Reese swallowed hard. Kissing him. As pictures of his life played out in his mind like flashes of light, he suddenly knew that for one brief moment he'd been a part of something good and right. A part of Grace. He owed her for that.
A board creaked four feet away. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. It was now or never.
He exploded upward from the crates. In the split second it took to clear the boxes and make himself a plain target, a cast-iron frying pan swung out of the splintered cabin window and collided with a sickening thud against Tom Oakes's stunned face.
Grace!
Oakes's gun discharged harmlessly into the air and Reese dove sideways. St. John's shot missed him by inches. Reese rolled to a stop and lunged for the boatman's legs. Caught off guard, the corpulent pilot went down like a felled cottonwood and his gun went skidding out of his hand across the deck. Reese dragged the older man to him, and drove a fist into his beard-covered jaw, forcing his head backward against the boards with a crack.
"That's for takin' our money when you were already employed," Reese told him.
St. John blinked hard and, clutching the throat of Reese's shirt, struggled to get up. Reese obliged him by dragging him to his knees. He hit him again, this time drawing blood.
"And that's for stealing my gun."
The boatman's breath chugged in his throat and he shook his head to clear it. "Bastard," he gasped, his gaze searching the deck for his lost weapon.
Reese gathered the man's shirt in his fist, intending a finishing blow when St. John used his considerable bulk to shift the balance of power. He threw a fist at Reese's cheek, then slammed his knee against Reese's midsection, knocking him sideways.
Reese gasped at the white-hot pain that shot through his side. He couldn't breathe. Black spots swam in his vision as he careened toward the edge of the deck like an out-of-control wheel.
A thick pile of three-inch rope stopped his momentum. Reese doubled over, clutching his side, unable to move to defend himself as St. John got to his feet and started toward him. Reese looked to his right. The gun was five feet away. Too far. St. John saw it, too.
"Stop where you are, or I'll shoot you where you stand!"
Grace's command froze St. John midstep. Reese lifted his head. She stood ten feet away, pointing Tom Oakes's gun at the captain's head. The tip wavered slightly, but her expression didn't. Behind her, Brew was climbing awkwardly out of the window.
"Reach for the sky, you lowlife, back-stabbing double-crosser!" she ordered.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
"You ain't gonna shoot me, little lady, are ya?" St. John taunted with a condescending grin. "You ain't got it in you."
"Oh, no?" She dipped the gun and sent a bullet ripping into the deck six inches from his foot. And a mere two feet from Reese's head. His eyes widened.
St. John hopped sideways, his hands shooting over his head. "All right! All right!"
It seemed to Reese that the gunshot had startled her too. Her voice shook when she spoke again. "Now kick that gun over toward... Melvin there."
He did. Donovan picked the weapon up just as Brew reached the rifle propped by the rudder. He cocked it with a quick one-armed movement as he took St. John by the elbow and shoved him down hard onto a crate. "Don't move an eyelash, y' hear?" the old man said, aiming the rifle at St. John's head.
With a sigh, Reese leaned back against the rope.
"You all right, son?" Brew asked.
Reese grinned at him. "Much better now, thanks." He rolled to his knees and stayed there for a moment, catching his breath. A few feet away, Tom Oakes, who lay sprawled beneath the window, stirred and moaned. His mouth and chin were bloody and his nose lay at an odd angle to his face.
Reese looked up at Grace. "Thought I told you to get down and stay down."
"And I thought suicide missions weren't your cup of tea."
A smile curved his lips and he got to his feet. "Ah, you've got a mouth on you, Grace Turner. And a smasher of a left arm."
"I do, don't I?" she said, glancing at Tom's nose.
Reese cast a speculative look at St. John. "Well, Captain. I think it's a fine mornin' for a swim, don't you?"
St. John's eyes widened. "You wouldn't—"
"Yes, we would. Wouldn't we, old man?"
"I reckon as how it's time to part company with you fellers."
"But... but," sputtered St. John, "you can't steal my Lizzie."
"Steal is a rather strong word," Reese said, hauling the man up and shoving him toward the deck's edge, "considering your part in all this. No, let's call it a loan. A well-deserved loan." Reese reached into St. John's coat pocket and withdrew the greenbacks that constituted their fares. Then, with one well-placed shove, he sent the pilot plunging over the side into the current. Brew was already hauling an unsteady Tom Oakes to his feet.
"And don't forget your friend," Reese called, sending a woozy Oakes in after. "He might need a little help getting to shore."
"My boat!" St. John called, splashing in the current and reaching for Oakes's collar as he went down.
"Don't worry. You can have it back when we're done with it. Just follow the river east. You can't miss the place. It's big and blue and they call it the Gulf of Mexico."
Chapter 13
Ephram Sanders gathered Lyle St. John's shirt in his fist and drew him up on his toes against the wall of one of Brownsville's finer drinking establishments.
"Where?" he demanded. "And how long ago?"
"Yesterday, a-about this time, j-just upriver from Palmetto Hill," St. John choked out, clamping a hand over Sanders's fist. "Looky, you got no call to—"
"How many were there?" Sanders snapped, cutting him off.
"Three. Donovan, the old man, and the woman."
Sanders's eyes narrowed. "A woman, you say?"
"That's right. Look, I only come to you 'cause I thought it might be worth somethin' to you to know—"
"What about the boy?" the marshal pressed.
St. John shook his head and gulped. "Boy? There weren't no boy. Just her. Blond she was, and a looker. A gutsy little bitch, too. Made herself out to be Donovan's intended. Thought I was stupid or somethin'."
Sanders stared at the man for a full five seconds. "You are stupid," he said at last, shoving the man away from him. St. John stumbled back into Tom Oakes, whose nose and mouth were swollen and discolored.
Fists balled at his sides, the marshal stared at the ground. A woman. Not a boy. He felt his heartbeat slow to a dull thud. No wonder the trio had slipped through their fingers. All this time they'd been looking for something that didn't exist. Two memories flashed in his mind almost at the same moment: first, the woman in widow's weeds who had come to the jail that day—Donovan's sister. Second, the clumsy blond in the cantina the night his brother was shot, the one who'd stood up for the bastard.
A woman. Not a boy.
He lifted his gaze accusingly to Connell Smith. "A woman?"
The deputy's jaw tightened. "I never saw any woman. It was a boy who broke into the jail. A grubby little street urchin with dirt on his nose."
"Shee-it," Tobins muttered disgustedly.
"And I say you're a liar," Cal Mollen drawled. "I say you knew it was a girl all along and you kept it to yourself." He opened his arms wide with speculation. "What was it, Smith? Afraid if it got out it was a female who stole a prisoner out from under your nose, that little wife o' yours wouldn't be able to hold her head up in town? Is that it?" He took a step closer. "Or were you just throwin' us off the scent 'cause you're a mick lover?"
"Shut up, Mollen," Smith warned.
Mollen glanced at the silent men around him: Del Odem, Hidalgo, and Tobins. "Well, I'll say it if nobody else will. Everybody thinks it. You let him escape."
Connell Smith's fist caught Mollen hard across the jaw before the second man had time to react. The tejano sprawled in the dirt flat on his back. He reached up to his jaw in surprise, then lunged for Smith. He hit him at knee level, ta
king the deputy down hard onto the street. The pair rolled in the dirt, pummeling each other until a single gunshot, digging into the soil inches from their heads, stopped them. Sanders's shadow fell over them.
"Get up. Both of you," Sanders ordered, gesturing with his gun.
With a heated look at Mollen and Hidalgo, Connell stood, brushing himself off. The tejano stood, too, wiping the blood from his lip.
"If you all think I let him go," Smith demanded, "what am I doing here?" He ripped his deputy badge off his waistcoat and tossed it into the soil at Sanders's feet. "Here. Take it. It's what you all want."
"You sayin' you did it?" Sanders asked almost casually.
"No, I ain't. I'd be halfway to Arizona Territory by now if I had." Smith's fists curled at his side and he glanced up at Sanders through short blond lashes.
It was that look, that solitary glance, that confirmed what Sanders had suspected all along. He didn't forgive betrayal, and this man would be no exception. Before this was over, he'd pay for what he'd done.
Softening the tension in his expression, he patted Smith on the shoulder. "I believe you, kid. You think I'd have brought you along if I thought you'd done somethin' underhanded like that?" He bent to pick up the badge and held it out to Smith. "But I reckon if you was to quit, I couldn't protect you or your family from these rumors, could I? The only way to clear your name is to find Donovan and bring him down. Don't you agree?"
Connell Smith looked distinctly uncomfortable, but clearly caught the meaning of his veiled threat. Reluctantly, he nodded and took the badge back.
Pleased, Sanders looked up at Mollen. "Go saddle up. We ride within the hour."
"They're across the border by now," Del Odem pointed out, digging the toe of his boot into the dusty road.
"So?"
"So." Del swallowed hard. "That's outta our jurisdiction, ain't it?"
"Jurisdiction?" Sanders repeated with disbelief. "He killed my baby brother. He shot Deke down like a dog. You think I'm gonna let something like a border keep me from bringin' him back to justice?"
"I reckon," Del said, "you'll have to go without me, Marshal. I'll just, uh, take what you owe me."
Tobins rubbed his mouth. "We all knew if they got across the river it was over. I'm out, too. Sorry, Ephram."
"Son of a—who else?" Sanders nearly shouted. "Mollen? Hidalgo?"
Mollen glared at Smith. "I ain't particular about goin' on a rabbit hunt in Mexico with this bastard. Good luck, Sanders."
Hidalgo shrugged. "Is my home. You pay me the money you owe to me, patron, the rest you pay when we find them."
Knowing he had little choice now, Sanders shook his head. "Money-grubbin' sons of bitches," he muttered under his breath, stalking toward his horse. "What's happenin' to the moral fiber of this country?"
* * *
The vermillion sun sank into the endless horizon spread out before the rolling prow of the steam-powered revenue cutter, Defiance. With one hand on the rail, feet braced apart on the deck, Reese welcomed the salty wind against his face and tug of it on his hair. In the half-dome of sky above him, cerulean blue faded into darkness and stars winked like so many pinpricks of light in time to the rythmic ka-thunk-ka-thunk of the engine.
It was the fourth such night aboard the Defiance. There had been many moments, such as this one, when he wished that they could just keep going until they ran out of ocean. And others when he thought if he didn't get off this ship, and soon, he'd lose his mind.
He pulled the makings for a cigarette from his pocket and deftly rolled one, then struck a match against the wood rail. Inhaling the smoke deeply, he stared out over the water. He'd been right about Bagdad. It had taken less than a day to ditch St. John's boat and find a privateer heading for mainland Mexico. If he'd had his choice of any of the mercenaries working the coastline, Tom Newcastle was the man he would have picked.
Tough, hungry, and often ruthless, Tom was an old friend who'd carved a name for himself along the Gulf coast as a man who had no use for failure. The Defiance could outdistance any of the sailing ships on the open sea, even loaded down as she was with a full cargo of contraband. They'd run at full steam, twenty-four hours a day, with only a handful of crew members. Tom was in a hurry to unload his guns and reap the considerable rewards for the risk. Now, one day out of Tampico, Reese knew time was running short.
He had to make a decision.
For the hundredth time in a few short hours, he fervently wished for a drink. Though alcohol was banned aboard ship, per Tom's orders, Reese had spent the first few days aboard the Defiance scouring it for hidden bottles. He'd come up with one at last, but as he'd upended it, waiting for the burn of whiskey to hit his throat, Grace had tripped coming on deck and crashed into him with the uncanny accuracy of a well-fired howitzer. They'd watched, together, as the bottle sank into the deep blue sea—he, resisting the urge to dive in after it; she, cheerfully lecturing him on his promise to her and on how well he was doing without the demon spirits.
Reese shook his head and flicked the stub of his cigarette into the water. In truth, he wanted a drink now with every inch of his being. The craving made his palms itch and his head ache. And seeing her at every bloody turn, looking... well, the way she did, didn't help his precarious state of mind.
"Isn't it beautiful?"
With a silent curse, he turned to find the object of his thoughts standing beside him, wrapped in some gauzy little shawl, watching the last of the sun gild the current. The days in the elements had bronzed Grace's cheeks to a healthy glow and streaked that blond hair of hers with silvery highlights. Tonight, she'd pulled the sides of it back away from her face with a pair of tortoiseshell combs. She was a picture, he thought, with the wind tugging at those plain ornaments in her hair. It occurred to him that he'd never met a woman so unconcerned about her appearance who always managed to look so perfectly appealing.
"Aye, beautiful," he murmured, watching her.
She smiled up at him. "The sea agrees with you," she observed, brushing a strand of long hair away from his cheek.
"Does it?" he asked, without moving to touch her in return. "I guess we suit one another."
"Evie said you spent some time during the war running cotton around the blockades."
"My cutter would have given the Defiance a run for its money."
She looked out over the water. "Why did you give it up?"
"I had my reasons."
She glanced up at him as if she wasn't surprised by his answer. "Ah. I'm supposed to guess, is that it? Perhaps bloodthirsty pirates held their cutlasses to your throat."
He grinned. "No."
She cupped her chin comically between her thumb and index finger. "No? Hmm... seasickness, then?"
He shook his head, trying to suppress his smile.
"Let me see—oh, I've got it! A great white whale like Herman Melville's Moby-Dick ate your boat."
Reese threw his head back and laughed.
"No?" she asked, feigning confusion. "Well, frankly, Mr. Donovan, I'm running out of reasons."
"You're a corker, Grace Turner," he said, still laughing.
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's both, I'm afraid."
She laughed then, too. "It's good to hear you laugh. You don't do it often enough."
He didn't answer, but let his gaze rove over her face, lazily appraising her.
"So," she asked, "are you going to tell me?"
"I was looking for someone."
Her eyes didn't leave his face. "A woman?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
This time his laugh was without humor. "Hardly. His name was Jake Scully."
"Who was he?"
"A friend, once. Or so I thought," Reese replied.
"Did you find him?"
Reese turned to the railing and rested his forearms against it. "Not yet."
"And when you do?"
Reese stared at the froth on the waves that cut under the boat. "I mean to kill him."
&nb
sp; Grace fell silent. "I see," she said at last. "I don't know you very well, Reese, but I don't believe you're a killer."
"You're right. You don't know me."
"But I want to."
If he didn't know better, he'd think she really meant it. He looked over at her. The moonlight was skimming off her features like liquid silver, making her look more angel than woman. Her lips were parted and he had to tamp down the urge to run a finger along the softness of her lips to see if she was real. She was real, all right. And she was turning every cynical truth he believed in inside out.
She made him laugh and feel and want again. And worse than that, he found himself drawn to her flame like a light-blinded moth, even knowing that the center of that flame had only searing pain to offer. Even knowing that, he wanted her beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist, and his hands lost in her hair. He wanted the sweetness of her mouth on his—
Hell, he swore, reining in his thoughts. Hell. Hell. Hell.
Grace clasped her hands together and leaned on the railing beside him, blissfully ignorant of his train of thought. "I'm sorry for prying. Luke always said I was too pushy for a female. And too impulsive."
"Your brother?"
She nodded. "I suppose it's a family trait."
"Tell me about him," Reese said, hoping to divert his rampant imagination.
"He's twenty-seven." She smiled thinking of him. "Handsome as the devil—stubborn as him, too. When he was fresh out of the university, he joined the military during the war, worked his way up in the ranks. After the war ended, he was promoted to the diplomatic corps in Washington. He impressed his superiors and nearly everyone else involved in politics there. I suspect he's interested in a career as a politician."
"So what's he doing in a Mexican prison?"
She drew in a deep breath of sea air. "I'm afraid that's my fault."
The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Page 17