorious Reno gang. The artist’s drawing was at least seven years old, crude at best, but it was her. Thick, wavy hair, spilling from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Eyes, dark and direct. She looked young in the drawing. Thinner, too.
But it was her.
She’d been there that day at the Turf Club. Ross was hell-bent on arresting her, but things turned ugly. Out of control. He never intended to shoot her down.
Catfish Jack took care of matters with his shotgun primed and ready. Ross never saw him coming.
He shut off the memories, dragged himself back to the present. Now, at last, he could finish the case he never solved, and the one person who could help him do it was sitting on his couch at this very moment.
The Wanted poster slipped from his fingers. He rose, strode to the door and yanked it wide open.
But Lark Renault had disappeared.
Chapter Four
He knew who she was.