All I Need Is You

by Johanna Lindsey

  Dropping her gun went against every instinct she had, but she couldn’t think of any way to keep it and stay alive. She dropped it, and was assisted to her feet none too carefully, Jack having more strength than one would imagine for such a little man.

  “Back off, Rutledge, or the little lady gets it right now,” Damian was warned. “We’ll be taking her with us for insurance. You follow, she dies—simple as that.”

  Damian just stared at them, probably trying to figure out a way to shoot Jack without hitting her instead. But it wasn’t going to happen, not when she was a bit taller than the target and he was doing a good job of hiding behind her. She was about to try dropping to the ground again to give Damian his shot, but the Paisley brothers came out in the open just then, and with Jed’s weapon aimed directly at Damian, she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Damian was pretty much rendered harmless if he wanted to preserve her life, and they knew it. They didn’t even ask him to disarm, they were that confident he wouldn’t interfere now. And he didn’t.

  She rode out of there doubled up on Jack’s horse, sitting in front of him with his gun still pressed hard against her. Things didn’t look very promising at the moment—for her anyway. In fact, she wondered how long it would be before Jack decided he didn’t need her for insurance purposes any longer and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 38

  The little cabin must have been a regular hideout, because they rode directly to it. At least that was Casey’s first thought when she was taken inside and thrown into a corner. The place didn’t look lived in; in fact, it contained a serious coat of dust over everything. Yet she soon saw that the room was also well stocked with canned goods that had been stashed under a loose board in the floor. There were blankets in that rather large storage hole as well, and a small crate of extra guns and ammunition.

  A place prepared in advance to hole up for a last stand? It looked like something Jed would have a use for, considering his line of work, but Jack?

  Casey, sitting in the corner and keeping her mouth shut for the time being, wasn’t feeling as dejected as she’d felt earlier. It had taken about four hours to reach the cabin, and once she’d finally remembered that she still had that borrowed reticule hanging from her shoulder, her whole perspective had changed.

  The men weren’t the least bit worried about the bag she was carrying, weren’t going to bother taking it away from her, because they’d already searched through it back in the saloon and had found only the one weapon in it—which had been left behind in the stable on Jack’s orders. They had no way of knowing that between the saloon and the stable, she’d gotten another weapon and still had it.

  She just needed to bide her time until they stopped paying such close attention to her. And that ought to be soon, with the dinner hour approaching.

  So she was not pleased to hear Jed order his brother, “Don’t take your eyes off of her.”

  Jethro had been busy rewrapping his still bleeding hand with the same bloody cloth, so the sour look he gave Jed was understandable. “I still don’t know why you didn’t just kill that marshal while you had the chance. Then you wouldn’t need to worry ’bout him following, or keeping her around in case he does.”

  “Idiot, you don’t kill a U.S. deputy marshal, at least not when there’s a town full of witnesses, unless you want thirty more to come knocking on your door” was Jed’s sharp reply. “They seem to take it personal when you kill one of theirs. Might as well call yourself dead.”

  “I’m not sure he really is a marshal,” Jack put in in a tired voice. The little man wasn’t used to the hard riding they’d just done. “He comes from upper-crust New York society, and is rich to boot. It’s ludicrous for someone like that to become a lawman.”

  “We’ve already been over this, Jack. He could have got the badge just to hunt you down. So whether it was a convenient lie or the truth, I’m not taking any chances. You want him dead, you do it when there are no witnesses. Hopefully, he’ll show up here and we can end it.”

  Casey just loved the way she was being put in the “no witness” category. Of course, that simply meant that once they were done using her as a shield against Damian, she’d be as dead as they planned to make him. Not that she was going to let things progress that far. Funny, though, how Damian’s little lie about being a U.S. deputy was all that had kept him from being killed in the stable today. And she wasn’t about to point out that it was a lie.

  She hadn’t missed the significance of Jack’s words. For him to know that Damian was a rich society Easterner, when Damian had never mentioned any such thing to him, pretty much confirmed that either Jack was Henry and knew Damian personally, or Henry had very recently confessed everything to his brother. She would have bet it was the former, except for one little glitch. Jack really didn’t add up to everything she’d been told about Henry. People could change, she supposed, but this much?

  She decided to find out the truth. After all, Jack had no reason to stick to his original story at this point. He was on the run again. It would take some rather far-fetched excuses to explain away what had happened in the street today, which meant he could pretty much forget about becoming mayor of Culthers. And since he fully expected to kill her before this was over, he had no reason to maintain his secrets.

  So she asked him right out, without wasting breath leading into the subject, “Which is it, Curruthers? Are you Jack—or Henry?”

  He turned his owlish eyes on her and said derisively, “I would think you’d be scared enough to keep your mouth shut, little lady. What is someone like you doing with that Easterner anyway?”

  “I’ll be glad to answer your questions just as soon as you answer mine.”

  He snorted, but then he shrugged. “You want your morbid curiosity appeased? Very well, Henry’s dead. He’s been dead about a year now.”

  That wasn’t exactly what Casey was expecting to hear, but did he mean that figuratively or literally? Before she asked for clarification, though, something else occurred to her that was even more pertinent.

  “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  Another shrug. “In a manner of speaking. I’d gone home for a visit, figured it was time after all these years. We got into a fight, he tripped and hit his head. It was an accident, but one that didn’t bother me much.”

  “And you didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

  “What for? So I’d get blamed for it? I don’t think so. Besides, old Henry wasn’t missed at all,” Jack added with a smirk.

  It was his smug, self-congratulatory look that made it all click together in her mind. “You pretended to be Henry, even at his job.”

  Jack chuckled. “And why not? I don’t know much about numbers, except to make them work in my favor. I was already there. It was an easy way to make the trip profitable. And it wasn’t as if that company couldn’t afford a few losses. Old Man Rutledge had already made his fortune. The fool should have kept his nose out of the books, though. I was getting ready to quit the city when he started nosing around and demanding explanations.”

  “Then why didn’t you just leave if you were already planning to? Why kill him first?”

  “Because some of those questions he was asking were too personal. It’s easy to pretend to be a weakling like my brother was, harder to try the reverse. But I guess I wasn’t that good at it,” he concluded with a chuckle.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Rutledge was suspicious of my behavior, probably because I just didn’t bow down enough to him like my brother would have,” Jack replied derisively. “Because he had his doubts about me, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to question my aunt and find out that Henry’s twin had recently come to town for a visit.”

  “That wouldn’t have been hard for anyone to do,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but only the old man suspected something wasn’t quite right with Henry. Why would anyone else ask about a twin? They wouldn’t have a reason to, now would they? No, the plan was, Henry
would get blamed and be the one hunted down, not me. So the old man had to die, to keep it that way. And it would have stayed that way if Rutledge’s son wasn’t so hell-bent on revenge.”

  “Revenge?” she questioned. “How about simple justice? You killed the man’s father. Maybe some folks would just shrug that off and figure they can’t do anything about it, but then again, some won’t.”

  “It was set up to look like he took his own life!” Jack complained heatedly. “That should have damn well been the end of it.”

  “Unless someone knows the victim well enough to know they wouldn’t kill themselves. But I guess you didn’t take that into account, did you? And by the way, why didn’t you do the actual killing yourself instead of paying to have it done? Simply because Henry wouldn’t have?”

  “Well, there was that,” Jack said with still another shrug. “But there was also the fact that Old Man Rutledge was a huge son of a bitch, just like his son. To have it look like a suicide required some brute strength, not something I could have handled alone. Now it’s your turn. What are you doing tagging along with Rutledge, aside from keeping his bed warm?”

  It was beyond annoying, how so many men jumped to assumptions like that, refusing to admit that some women might have capabilities other than cook, breeder, and bed warmer. That perhaps some women might be able to do what men could do, possibly just as well or even better. They couldn’t accept it, much less allow women to prove it.

  Casey’s resentment had her pointing out, “I outdrew your fast gun, that maybe give you a clue? I’m the one who tracked you down, Jack. Got offered a nice ten thousand to do it, too. And someone with half my tracking know-how could have done the same. You don’t cover your trail very well, Jack.”

  Her effort to belittle him resulted in the expected glower. “Maybe I won’t kill you after all, little lady. I might keep you around for a while, for what you’re really good for.”

  “Come anywhere near me and I’ll show you how the Comanches deal with scum,” she shot back. “’Course, you don’t have much hair to work with, so it might be a bit painful.”

  Heat suffused his face as his scowl grew darker. Jed’s busting out laughing might have been responsible for some of Jack’s present anger, though.

  “What the hell did she mean by that?” he demanded of his lackey.

  “The way she talks, Jack, I get the impression she’s learned stuff from an Indian along the way. They always were the best trackers around. So she’s probably not kidding about the scalping part.” Jed let out another chuckle. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she knows how to skin in less time than it takes to spit.”

  “I need a doctor, Jed,” Jethro interrupted at that point in a whining tone. “This hand won’t stop bleeding, and I’m getting dizzy.”

  “Lay down, Jeth, and get some rest,” his brother told him with very little actual concern. “I’ll wake you later for the third watch.”

  “Get a fire started and I’ll get that blood stopped,” Casey offered.

  Jethro paled, but Jed laughed again. “Yep, definitely some Indian training there.”

  She shrugged indifferently. She’d made the offer only because it would be painful, cauterizing the wound, and the boy didn’t look like he had much tolerance for pain. He might faint, and one less pair of eyes to watch her every little move was what she needed if she was going to manage to get herself out of this cabin in at least a breathing condition.

  Chapter 39

  It was becoming dark real fast, too fast. Jethro had lain down as suggested on one of the bare mattresses in the room—there were several pushed up against the walls. It was doubtful, however, that the pain in his hand was allowing him to sleep, though he was trying.

  Jack was sitting at the only table in the one-room cabin and had taken over the task of keeping an eye on Casey, while Jed piddled around getting a fire started and opening up several of the canned goods. These he was apparently offering still cold, since he did no more than shove an open can at Jack, who ignored it for the moment.

  No food was offered to Casey, but then, she was too tense to eat anything anyway, so she hardly noticed the significant slight. Why waste food on someone you had every intention of killing, after all?

  She was still biding her time, though she didn’t have all that much left. She had considered removing her empty gun belt to put it away, using that as an excuse to open her reticule and get at the gun inside. But the problem with that meant the action would have to be immediate. In other words, she’d have to bring the gun right out and start using it.

  They knew, or rather thought, that she had nothing else in her bag, so there was no reason for her to rummage around in it. Yet she needed at least a few moments to check how many bullets were actually in the gun, which she foolishly hadn’t done before putting it away, and she couldn’t remember how many were left after the last time she’d used it.

  If the gun was empty, she’d be getting herself killed real quick no matter what she attempted. If only one or two bullets were left, she’d have to do some serious threatening and make sure these men believed her, to keep from having to use the ammunition. But if she had at least three bullets left, which was what she was hoping was the case, then she’d have no problem if they insisted on shooting it out with her instead of surrendering. She’d be prepared for either of those possibilities.

  But she needed to do something pretty fast, because she was afraid Damian was going to show up, just as they were hoping he would. And if they even suspected that he was within hearing distance, they could and would use her to bring him out in the open so they could kill him. And he could be out there already.

  Even if he hadn’t seen in which direction they’d headed upon leaving town, with the little she’d shown him about tracking, he should have been able to find the cabin before dark. If he was out there, then he was wisely waiting for full dark, which was just a matter of minutes away.

  What worried her the most, however, was what he would do when he made his move. He didn’t have very many options, after all, and trying to parley with these fellows would be the worst of them.

  The cabin had windows, but those had been boarded up at some point. And the door had one of those old wooden-plank locks, which had been lowered firmly into place and would take more than a few attempts to break through. There was no easy way to get into the cabin or to see inside it beforehand. All of which put the safest and easiest way out of this on Casey’s shoulders.

  Jed was the only one she really had to worry about. Jack had a gun, but whether he was any good with it was questionable. And young Jethro wouldn’t be using his right hand for quite some time. The odds were far against his being able to use his left hand with any accuracy, so he was the last she needed to be concerned with.

  Actually, now that she considered it, one bullet was all she would really need. If she got Jed out of the picture, the other two men would be manageable, at least long enough for her to retrieve Jed’s gun, which she’d already seen him reload. Besides, she didn’t want to kill Jack. If at all possible, she wanted Damian to have the satisfaction of bringing him to justice.

  And she had to have at least one bullet in the gun. Damian wouldn’t have slid her a completely empty gun when she’d asked for bullets, now would he? So there was no reason, really, to wait any longer.

  Jack was even being cooperative—in a sense. He was staring right at her, but actually, he didn’t appear to be seeing her. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, no doubt worrying over his present predicament just as she was, so it was possible that he wouldn’t notice what she was doing until it was too late.

  Casey made her move. And she didn’t bother with the removal-of-the-gun-belt plan that she had worried over. The long-strapped reticule was resting on the floor by her right hip. She simply lifted her knees so her skirt partially hid it from view and her hand inched toward it, also concealed by her skirt. In another moment she had the gun in her hand and was leaping to her feet.

  U
nfortunately, even with her weapon aimed right at Jed, who had immediately glanced her way with a “What the hell?” he still reached for his own weapon. She didn’t have time to waste on scrupulous morals this once. He was drawing to kill. She aimed for his heart and pulled the trigger—and felt as if her own heart had just stopped when she heard the soft click of an empty chamber.

  Death. She was looking it in the face once again. And when she heard the resounding blast of Jed’s gun…but it wasn’t his gun that had made the sound that had drained all the blood from her face. It was the door crashing open, and not after several attempts as Casey had thought it would take, but in one solid heave. God love him, again she had forgotten to give extra credit to Damian’s huge size and strength. He came in with his rifle in one hand and his finger already on the trigger.

  Jed had barely turned in Damian’s direction when the rifle shot, at such close range, lifted him completely off his feet and slammed him into the wall behind him. Jethro sat up, terrified and enraged at the same time, when he saw his brother’s dead body slumped against the wall. He didn’t have a weapon handy though—hadn’t been smart enough to take one to bed with him—but Casey, being nearest to him, did—an empty gun still had some uses. She slammed it against the back of his head.

  Jack, however, was digging in his pocket for his gun as well. He didn’t have much choice, life in prison or taking Damian down first.

  Which choice Damian would prefer Jack make, Casey wasn’t sure, but he did attempt to get Jack to halt all movement by aiming the rifle directly at his head. “It’s not pretty, what a bullet from a weapon like this can do to someone’s face,” he explained. “Of course, that someone won’t care much afterward…”

  Jack decided prison might be a better option, after all. He froze completely. Casey moved over and retrieved the gun in his coat pocket, a small derringer.

  They had done it, or at least Damian had done it, gotten them both out of this dilemma and without bloodshed—theirs anyway. Her first instinct was to throw herself at Damian and kiss the hell out of him, but, of course, that was out of the question. First of all, he still needed to keep his attention on both Jack and Jethro. So she resorted to her second instinct.