The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection

by Kristin Billerbeck

  Chapter 10

  Nice speech about faith, Miss Moreau. I didn’t know you were a woman of such high morals.” The man smiled, and Wyatt saw ice in his eyes as he bent her over double, wrestling the gun to her head.

  Wyatt raised the hoe with sweaty hands as she screamed.

  “You so much as flinch and she’s dead, Mr. Kelly,” the man snarled in a heavy French accent. “Drop it and get your hands up right now, or I’ll shoot!”

  Wyatt hesitated, terrified of making a wrong decision, and Jean-François cocked the revolver. The metallic click echoed through the barren barn, and even Jewel halted, unmoving.

  “Leave her alone,” Wyatt growled, slowly dropping the hoe and putting his hands up. “Let her go.”

  “Why does it matter what I do with her?” asked Jean-François, slapping Jewel’s hands away as she grabbed for her rifle. “She’s a redskin, Wyatt. I should have killed her when I killed that fool husband of hers—but she was too slippery for me.”

  Wyatt flinched, sputtering for a response.

  “Truth is, it’s the letter from Pierre I want. Always has been. And I know she’s got it.” Jean stuck the pistol harder against Jewel’s forehead. “I’ve been tracking her down for months, and thanks to those Crowder fellows, I’ve finally found her.”

  “Who cares about the letter?” Wyatt cried. “It’ll make no sense to you anyway!”

  Jean-François pulled Jewel upright, keeping the gun in place. “I’ll make that decision, if you don’t mind. I’m giving you exactly ten seconds to hand over the letter or tell me where the gold is, or I pull the trigger.” He settled wild eyes on Wyatt. “And I’ll slaughter every single person on that ranch to find it if I have to. Starting with your uncle.” He narrowed his eyes into a scowl. “I know who you are, Kelly. I’ll take that place apart board by board.”

  “The letter? Are you crazy? We already pulled the gold from the privy.” Wyatt kept his hands up. “I swear. And then we packed it on her horse.”

  The gun wavered in Jean-François’s hand, and a look of pure shock contorted his face. “You … you what?”

  “We found the gold.” Wyatt breathed too fast, light-headed, and tried to feel his feet on the floor. “He’d stashed it in the outhouse. It’s all there; you can take it right off her pony. There were probably two hundred pounds of it.”

  Jean-François stood silent, frozen in place, eyes round as hotcakes. And then, before Wyatt could move, he began to shudder. A long, loud belly laugh, shaking his shoulders and ringing off the sides of the dilapidated old barn. Jean-François threw his head back and guffawed until he sniffled, stomping his boot as if in glee.

  “What’s … so funny?” Wyatt managed nervously, lowering his hands slightly.

  “In the outhouse, you say?” Jean-François wheezed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “You’re telling me Pierre left all his bounty in his doggone john?”

  “That’s right.” Wyatt shrugged. “Go figure.”

  Jean-François laughed again, raking his sleeve across his mouth, and then leveled cool eyes at Wyatt. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “I’m serious!” Wyatt’s hands trembled, and sweat burned his forehead. “Ask Miss Moreau! She’ll tell you. We hauled it all out and put in on her pony.”

  Jean-François swore in French. “You’re a liar, Wyatt Kelly.” He took a step forward, dragging Jewel with him. “Crazy Pierre didn’t hide nothin’ in no toilet, and there isn’t a pony around here for miles. We’ve combed the place twice. We were wondering how you folks walked out here on foot in the middle of the snow.”

  “We didn’t walk! We rode here. We tied our horses right over there.” Wyatt pointed out the ruined window. “Right by the … wait a second.” He wiped a smudge on his glasses and craned his neck. “By George. They’re not there.”

  “No, they’re not.” Jean-François breathed through his teeth, leveling his pistol at Wyatt. “Are you tryin’ to tell me two hundred pounds of gold sprouted legs and walked off?”

  “I’m not lying!” Wyatt moved one hand just enough to push his glasses up on his sweaty nose. “We put them on her horse—a little Indian pony. She couldn’t have gone that far.”

  Jean-François’s eye twitched. “I’ve had enough. This thieving gal’s gonna die for your stupidity—and who cares? These redskins have been a blight on our land since the day they started cutting into our fur trade. They’re not fit to live.”

  And with that, he cocked the hammer of his revolver.

  “The letter or the gold, in ten seconds. Un,” Jean-François counted in a calm voice, his face deadly stone. “Deux.”

  Think fast, Wyatt!

  “If it’s money you want, don’t shoot!” Wyatt cried. “There’s a reason I’m trying to protect the girl. She’s worth a fortune.”

  Jean-François’s head shot up. “What?”

  “There’s a bounty on her head back in Idaho. A big one.” Wyatt felt the blood drain from his face. He was a traitor, a rat. He kept his gaze fixed on Jean-François, not daring to meet eyes with Jewel. “She’s wanted for murder—the murder you committed—and if you turn her in, they’ll reward you handsomely.”

  Wyatt heard Jewel’s sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t seem to hear.

  Jean-François turned Jewel to him, tipping her face up in the fading light. He turned her head from side to side, and something seemed to register in his expression, like a candle flickering to life.

  “Why, you’re right,” he whispered. “Miss Collette Moreau from Idaho. The black widow.” He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Are they really that anxious to hang her back home?”

  “You wouldn’t believe how much.” Wyatt lowered his voice. “I heard it back when I was in Cody. Some wealthy folks lookin’ for her who’ve got money to burn, I reckon. And they’ll pay up nicely if you turn her in alive.” Wyatt moved around to Jean-François’s side, keeping his hands up. “I know everything about her. I can prove she did it. Why do you think I partnered up with her from the beginning? Let me go, and I’ll go in with you fifty-fifty. Or since you’re the one holding the gun, sixty-forty. Shoot, seventy-thirty.”

  “How about I just let you live?”

  Wyatt slowly put his hands down. “Not exactly the deal I’d expected, but …” He shrugged, avoiding Jewel’s dagger eyes. “I suppose that’ll work. You give me your word? You won’t shoot me?”

  “Nah. Not now, anyway.” Jean-François tucked his gun inside his belt and turned Jewel around, eyes gleaming. “You’re right, Wyatt. They say she murdered her husband in cold blood.” He grinned. “You sure you can prove it?”

  “I’ve been reading legal books since I was six. I’ll have that jury on our side in ten seconds or the deal’s off.”

  Jean-François grinned like a hungry fox. “This is almost as good as finding the doggone gold.”

  “So you’re gonna let me go, right, boss?”

  Jean-François winked. “Now you’re talkin’. Fact is, folks in Cody say you were askin’ about her in the courthouse, and I saw you at the sheriff’s office myself.” He chuckled. “Boss, huh? Not bad, boy. Not bad.”

  Jewel’s eyes narrowed, dark and accusatory.

  Jean-François adjusted the gun in his belt. “Good thing you decided to tell the truth, Wyatt, because I don’t take kindly to folks tellin’ me stories. You can tell a lot about a man by what kinda yarns he spins, you know that?”

  “Character.” Wyatt shrugged. “Just like she was saying. Anyhow, they’ll pay the bounty in gold bars. Not bad if you ask me.”

  Jean-François’s smile deepened. “I like the sound of that.” He pulled Jewel’s arms roughly behind her back and nodded at Wyatt. “Gimme that loop of baling twine over there.”

  “Baling twine? She’ll bust out of that in a minute.” Wyatt picked up a strand of frayed twine and rubbed it between his fingers. “You need rope. Like this over here.” He tore a long section of braided rope from the hayloft pulley. “Strong stu
ff. What kind of a bounty hunter are you anyway?”

  And Wyatt slapped a thick coil in Jean-François’s hand.

  Footsteps tramped across the ground toward the barn, and Wyatt staggered back, willing himself to keep calm. He’d traded Jewel; perhaps Jean-François really would call it a deal and let him go.

  “You find any horses or gold, fellas?” Jean-François stuck his head toward the door as Kirby Crowder pushed it open. “Wyatt here says they found a mess of it in the privy.” He chuckled. “What do you make of that?”

  “The privy?” Kirby grunted. “I’ll be a fool if ol’ Pierre hid the stash in his john.” He brushed snow off his coonskin cap. “And not a sign of a horse anywhere. No hoof tracks. Nothin’.”

  “Of course not!” Wyatt threw up his hands. “It’s snowing, for pity’s sake! The fresh snow will cover up the tracks in seconds.”

  Jean-François waved him away. “Take care of this scum. They haven’t handed over the gold or the letter, and my patience is running out.”

  Wyatt’s jaw moved, but words stuck in his throat. “But … you said I could live!” he whined, turning to Jean-François. “I gave you the girl, didn’t I?”

  “But you lied about the gold. There’s no horse on this property, and nobody’s cut open nothin’ inside the outhouse. The men said so. It’s a lie.” He bent close to Wyatt. “Character, remember? I don’t take kindly to lies. But at least I have you to thank for the bounty.”

  And he aimed his pistol at Wyatt and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 11

  The inside of the barn roared in a blast of sound and brilliance. Something whammed Wyatt in the side, and he crumpled to the ground in a puff of smoke—hay falling everywhere. Pain leaking from his side.

  Three more shots blasted the barn, and a piece of lumber fell from the ceiling, crashing down on Wyatt’s leg. He lay there unmoving. Not daring to open his eyes.

  “That’s enough, Frenchy. Save your ammo, and grab the girl’s rifle while you’re at it. We’re liable to run into the sheriff on the way outta here, or the army, and we need to be able to hold ’em off.” Kirby’s boots scuffed on the plank floor. “C’mon, redskin. They’re waitin’ on you in Idaho.”

  The last thing Wyatt heard was the sound of breaking glass, and he inhaled the sharp scent of smoke and kerosene. And then the solid latching of the door from the outside.

  As the door closed behind Kirby’s men, Wyatt opened his eyes enough to see it: a broken lantern in flames, licking at the rotten boards and dry straw.

  Heat blazed against the side of Wyatt’s face before he could raise himself off the floor. The boards and scattered hay lay sticky with bright red blood, but Wyatt felt his belly and his chest with dawning surprise. He could breathe. He blinked and felt around for his glasses. Why, he could even see—sort of—through the thick haze of smoke that quickly filled the barn.

  He sat up in bewilderment, wondering how he, clumsy Wyatt Kelly, who couldn’t shoot a prairie dog, had managed to stay alive at the hands of Jean-François Boulé. The bullet must have grazed him, opening up a wound without penetrating any organs.

  Doc might need to sew him up with a few stitches, but by gravy, he was alive.

  Flames roared up the side of the barn, and chunks of loose roofing tumbled, shattering on the barn floor. Wyatt pushed the boards off his legs and jumped to his feet, holding his bloody side.

  He stumbled over old rakes and wagon parts and rushed to the door as another burning beam crashed down, splintering to bits where he’d been standing. Flames swelled up in a sudden rush, like an angry bull, igniting the dry walls and hay mounds.

  Wyatt rammed against the door with his shoulder, lungs choking with smoke and heat, but the latch didn’t give. The windows had been boarded over long ago, like darkened eyes.

  The hoe. Wyatt grabbed it off the dirty floor and swung it at the boarded window. Again and again, hacking away at wood like Jewel had chopped the outhouse roof. And just as he gasped a lungful of burning air, the window splintered.

  Snow—air—wind—and a rush of exhilarating freedom! Wyatt smashed the boards with his bare hands, bloodying his knuckles, and pushed his shoulders through the opening. He lurched forward and landed in a heap on the snowy ground, snowflakes tickling his sweat-stained face as he breathed in lungfuls of air.

  Just as the side of the barn collapsed with a roar, taking the roof with it.

  Wyatt scrambled away from the inferno, gasping. His clothes charred and blackened, and his hair wild. No hat and no glasses. He staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding side, and lurched to a stop just inches from a bright object on the ground, half covered with fallen snow.

  Jewel’s beaded earring. A tiny feather dangled from it, crusted with snowflakes.

  Wyatt paused, heart flailing in his chest, and snatched up the earring from the frozen grass. The men were gone; the woods stood silent. Snow fell all around him in lonesome gusts; tree branches rattled like empty arms. They’d taken Jewel with them, and he was too late.

  As usual. Bungling everything into a gigantic mess.

  What could he possibly do now? Wyatt rubbed his dirty, ash-stained face in despair, turning her earring over in his blood-streaked hand.

  He could still see her there in the firelight bent over the Bible. Her long black hair pulled back into a braid, earrings sparkling. Those elegant Arapaho cheekbones and black eyes, and her long, elegant neck from her French mother.

  And now she thought him a traitor, too. Wonderful. Why, she wouldn’t trust him for a minute if he—by some sheer miracle—caught up with Kirby Crowder and his posse. He could probably bring the whole militia and she wouldn’t listen to a word he said.

  Still. He had to do something—anything.

  A gust of wind blew a piece of burning barn wall so that it swayed and then toppled—landing in a smoldering heap next to Wyatt. He jumped back, catching his breath, and then limped his way through the snow toward the woods to look for the horses.

  Samson was gone. Thank goodness for that, or Kirby’s bunch probably would have stolen him—or worse, shot him on the spot. All the gunshots must have spooked him into the next county.

  But he’d promised Samson his oats. Wyatt sighed, looking down at his bleeding shirt. He might do a lot of things wrong, but he kept his word.

  He called for Samson, whistled. No answer but the shrieking of wind through spruce needles and the soft sound of falling flakes. The barn smoldered over his shoulder, smoke mixing with snow and choking the sky with black haze.

  Too bad Bétee was gone, too—wandering among the forested hillsides and lonesome prairie with two hundred pounds of gold strapped to her back. If someone found her at all, before the mountain lions and wolves did, they’d swipe the gold for sure.

  But neither of the horses could have gone that far. It made no sense. Perhaps the men were lying; maybe they’d divided the gold among themselves and kept the truth from Kirby?

  Wyatt paused there in the icy wind, remembering the way Jewel called her at the ranch. A soft, high-pitched whistle, followed by a shorter whistle, birdlike—and a terse command in Arapaho.

  He stood on tiptoe and whistled. Once, then twice. And blabbered something that sounded sort of like Jewel’s command. He might have been quoting the Declaration of Independence for all he knew; at least he’d tried.

  He cupped his hand around his ear and tried to hear over the wind. Pine limbs tossed; dry winter grasses rattled together. Wolves howled in the distance, their ghostly voices rising and falling.

  Wyatt squared his shoulders and marched into the wind back toward the barn, head down. Hoping he could survive with heat from the fire and make it to daybreak but counting his fading chances like the gold nuggets that had slipped through his empty fingers.

  Something whinnied softly from the forest, over the roar of snapping barn planks and crackling flames. Wyatt whirled around, reaching for his empty holster by instinct.

  “Bétee?” Wyatt wiped his nearsig
hted eyes to see better. “Is that you?”

  A blur of white and brown nervously trotted through the underbrush, head down, and nuzzled Wyatt’s side. Her hot breath tickled Wyatt’s ear, and he laughed. He patted Bétee’s side and scratched his ear, hugging the pony to his neck.

  “Well, I’ll be. The gold’s still here, too.” Wyatt patted her bulging saddlebags and nuzzled her neck. “You’re the smartest one of all of us—you know that? What did you do, hide out in the thicket until it was all over?” He combed his finger through Bétee’s silky mane and gathered up the loose reins. “You might have tried to save me, you know. I’m no good to you dead.”

  Wyatt tried to climb on bareback, the way Jewel always preferred to ride, and caught a glimpse of the beaded earring in his hand. The feather lifeless, fluttering in the wind.

  Those knotheads in Idaho were going to hang an innocent girl, and he’d helped them do it. Wyatt shook his head. If anybody deserved to die, it was Jean-François and Kirby—not Jewel.

  “Why don’t you ask God for a chance to stand up and be a man like your father?” Jewel had said.

  A line of horse tracks led from the barn and forest toward a sparsely wooded trail. Half obscured by freshly fallen snow.

  “I’ve no light, Bétee. No gun. There’s nothing I can do, even if there were ten of me.” Wyatt climbed up awkwardly and swung himself over her slender back. She was smaller than Samson; lithe. “And I’d probably faint anyway.” He wiped the blood from his face with a ragged sleeve. “But by George, we’re going to try. Aren’t we? Even if it is impossible.”

  Bétee whinnied and tossed her head.

  Impossible. Impossible. Impossible.

  The Red Sea parting. A childless old woman giving birth. Jewel leaning over the family Bible, listening to line after line of impossible stories.

  Wyatt squinted and leaned forward, trying to make out the soft indentation of horse tracks in the snow. He was blind as a mole and half frozen—nothing like the gallant Amos Kelly with burly muscles and fiery eyes.