Her Lone Protector

by Pam Crooks

  “We have to get out of these waters, or we’ll shrivel like prunes.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Gently, firmly, he lifted her and set her aside. “Besides, I have work to do.”

  The look she gave him revealed she didn’t want to be reminded, and she leaned, pensive, against the rocks, giving in to the reluctance of leaving the warmth just yet. He rose and climbed out, and he could feel her gaze lingering over him.

  He dried off his torso with the towel, started on his arms next. She still hadn’t moved. “Come on, honey.”

  She stood, then, no longer shy with him. Water sluiced off her slender body, giving a sheen to her olive skin. His gaze sauntered over the dip of her waist and along the curve of her hips, touched on the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs. The slight wobble of her breasts stirred his blood all over again.

  Feminine magnificence. Pure and simple.

  How would he ever leave her?

  She took his hand, and he helped her out of the spring. Easily, as if she’d done so a hundred times, she stepped into his embrace. Skin to skin. Delectable breasts pressed wetly to his chest.

  “Stay with me a little longer, Creed,” she whispered.

  Her plea cut right through him. Had she read his thoughts? His dread of the inevitable?

  “I can’t,” he said, hating it.

  A moment passed, and she stepped back.

  “I know.” Her quiet voice stirred the air between them. “I will hurry.”

  She dressed in a plain black dress with a simple white collar, but somehow she made the thing look more elegant than it was. After refolding her navy Sunday dress and tucking the garment inside the valise, she buckled the clasps and stood.

  “Ready?” she asked, the fine hairs at her temple wispy from the steam.

  His mouth pursed. “Unfortunately.”

  She turned to leave. Creed swept a final glance around the bathhouse and noticed a small mound of dark fabric lying in the shadows. “Wait, Gina. You forgot something.”

  He bent to retrieve it. A scarf, he realized. Black and fringed.

  She froze. The color drained from her cheeks. “Oh, no.”

  He paused at her reaction. “What’s the matter? It’s not yours?”

  She took the scarf and examined it, front and back. “Yes.” She managed to nod. “It is mine. I wear it to hide myself at the anarchist meeting. But I forget it when I tell Nikolai who I am.”

  The image of her at the old warehouse, rising from her chair, pulling the dark covering from her hair, hurtled back into his memory. “What do you mean, you forgot it?”

  “I did not bring it with me today.” Her breath quickened, the alarm growing inside her. “Someone else did.”

  The scarf must’ve fallen to the warehouse floor, left behind in the chaos that ensued. The room had emptied fast. No one took the time to pick up something so insignificant. Creed would’ve known if they had.

  But two men stayed behind. One of them wounded. In need of warm, healing waters.

  “Nikolai was here.” Creed went cold from the certainty. “And he’s hiding out around here, somewhere close.”

  Alex burst into the log shack, located on the Sherman ranch’s North Camp, the hideout Nikolai had chosen for them. He slammed the door shut and tossed his knapsack onto the cot.

  Nikolai glanced up from his work.

  “Did you get the letter?” he asked without greeting.

  “Yes.” Alex reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “We have trouble.”

  A calm had settled over Nikolai since his time in the healing waters. A conviction he would succeed in his quest to bring about revolution in America, no matter who tried to stop him. Or when. Including Gina Briganti and the man she kept company with.

  Alex, on the other hand, constantly worried. To him, the smallest concerns were big problems, whether he used the mineral waters or not.

  “Why do you say so?” Nikolai asked.

  “I do not say. The letter does.” He extended the paper toward him. “Read it. The news is not good.”

  “My hands are busy. Tell me what it says.”

  He carefully measured black powder into a paper funnel. The time had come to prepare for the president’s arrival. Building the bomb was the first step.

  “Karlov sends word that an important general in the War Department has learned of our activities. He has ordered one of his men to investigate us on McKinley’s behalf.”

  Nikolai glanced up sharply. “Here in Los Angeles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is this general?”

  Alex referred to the letter for the information. “It says his name is William Carson.”

  Nikolai committed the name to memory. He didn’t know of the officer, but then, why would he? Gleaning inside information on the military was Karlov’s responsibility, not his.

  “Do we have the name of the man Carson sent?” he asked.

  “Yes.” This time, Alex didn’t need to look at the letter. “Creed Sherman.”

  Nikolai went still. Perhaps it was only a coincidence, the name being the same as the man who owned this ranch….

  “He has returned home to his father. Here.” Alex’s arm swung outward, indicating the vast lands around them. “That is how Carson knew where to contact him.”

  From the questions Nikolai had asked before helping themselves to the isolated hot mineral springs, he’d learned that Gus Sherman had two sons, the youngest who lived with him on the ranch, the oldest who had left the country years ago. Nikolai hadn’t thought to ask their names. At the time, it hadn’t been important.

  But now…

  “You told me of just one son,” Alex accused.

  “Because the other did not live in America.” Rarely did Alex challenge him. Nikolai disliked that he did so now.

  “He left to be a soldier.” Alex gave the paper a shake. “A mercenary, Nikolai.”

  His nostrils flared. A careless mistake on his part. He should’ve been more thorough. “That is what the letter says?”

  “Yes. Karlov warns of his skill. He says the War Department hires Sherman to do their most dangerous work. They send him all over the world to collect intelligence for them and kill America’s enemies, and his reputation—” Alex halted and rubbed his stomach with a moan. “We have to be careful, Nikolai. We cannot let him find us, or he will kill us, too.”

  “Do you think I do not know that now?” he demanded.

  He declined to tell Alex of his sudden certainty it’d been Creed Sherman who infiltrated their meeting just last night, cleverly disguised with his beard.

  Now, with this new information, it was clear Gina Briganti had aligned herself with him. A formidable weapon, it seemed, in her vengeance against them over the Premier fire.

  A shrewd tactic, too. One Nikolai had not expected of her.

  The pain in his thigh, eased from the healthful waters, stirred again.

  “That is not all, Nikolai,” Alex said grimly. “He was at our apartment, asking about us.”

  Unease lifted the hairs on his neck. The mercenary worked fast. “How do you know this? You were there?”

  “Yes. For the last of our food and to find more cloth for bandages.” He indicated his knapsack on the cot. “The landlord saw me. He told me.”

  Nikolai gritted his teeth. Not even his brother’s thoughtfulness could alleviate his stupidity. The police could’ve been waiting for him. They could’ve followed him here, straight to the log shack.

  Nikolai wouldn’t have known until it was too late.

  “Now, the mercenary knows where we live, and we cannot go back.” Alex appeared pale, panicked at the prospect.

  “Had you planned to?” Nikolai asked coldly. “After what we have done?”

  “But what if he finds us out here next? On his father’s land?”

  “He will not.”

  It’d been sheer accident Nikolai had found the shack at all. From the desolate appearance of it, n
o one had been to the North Camp in weeks. Maybe more. To discover the place stocked with the basic necessities had been a baffling surprise.

  Nikolai took the privilege of moving right in. Its seclusion, the opportunity the structure gave to continue his work, was a great advantage.

  “We will not be here long,” he said firmly. “Only until McKinley arrives.”

  Alex began to pace; his slender fingers stroked the pale moustache above his lip.

  “You cannot be sure what will happen,” he said. “Always you tell me we will be safe, but so much has gone wrong the past few days. What will be next?”

  Nikolai studied him.

  “Is your stomach bothering you again?” he asked.

  Alex’s mouth turned downward into a pout. “Yes.”

  “Rest, then. You will feel better after a nap. Did you take your medicine at the right time this morning?”

  “Yes.” Alex threw himself on the cot in a petulant huff.

  “Good.” He kept his voice soothing, the way his brother needed to hear it. “I will take you to the waters later. How about that?”

  Alex heaved a sigh, long and suffering. He flung his arm over his face, the pout still strong on his lips. But he said nothing more.

  Nikolai considered his mood. How he’d complained like an anxious old woman. He’d argued, too, defying the decisions Nikolai had made. Had even gone so far as to make a decision of his own, returning to their apartment without Nikolai knowing of it.

  The risks…

  Perhaps he was only showing signs of manhood by beginning to think for himself. Or perhaps he didn’t believe he needed Nikolai as much as he once did.

  But Nikolai squelched the thought. Of course Alex needed him. They needed each other.

  Especially now, with President McKinley coming, and the allure of victory at hand. Victory they would share together.

  Alex lay motionless on the cot, resting, and Nikolai returned his attention to his work. He tapped the black powder into a bottle and added oil of vitriol, the acid which would help the bomb explode. He mixed the elements, set the container carefully to one side, and prepared to make a second.

  Suddenly, Alex sat bolt upright.

  “Did you hear that, Nikolai?” he demanded in a hoarse tone.

  The black powder hovered over the paper funnel. His senses leapt into place.

  “I heard nothing,” he said carefully.

  But then, he’d been concentrating on the precise measurements of the mixture. He listened now. Hard.

  Alex’s gaze shot to the shack’s lone window. “Something is out there.”

  Carefully, Nikolai set the jar of powder down, placed the funnel next to it. He thought of his .44 tucked in his knapsack, on the floor. He rose, in slow motion, to retrieve it.

  Just then, the door crashed open, and the American, the mercenary named Creed Sherman, appeared in the doorway with a Smith and Wesson in each hand.

  “Don’t move,” he snarled. “Or you’re both dead.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Creed kept a hard eye on them, each standing still as stone. Alex looked scared enough to cry. Nikolai, furious enough to tear Creed apart.

  “Now get your hands up. Make it slow and push ’em high,” Creed commanded.

  Alex’s arms lifted to the rafters first. “Do not shoot us. Please.”

  Nikolai still hadn’t moved. Creed watched him close. He knew firsthand the strength in those big burly arms.

  “Do what I said, Nikolai!” he warned.

  “I do not think you are capable of taking us both,” the Russian taunted, but his hands inched into the air.

  “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” Creed said in a deadly voice.

  But his muscles coiled at the assortment of chemicals on the table. The makings of a bomb. What Nikolai was capable of. Creed had to get him away from the explosives before he blew the three of them clear into the next county.

  Gina flashed through his mind. She was tucked safe in the trees a fair distance back from the line shack. Regardless of what happened in the next few minutes, she was at least that.

  Safe.

  And she knew what to do if he didn’t make it back.

  He jerked the nose of his revolver at the youngest Sokolov. The easiest to subdue. “Take one step toward me, Alex. Any more than that, I’ll kill you for sure.”

  Alex paled a little more. “What are you going to do?”

  “Neither of you will get hurt if you follow my orders. Take that step. Now.”

  Alex darted a nervous look at Nikolai. An unspoken message seemed to pass between them.

  “I will not let him hurt you,” Nikolai said softly.

  Acting reassured, the youth complied, but Creed sensed the tension hiking in his brother.

  He could’ve used another pair of hands to get to the handcuffs hanging at his waist. He waited to make sure Nikolai didn’t intend something rash before he sheathed his revolver, keeping the other aimed square at the broad Russian chest, letting Nikolai know Creed was as accurate shooting with his left hand as he was with his right.

  “I’m going to put some cuffs on you, Alex,” Creed said, unclipping the bracelets. His attention bounced between the brothers. “Turn around, real easy, so I can clamp them on your wrists behind you.”

  Again, Alex hesitated. Impatience spiked through Creed; he refused to tell him twice. He yanked one scrawny arm and did the turning for him, a rough move that almost cost the kid his balance. Creed snapped both manacles into place before Alex could think to fight him on it.

  Alex yelped and tugged at the restraints. Nikolai jerked with barely constrained fury. And Creed cocked the Smith and Wesson.

  He kept firm hold on the kid’s elbow. Alex was Nikolai’s weak point. Creed’s ace up his sleeve to keep him cooperative.

  “You’re going to be next, Nikolai,” he said. “Handcuffs, just like your brother.”

  The burly arms had lowered. Closer to the table. Closer to the bomb. Creed’s heart pumped a little faster from it.

  “No,” Nikolai said.

  Gut instinct told Creed he was ready to play dirty. Creed braced for it.

  “Sit down, Alex. On the cot,” he said.

  “Ignore him, Alex,” Nikolai said. “You are not a dog to be told what to do.”

  “You’re wrong,” Creed said. “I’m in charge. You’ll both do what you’re told.”

  He pushed Alex toward the cot, out of his way, to free up his concentration. Alex fell awkwardly against the mattress and rolled to the floor in a dramatic display of clumsiness. His head cracked against the wooden slats, and he cried out.

  By then, Creed had both revolvers in his hands, cocked and aimed at both of them.

  “Are you going to let him keep hurting me, Nikolai?” Alex yelled with a struggle to sit up. “Did you see him? He hurt me!”

  The big Russian quivered. His cold gaze dragged to Creed and filled with contempt.

  “The important American soldier is quick to harm the innocent with his tyranny, Alex,” he said, his lip curled in a sneer. “Another of his country’s hypocrisies. Tell me, Creed Sherman. Will your powerful General William Carson applaud you?”

  Creed hid the burn of his own rage. There wasn’t a finer man than General Carson in the military or one who loved America more. And it was his devotion and respect for her president that put Creed right here in this shack, at war with two men who despised him.

  But he refused to defend with words. The guns in his hands did it for him.

  “I’m not surprised you know who I am, Nikolai,” he countered, playing the game. A high-stakes gamble for his life. And McKinley’s. “Your accomplice in the War Department has informed you well, it seems.”

  Shock flared in the ice-blue depths before Nikolai banked it with frigid disdain. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  Creed shrugged. “When he’s found, he’ll hang for his treason.”

  Alex paled in horror. “Karlov—”r />
  Nikolai whipped toward him. “Shut up, Alex!”

  The gamble struck gold.

  Alex whimpered and rocked back and forth. “He knows, Nikolai. He knows. Kill him. Kill him.”

  “He knows nothing!” Nikolai roared and with the speed Creed expected but couldn’t stop soon enough, he snatched a filled bottle from the table and dangled it threateningly in the air. “Nothing, Alex. Do you hear me?”

  Blood thundered in Creed’s temples. “You drop that bomb, Nikolai, and we’re all dead. Put it down.”

  “Get him out of here. Get him out!” Alex cried. He’d managed to get to his feet. “He’s making me sick.”

  Creed bettered his aim with the revolvers, both men in his range of vision. One frantic, on the fringes of hysteria. The other, maniacal and cold. “Stay right there, Alex. Don’t move a step closer.”

  Nikolai waved the bomb in the air, and cold fear knotted in Creed’s gut.

  “Kill him or let him go?” the big Russian taunted. “Which, Alex? You tell me. Think like a man. Which is the better solution?”

  His brother seemed to recognize the menace he made. He took an anxious step forward. “What are you doing, Nikolai? What are you doing?”

  Creed fired a shot into the floor, a reminder to stay put. Wood splintered. Alex screamed and leapt back.

  “Next time, I won’t miss,” Creed snapped. He swiveled back to Nikolai. “Put the bomb back on the table. Do it now and do it careful.”

  “So you can arrest us and throw us in your squalid jails?” he demanded.

  “Let him go,” Alex cried again. “What will you do? Kill us with the vitriol, too?”

  “He must surrender his weapons first.” Nikolai circled the air over the table with the bottle. “Lay them here, soldier. Lay them right here.”

  “Never,” Creed rumbled.

  He would die first, a victim to the bomb. A less than favorable decision if Nikolai saw through his threat, but one where Creed would at least take the Sokolovs with him and spare the president his life. But to weaken, to give in to the fear and let the enemy win, was unthinkable.