Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  “I am an Apache, Rick,” Shoz said harshly. “I am the one who can get into the saloon and most successfully find and rescue my daughter. I am the one who is going to cut Craddock’s throat.” He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes.

  Bragg thought about Cooper, hanging by his neck, his body carefully sliced up. “Shoz, my niece is in there. Right now, I would prefer that we assess the situation, carefully, before deciding on any plan of action.”

  Shoz hesitated. “Five minutes,” he said. “That is what I am giving you, Rick, and then I am going in.”

  Their gazes locked. Bragg felt real dismay, accompanied by the many icy fingers of dread. God damn it. His brother-in-law was a hard man and not a man to be ordered about, much less to be crossed. He understood him now—his precious daughter was in the hands of a killer. But it was not in Chrissy’s best interest that Shoz hunt Craddock down. They were not on the West Texas plains, where a man might commit murder and walk away freely. They were in the middle of New York City. Brendan Farr was out there, hunting them.

  Shoz was also not a man to change his mind, once it was set. Still, Bragg tried to negotiate. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Give me ten minutes, Shoz. Please.”

  Shoz’s jaw flexed.

  Bragg hesitated, then said, “Francesca is in there, too.” It was his way of saying that he loved her and was as concerned as Shoz about getting Craddock.

  Shoz said, “Eight.”

  Hart rolled his eyes. “Both of you are emotionally involved; neither one of you should be in charge.”

  “And you are not emotionally involved?” Rourke asked quietly, tearing the words right out from Bragg’s heart.

  “We are all emotionally involved,” Rathe said firmly. “We’re here.”

  The coach rocked to a stop. The doors opened and the six men came pouring out, their weapons concealed beneath their coats. Shoz carried the hunting rifle wrapped in the oilskin raincoat. A knife appeared in his hand; he slipped it up his sleeve. He was still clad in his western-style suit and silver-tipped cowboy boots, and he and Hart were the only ones not wearing overcoats.

  Hart suddenly gripped Bragg’s shoulder. “I should go in.” He smiled. “I’ve heard there is a good game to be played.” His eyes glinted and he lifted the leather valise he held.

  In it was cash. Bragg had not asked how much, but he assumed $10,000. His impulse was to refuse. But what better way to get the lay of the land? In his black suit and tie, his white dress shirt, and his gold Mueller pocket watch and Asprey sapphire-and-diamond ring, Hart could easily be mistaken for a gambler. Of course, he was too elegant and wealthy for this kind of place, but then, gamblers often panicked when a game could not be found.

  “He’s right,” Rathe said quietly. “Calder’s just come to town and he is looking for a game. Flash the cash. I am sure they will let you in.”

  “And I can go with him to back him up. I can go as his nephew or cousin,” Nicholas said with excitement. “How many times have I been told I look just like Calder?”

  It was the perfect plan.

  All eyes were on Bragg now.

  He hated handing the job over to his brother. But Chrissy was in there—and so was Francesca. “Do it,” Bragg said.

  There was the slightest trickle of sweat on his temples. Hart brushed them off of his cousin’s face. “Calm down,” he said outside the saloon. “We merely want some action, Nick. A cheap whiskey, a good cigar, and some fast cash.” He smiled, baring even white teeth.

  “How can you be so cool?” Nicholas asked, loosening his tie.

  How? The calm was born of urgency and even fear. He adored the tiny child who was somewhere in that saloon, just as he adored her mother. And then there was Francesca.

  He would move the entire city in order to rescue her now. And he had not a doubt that he could do so, if that was what had to be done.

  Besides, money could buy just about anything—if not everything.

  “Calder?”

  Hart smiled at the younger man. “Experience,” he murmured. “Forget the stakes; think of this as a game.” But it was hardly a game. He remained acutely aware of the high stakes—Chrissy’s life, Francesca’s life. However, this was not the time to dwell on the worst possibilities. This was the time to execute.

  And he was a man of action. Had he not proved that, time and again?

  He met Nicholas’s eyes. He saw that his younger cousin had recovered his composure. Especially when Nicholas winked. Hart nodded and opened the saloon door, walking inside, Nicholas on his heels. The barroom was eerily empty. It was dirty and cheap, but then, he had expected that. It brought back terrible memories, memories he had thought were so distant as to be gone forever. But now was not the time to recall running away from Rathe’s home at the age of sixteen. Now was not the time to recall the five following years, including failing out of Princeton and slowly but surely wheeling and dealing his way to the top of the first company he had ever owned.

  He heard the soft murmur of voices coming from behind a closed door at its far end. “Let’s go,” he said with a hard smile. He could not wait to get his hands on Craddock. However, he doubted he would have the chance; Shoz would get there first.

  Nicholas smiled in return. To his credit, he looked eager now for battle. As anxious as he might be, it did not show. His smile was cool, amused, and even sensual; the boy reminded Hart a bit of himself.

  Hart clapped Nicholas’s back and knocked on the door once, before opening it.

  Men turned in their chairs. Eyes widened and then narrowed. A half a dozen men stared.

  “I am sorry for the intrusion,” Hart said calmly. He smiled, setting his valise down at his feet. He did so in such a way that everyone glanced at it. “I heard there was a game; we have just come to town, my nephew Nick and I.” But even as he spoke, he casually glanced at each of the six men in the room, five of whom were seated at the table, one of whom was standing. He sensed that the tall, bald standing man was the proprietor of the saloon. One chair at the table was empty. A player was gone, and being that no man already seated there fit Craddock’s description, he guessed that their quarry was gone. He quelled any disappointment. He was there to obtain information. There was surely information to be had.

  “Game’s closed,” someone grunted.

  “Yeah, but where’s Joe? He been gone for ten minutes,” a heavyset man said with exasperation.

  “Said he had to get upstairs.”

  “Stupid fool.” Another one spat tobacco.

  “Shut up and play cards.”

  Craddock was upstairs. “Might I be directed to another establishment?” Hart asked, picking up his valise.

  “Let him play,” someone groused.

  That was the last thing Hart now wanted. But he smiled with interest anyway, as if waiting to be invited to sit. If he was, he would do so, and he and Nicholas would find the opportunity for Nick to leave and tell the others what they had learned. Patience was a virtue. It was one of the few that Hart possessed, and he had it in spades.

  And that was when the screams began and a gunshot rang out.

  Hart looked at Nicholas; the screams and the shot had come from above. They ran out of the back room, toward the stairs in the saloon, as all of the card-players jumped up.

  Joel had disappeared with Chrissy down the back stairs. Francesca was grateful for that.

  She stood by the woman’s bed, not daring to move, as Craddock cursed and paced. The woman in the small wrapper looked anxious indeed.

  “Dumb moll!” Craddock finally shouted, and with the butt of his gun he struck the blonde across the side of her face. She screamed and went down in a heap.

  “This is all your fuckin’ fault!” Craddock shouted, and he kicked her in the thigh.

  “Stop!” Francesca dashed to the woman, but Craddock caught her by the shoulder and flung her back hard onto the bed.

  “You don’t move, lady, not one step!”

  The blonde was whimpering and crying
now.

  “Shit!” Craddock cried.

  Francesca sat up, instantly looking at the other woman. The blonde was on her side, clutching her face. Blood seeped through her fingers. “She needs help. She needs a doctor!”

  “Shut up!” he shouted at her. “Damn it! Who the hell are you? An’ give me one good reason not to kill you right now!”

  Francesca froze. Her heart went wild, beating with alarm and fear. She inhaled. “Surely one murder is enough?”

  He was hardly stupid. “I ain’t ever committed murder.”

  “I beg to differ,” she breathed. “Fort Kendall—1890.”

  He began to smile, widely. He was truly a cruel thug. “I didn’t kill Cooper, lady. Ole Shoz Savage did that deed.” He leered. “An’ I seen him do it.”

  Francesca slowly stood. At least the blonde had stopped whimpering. She still lay on her side, but she was watching them both now with the kind of fascination reserved for a striking rattlesnake. Francesca had been testing Craddock, and unfortunately, she felt that he was telling her the truth.

  “I told you to stay still!”

  Francesca said, “I spoke to Warden Timbull. There were no witnesses.”

  “Oh, there were witnesses all right. There were seventy-one witnesses, not countin’ the guards.”

  She felt her eyes widen. “You mean—the entire prison watched that man being tortured and killed?”

  “Even ole Timbull was there, enjoyin’ the show,” he sneered.

  She was ill.

  “Don’t bother to swoon. Now who the hell are you?”

  Francesca debated her options. Her family had money, so the truth might save her life—he could ransom her now, instead of Chrissy. “Francesca Cahill,” she said.

  “Cahill? As in Arthur Cahill, that butcher fellow?” His gaze was narrowed.

  “My father’s name is Andrew Cahill, and his company is meatpacking, not butchering,” she said.

  He began to smile. “Well, well, looks like I done all right after all.” He turned to the woman on the floor. “Whaddya think, Lulabelle? I got me a rich prize here.” His gaze narrowed. “Maybe I can figure out a way to make Shoz pay after all.” He grinned.

  Lulabelle sat up. “Can I go?” she whispered.

  “No, you can’t go,” he shouted, reaching for her.

  Francesca realized this was his chance. As he bent to lift the woman and do God only knew what to her, she raced past him for the door, screaming for help.

  He cursed.

  She flung the door open. “Help! Bragg! Help!” She had never run faster than she now ran down the short distance of the corridor to the stairs.

  A bullet whistled by her ear.

  She stumbled, tripping as she went down the stairs.

  He caught her on the third step, pulling her against his body, his arm going around her waist. And he ground the barrel of the gun into her temple. “Don’t move, bitch,” he said.

  Francesca went still, and at the bottom of the stairs she saw Hart and Nicholas.

  “Don’t move,” Hart said calmly. He smiled a little at her as their eyes met. It was meant to be reassuring, and it was. She had the oddest feeling that he would save her now, and that feeling was accompanied by calm.

  Nicholas was pointing a gun at Craddock; Hart’s hands were empty, although a black leather valise was at his feet. The poker players from the back room had come into the bar and stood in a jagged circle behind Hart and Nicholas. Now the saloon door burst open, and Bragg appeared on the threshold, a gun in his hand. Behind him were Shoz, Rourke, and Rathe, in that order. Almost simultaneously, every single man saw what was happening and froze. Bragg’s gaze slammed to Francesca.

  “Joel escaped with Chrissy!” Francesca cried.

  His eyes widened.

  Craddock jabbed the gun so hard into her temple that she became dizzy and watched the room becoming black. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “If you hurt her, you will get nothing,” Hart said in the same calm but oh-so-authoritative voice.

  Bragg had come to stand beside Hart. “Craddock, it is over. I am Rick Bragg, and you are surrounded. Release Miss Cahill, release her now, and we will let you walk out of here, unharmed.”

  Craddock jerked on Francesca. She managed not to whimper. “Like hell. Well, well. If it ain’t my old friend and pard, Shoz Savage.”

  Francesca glanced breathlessly at Shoz. He was staring coolly at Craddock; he did not speak.

  “Guess we got an ole score to settle, now don’t we?” Craddock said, jerking hurtfully on Francesca.

  She refused to gasp. Sweat trickled into her eye.

  “Leave Miss Cahill out of this,” Shoz said flatly.

  “Now why should I do that? Hey, them rich folks of yours, they know you murdered a man in cold blood?” Craddock laughed. “In front of seventy-one witnesses; no, make that seventy-six. Got to include the guards an’ bullyboy Timbull.”

  “If I go down,” Shoz said softly, “I am taking you down with me.”

  For one moment, Craddock stared, and Francesca felt a new tension tightening his body. Then he said baldly, “I don’t think so. You see, I got me a ticket here, one to freedom and cash.” He jabbed the gun against her to make his point. This time, she did gasp, as her temple was terribly sore now.

  Bragg stepped forward. “Miss Cahill has nothing to do with this. However, there is a carriage outside, with a driver, and you may take that—but only after you release Miss Cahill.”

  “An’ the cash?”

  Bragg glanced at Hart. Hart smiled and picked up the valise, opening it. He tossed out a bound wad of bills. And then another—and another. “Five thousand, ten thousand. Fifteen. Here. Now it is twenty. Do tell me when to stop, Mr. Craddock.”

  Craddock’s eyes were popping. “How much do you got in there?”

  “It is not how much I have in this satchel,” Hart said. “It is how much I have in my safe and my bank accounts, and the answer is, I will pay what you wish, but you must release Miss Cahill … now.” His gaze moved to Francesca.

  Something warmed inside of her. She had the distinct feeling that he would turn over hundreds of thousands of dollars without even thinking twice about it, to ensure that she was unhurt and freed.

  Craddock licked his lips. “Thirty,” he said hoarsely. “Thirty thousand dollars.”

  Hart smiled and tossed two more wads of bills at his feet. “Release her,” he said softly.

  Francesca felt Craddock’s grip loosening—and then footsteps sounded and dozens of men in blue uniforms swarmed into the saloon, with Brendan Farr at their head.

  “Get out!” Bragg shouted furiously. “Get your men out of here!”

  Craddock’s grip tightened and he dragged Francesca back up the stairs, screaming, “No police, fuck you, you bastard! No damn police!” And even though she fought him every step of the way, the next thing she knew, he was shoving her face-first into the small room, and slamming the door closed behind them.

  Francesca fell onto the wood floor, chin-up. Pain exploded in her head and she saw stars. And she heard the bolt dropping.

  Twenty

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1902-5:00 P.M.

  The timing was simply unbelievable. Bragg rubbed his face with his hands as a police officer directed the policemen out of the saloon. It was hard to think clearly, hard to keep his fear at bay. He would never survive if anything happened to Francesca. Then he got a grip and he looked up at Farr. “Make certain every man leaves this block. I do not want any police anywhere in the vicinity of this saloon! Is that clear?”

  Farr was slightly flushed, and Bragg knew it was with anger. “Absolutely,” he said. “Harry, you heard him.”

  “I am not done,” Bragg interrupted. Clearly, appointing Farr as chief of police had been a mistake. The man was too smart, ambitious, and self-serving for his own good. But who would have ever thought that Lucy would come to New York, bringing so much trouble? Of course, he would have guessed that Francesca would quickl
y, irrevocably become involved in Lucy’s problematic affairs. “Set up roadblocks on Thirty-third and Thirty-first Streets, on both Second and Third Avenue, as we do not know which direction he will go.” Bragg watched Nicholas picking up the piles of money on the floor. “Any sign of Joel and Chrissy?”

  Farr said, “The boy and little girl are outside with one of my men. They are both fine.”

  That was a huge relief. Shoz had been standing slightly to the side, with Rathe, Rourke, and Hart. His eyes widened and he dashed from the saloon. From outside, Chrissy’s gleeful cry of, “Papa!” could be heard. Bragg almost smiled, except he could not, as he was too acutely aware of Francesca being upstairs with Craddock.

  He must not think now of how often hostages were killed by their captors. He simply must not.

  “Shall I go up and attempt to convince Craddock to give up Miss Cahill and surrender?” Farr asked.

  Bragg felt like murdering him. Instead, he smiled. “No. Have Hart’s coach in front of the saloon.” He turned to go.

  Farr detained him by gripping his arm. “You are going to let him get in that carriage? We may lose him if you do! It is not a good idea!”

  “I am going to do what I have to do in order to rescue Miss Cahill,” Bragg said coldly. Farr’s gaze was too-knowing now. Undoubtedly the man knew what his entire family did—that he was in love with Francesca Cahill. “Get the rest of those civilians out of here,” he said, nodding at the six men who had been playing poker in the back room. Several of them seemed about to drool over the last wad of bills, which Nicholas was replacing in Hart’s valise.

  Shoz suddenly strode into the saloon. He eyed Farr as he approached Bragg, then halted and did not speak.

  It was obvious his brother-in-law wished to speak with him. As Francesca remained a hostage, Bragg could only hope that he had an idea with which to capture Craddock and set her free. But Brendan Farr remained a problem. “Where’s Chrissy?”