by Susan Stoker
Surely he didn’t believe she’d kill a man. Her father really didn’t know his own daughter. Phoebe held up her hands. “No, Daddy, I didn’t kill Ryan, but someone did. I just happened to leave the wedding in his car. Unbeknownst to me, he was already dead and in the trunk.”
Her father looked around the barroom at all the faces of silent patrons staring from him to his daughter and back. “What are you all looking at? Can’t a man have a private conversation with his daughter without people gawking? Go back to what you were doing, for Pete’s sake.” To Phoebe, he said, “Come on, girl. Let’s go home and figure this out.”
This was it—the confrontation. Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and stood with her feet slightly parted, ready to take on anyone who tried to force her to leave. “I’m not going with you, Daddy.”
One cowboy turned to Phoebe. “That’s right, Phoebe, don’t let him push you around. We’ve got your back. You’re one of us now.” The man stood and planted himself in front of her father.
Jonathon Sinclair was a man used to getting his way. He glared at the cowboy but waved to his bodyguards. “Get her.”
Several cowboys stood, blocking the bodyguards from advancing toward Phoebe.
Nash crossed to where she stood and slipped an arm around her waist. “Mr. Sinclair, your daughter has made her home in Hellfire. She won’t be leaving with you.”
“Get your hands off my daughter,” her father demanded. “She’s coming home.”
“Not if she doesn’t want to.” He moved to stand slightly in front of Phoebe.
“Watch it, boy, or I’ll have you up on kidnapping charges.”
“He didn’t kidnap me, Daddy,” Phoebe said. “No one forced me to leave the church or to stay in Hellfire. I left because I want to live my own life, make my own decisions and choose the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You belong in Dallas, not this backwater small town with nothing but a bunch of hicks who have nothing better to do with their lives than drink beer.”
Every cowboy and all of the women in the saloon stood and faced Phoebe’s father.
Anger surged through Phoebe at her father’s rude words. These people had been good to her. They’d taken her in when she didn’t have a place to stay, made sure she had clothes to wear and a place to work. “Daddy, if you ever want to see me again, you’ll apologize to the men and women in this saloon.”
“I will not.”
Phoebe tapped her toe on the wooden floor. “Then please leave. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Glancing around, he drew in a long breath and huffed it out. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“Then don’t expect me to pay for your lawyers when you’re arrested for murder.”
Her stomach sank, but she refused to let her father push her around ever again. “I’ll manage on my own.”
“You’ll be trading in your Gucci for prison orange, I tell you.”
She swept a hand down her torso and the second-hand clothes. “Does this outfit look like Gucci?”
His gaze raked her from head to toe. “No, but what you’re wearing really isn’t the point. Without my lawyers, you don’t stand a chance.”
Phoebe shrugged. “So be it.”
“Damn it, Phoebe, don’t be stubborn!” her father shouted, his hands fisted at his sides.
She raised her brows, her lips quirking on the corners. “I come by it honestly.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed to a squint. For a long moment, he stared across the room full of cowboys. “Fine. Have it your way.” He turned to the men in the room. “I’m sorry.”
Phoebe’s fists tightened. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Isn’t it enough I apologized?” he implored. “I never apologize.”
“Yes, you apologized, but you didn’t sound at all sincere.” She softened her voice. “Daddy, it’s never too late to be kind.”
Jonathon Sinclair stared again at the sea of faces. Finally, his shoulders relaxed and he chuckled. “She’s a lot more like me than I gave her credit.” He tipped his head toward the crowd and spoke in a sincere voice. “Please, accept my most sincere apology. You are all fine men and women, and it was arrogant of me not to recognize and appreciate you for who you are.” He held their attention for another long moment, and then turned to Phoebe. “Now, will you come with me?”
“First of all, I shouldn’t have had to tell you that you were being rude. Second, I’m still not leaving. I have a job, and you’re in the way of these hardworking, thirsty men.” Phoebe winked at the cowboys.
The occupants of the saloon raised their voices in loud yee-haws and resumed their seats.
Phoebe fought the grin threatening to spread across her face and waved over her father. “If you’re staying, you have to order something. What can I get you?”
Her father glanced around, a smile curling his lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar as rustic as this. How about a Budweiser?”
“I’ll bring you a Light.” Phoebe patted her father’s protruding belly. “You’re supposed to be on a diet.”
He stood taller. “Are you a waitress or a daughter?”
“Both.” She faced the bodyguards. “Diet soda for you, Frank? Ginger ale for Smitty?”
They nodded and stood on either side of her father.
Phoebe shook her head. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit.”
All three men grabbed a chair and sat.
Empowered by having her commands followed, Phoebe turned toward the mess on the floor.
Nash squatted beside the broken mugs and bottles, loading them onto the tray. “I’ve got this.” He looked up at her and smiled. “By the way, you’re amazing.”
Phoebe nodded and grinned. “Damn right, I am.” And Nash was equally amazing and supportive of her attempt to start a new life. With starch in her spine and hope filling her heart, she marched toward the bar and ordered the drinks.
“Uh, Phoebe?” a voice called out behind her.
Audrey stood in the shadow of the hallway leading to the back of the building. The light bulb must have burned out because the corridor was darker than usual. Audrey’s usual happy face was pale and tense. She held her arm behind her back at an awkward angle.
“Audrey?” Phoebe hurried toward her boss. “Are you all right?”
The strawberry-blonde shook her head. “Not really.” Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.
As Phoebe neared the saloon owner, she could see why. Her breath hitched and a lead weight settled in the pit of her stomach.
A man stood behind her, a ski mask covering his face. “Keep quiet, and do as I say, or I hurt the woman.”
He eased his hand from behind Audrey enough for Phoebe to see the gun in his grip. A taller man stood behind the first. With both of them dressed in black, they could barely be seen in the darkened hallway.
“They hit Jackson in the head. He’s lying on the floor in the storeroom.”
The man holding her jerked her arm back farther.
Audrey winced. “I don’t care about me, but Jackson…”
The man holding Audrey tipped his head. “Come with us.”
Blood pounding in her ears, Phoebe glanced over her shoulder.
Nash straightened, his gaze going to the bar.
“Now,” the man said. “Or I hurt the pretty lady.”
Phoebe stepped into the dark hallway, praying Nash saw her as she did. As her bodyguard, he would follow her, even if she was only talking to Audrey.
The men didn’t stop until they pushed through the back exit.
Once the door closed behind Phoebe, she planted her feet on the ground and demanded, “What do you want?”
The taller man pointed a gun at Phoebe. “We want what Bratton gave you.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The code,” said the man holding Audrey. “We want th
e code to the account where he moved the money.”
Her heart hammering, Phoebe glanced from one of the men to the other. Audrey was clearly in distress, Jackson lay injured in the storeroom, and these men wanted something she knew nothing about. Eager to do whatever it took to get these men to leave, she asked, “What code? What money?”
“Don’t play dumb, little rich bitch. We know he gave it to you. It wasn’t in the car, and he didn’t have it on his body when we stiffed him,” said the man holding the gun on her.
The one holding Audrey continued, “We searched your suitcases back at the church and it wasn’t in either one.”
“So he had to have given it to you. He planned to take it on your honeymoon to the Cayman Islands, withdraw the money from the bank and disappear.”
Phoebe’s heart hardened. Ryan, the bastard, really did deserve to die. But she refused to be collateral damage to his dirty deal. “That’s news to me. He didn’t clue me in on his plan.”
“He had to have. Otherwise, why did you leave?”
Audrey caught Phoebe’s attention, mouthing the word “one.”
Phoebe tensed when Audrey mouthed the word “two.”
On “three,” Audrey slammed her elbow into the midsection of the man holding her and dove out of range of his gun then scrambled to her feet.
Phoebe put her self-defense lessons to use and threw a sidekick into the other man’s hand, knocking the gun from his grip. She shoved the man who’d held Audrey into the man behind him and ran.
Limping, Audrey made it around the corner, but Phoebe had only gone a couple yards when someone hit her from behind and sent her sprawling face-first into the dirt. A hand grabbed her long hair and yanked so hard, she thought for sure a hank would come loose. The man who’d tackled her leaned close to her ear and breathed fetid breath into the side of her face.
“Move another muscle, and I’ll kill you, like I killed your fiancé.”
Nash straightened with the tray full of broken glass, satisfied he’d gotten all of the pieces so no one would be cut by the jagged shards. Immediately, his gaze sought Phoebe. She wasn’t at the table with her father and his bodyguards.
Turning toward the bar, he didn’t see her with Libby, the bartender, filling drink orders. His pulse kicked up a notch, but he wasn’t too concerned. She could be behind the counter, helping unload a box of whiskey, or she could have gone to the storeroom for a case of beer.
Nash carried the tray to the bar. “Have you seen Phoebe?”
Libby pulled the tap, filling a mug with beer. “Audrey called her to the storeroom, I think. Want me to go look? I could use a case of whiskey.”
“No. I’ll go check.” Nash hurried to the hallway leading to the storeroom. He couldn’t remember it being as dark as it was. He flipped the switch on the wall. The lights came on, and he entered the storeroom. “Phoebe?” he called out. Rows of boxes were stacked high enough he couldn’t see around them.
A moan rose from behind the stack.
Nash’s heartbeat thundered against his ribs as he ducked around the boxes to find Jackson Gray Wolf laying with his face on the ground, a bloody lump forming at his temple. “Jackson?” Nash knelt beside the man.
Jackson rolled onto his back and stared up at Nash. “Where’s Audrey?”
“I was going to ask you the same. What happened?”
“Don’t know.” He pushed to a sitting position and held onto his head. “I was kissing my wife when someone hit me.” He looked into Nash’s face and his eyes widened. “Audrey.” Jackson staggered to his feet.
Nash steadied him.
“Don’t worry about me, find Audrey. Whoever hit me might have taken her.”
She wasn’t in the bar. Not in the storeroom. She had to have gone out the back door.
Nash sprinted for the door.
Hands on hips, Greta Sue stood in the hallway. “You’re in a restricted area.”
“Greta Sue.” Jackson leaned in the doorway behind Nash. “Audrey’s in trouble.”
The big woman’s eyes grew round. “Where is she?”
“We don’t know,” Nash said. “Get Phoebe’s father and his bodyguards and head out the front. Jackson and I are headed out the back.” He darted for the back exit. “And have Libby call 911,” he called out over his shoulder.
Without waiting for Jackson, Greta Sue or Phoebe’s father and his bodyguards, Nash hit the back door and leaped off the landing onto the ground.
A man wearing a ski mask ran toward the side of the building.
“Hey!” Nash shouted.
The man turned, and a shot whizzed past Nash’s head.
Nash dove and rolled to his feet, pulling his Glock from the holster beneath his jacket as he came up.
At that moment, Jackson slammed open the back door, drawing attention away from Nash.
The man in the ski mask swung his arm toward Jackson.
Nash fired, hitting the man square in the chest, dropping him where he stood.
A car engine revved at the side of the building, backed up to where the man lay dead on the ground and then shot forward.
Audrey staggered from around the side of the building, a hand braced against the structure. “The other guy has Phoebe. Don’t let him take her.”
Nash dodged around Audrey, focusing all his energy into catching up to that car and rescuing his runaway bride, yet again. He couldn’t let someone hurt her now. In the short amount of time he’d known her, he had fallen under her spell. He couldn’t let it end here. He wouldn’t.
The sedan pulled away, spitting up gravel as it swerved to avoid hitting a truck backing out of a parking space. As it pulled around the backing truck, the sedan hit another truck’s tailgate then spun sideways, the front of the sedan stuck to the tailgate. The sedan’s driver backed away, but couldn’t shake loose from the tailgate. He dragged the truck a few inches and then stopped, the tires of the sedan spinning in the gravel, going nowhere.
Nash didn’t dare shoot the driver when he couldn’t see where he had Phoebe. Instead, he raced for the sedan and reached for the driver’s door and yanked it open.
Inside, a man wearing a ski mask cursed. With one hand on the steering wheel, he held a gun in his other hand, pointing at Phoebe who was tipped sideways against the passenger door, her arms and feet bound in duct tape. “Touch me,” the driver warned, “and I’ll blow her head off.”
“The hell you will,” Phoebe said. She lifted her bound legs and kicked the man’s wrist, sending the gun flying across the seat. Then she kicked again, landing both of her feet in the side of the man’s face. “That’s for hurting my new friends.” She would have kicked him again.
Nash grabbed the man, yanked him out of his seat and threw him onto the ground. When he tried to get up on his hands and knees to scramble away, Nash dropped on top of him, pressing his knee into the small of the man’s back. He held his gun to the man’s head. “Move, and I’ll blow your head off,” he said, repeating the same words the man had used to threaten Phoebe.
Sirens wailed in the distance, and footsteps crunched in the gravel beside him.
Phoebe’s father appeared with his bodyguards and Greta Sue. They helped Phoebe out of the car and carefully removed the duct tape from her arms and legs.
By the time the sheriff arrived, the entire saloon had emptied, gathering around Phoebe, Audrey, Nash and Jackson. A fire truck arrived, and Chance climbed down and pushed through the crowd to check over the four of them. He pronounced them fit, with the caveat that Jackson go to the emergency room in case he had a concussion and subsequent swelling in the brain.
Sheriff Olson took possession of the prisoner. “I take it these are the guys who killed Ryan Bratton, the man in the trunk of the car Miss Sinclair brought to Hellfire?”
Phoebe nodded and pointed. “This one admitted to killing Ryan.”
“My word against hers,” the man said with a shrug.
Audrey came to stand beside her. “I will testify I heard him say h
e killed Phoebe’s fiancé.”
Phoebe’s attacker glared at Audrey. “I want a lawyer.”
“Looks like we have a murder suspect.” Sheriff Olson cuffed the man, put him in the back of his service vehicle and then returned to Phoebe and Nash. “Guess your bodyguard duties are done, Grayson.”
Mr. Sinclair turned to Nash and held out his hand. “Thank you for taking care of my baby girl.” He shook his head. “I might be a big ol’ grouch and a bit pushy, but I love that girl.”
Phoebe hooked her arm through Nash’s. “If you love me, then let me live my life the way I see fit.”
Nash’s chest swelled at Phoebe’s demand. She could have everything handed to her on a silver platter if she returned to her father’s house. But she chose independence. And by the way she was holding onto his arm, she was choosing to stay with him.
Her father nodded. “Seems you’re a better judge of a man than I am.” He shoved a hand through his thick thatch of gray hair. “After you disappeared, I had my private investigator dig into Ryan Bratton’s background a little deeper. I also had my team of accountants check into his corporate dealings. What I found scared the crud out of me. I didn’t know if you’d left of your own volition, or if Bratton kidnapped you. I had no idea Bratton was stealing from the company. I thought he was a good match—a forward-thinking young man with a bright future ahead of him. Someone who could give you everything you deserve.”
Phoebe snorted. “Well, I didn’t deserve him.” She touched her father’s arm. “I always did what you and Mama wanted of me, but I never felt like I belonged in your world.” She glanced around at her new friends. “Though I’ve only been here for a couple of days, I’ve never felt more at home and needed. I want to stay, preferably with your blessing. But, with or without it, I’m staying.”
“You have it,” her father said. “If this place makes you happy, let me help you get set up.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Thanks, but I like making it on my own.”
Her father nodded. “Fair enough. At least let me find a vehicle for you to get around in. I hate to think of you stranded on the roadside.”
“Being stranded on the roadside was where this adventure began.” With a smile, Phoebe leaned into Nash’s body. “I wouldn’t have learned what a wonderful place Hellfire, Texas, was, or the generosity of its people if the car I was driving hadn’t had a flat tire.”