by Pam Crooks
It was then he heard the restless snuffles of the horses outside. They’d heard something, someone…
Creed forgot to breathe.
Nikolai lifted his gaze to the window.
Alex swung his to the open doorway.
Where Creed still stood, feet spread, legs braced, and his back to the free air, his front guarding the fanatics who threatened to blow him up with their damned bomb, and please, God, please, don’t let it be her.
Or Markie.
Or the Old Man himself.
They’d be killed. They’d all be killed. And what a hell of a waste that would be because now everything had changed, and Creed wasn’t ready to die yet.
Not by a long shot.
“A rider!” Alex croaked, staring at one somewhere behind Creed.
“Who is it?” Nikolai demanded.
Creed couldn’t wait to find out. He had to leave. Fast. He had to save whoever was crazy enough to stumble in at one of the most remote places on his father’s ranch at the most inopportune time of their lives.
His own being at the top of the list.
He bettered his grip on each Smith and Wesson. Dared to take a step back.
“A woman,” Alex said, staring hard. His eyes widened. “Nikolai, it is Gina Briganti!”
Holy Lord.
He took another backward stride. Another. Only then did Nikolai notice, and a slow, feral grin spread across his harsh features. Chilling in their delight.
“Now the dangerous soldier runs, eh, Alex?” He moved toward the doorway, following him, the bottled-up bomb still in his hand. “He is not so brave when he knows she will die, too.”
Creed’s blood turned cold from resolve, and he fired into the opening, but too quick, Nikolai guessed his intent and dodged back inside before the bullet found its target. Creed fired again, for good measure, with the same rotten luck.
He gave up, then, and spun toward the horse, toward Gina, coming down the hill at a cautious lope.
“Go, Gina. Go!” he yelled.
She slowed. Frowned. Opened her mouth to shout. “What?”
“Go! Go! Go!”
He broke into a run toward her, his legs pathetically inept compared to the speed of a strong horse, his own left behind in the trees. Where Gina should be right now. But she wasn’t. And if she didn’t get the hell out of there, she’d be blown up right along with him.
In seconds.
He could feel it, and he ran even faster. Her alarmed gaze darted from him to the line shack. Her mouth dropped in horror, and Creed knew then. He knew…
A tremendous explosion sent him hurtling into the air.
And everything went black.
Gina prayed to the Madonna he wouldn’t die, though deep down, she knew he wouldn’t. Each shallow breath he took came when it should, but he had yet to open his eyes, and he lay so still in the grass.
The explosion, it was terrible.
She finished her prayer and crossed herself. It had taken all her strength and ingenuity to tie a rope around his leather holster and help the bay drag him up the hill to safety in the trees. After she untied him, made him as comfortable as she could, she prayed over him.
Now she must take him to his father’s house. Gus Sherman would know what to do.
He must be told what happened. The Sokolovs might be hiding somewhere else on his vast ranch. After Nikolai threw his bomb, he had hurried to find a rock to break the links on Alex’s handcuffs. Once Alex could use his arms again, they fled, taking the makings for their deadly bombs with them.
Gina knew getting Creed up on his horse wouldn’t be easy. He must regain his consciousness first, and from the way he stirred, she hoped it wouldn’t be much longer.
Gently, she touched his forehead, bruised and swollen like the goose’s egg. Tiny cuts nicked his face. Dust covered his clothes. His big strong body, which had made love to hers only a short while ago, had taken a frightening beating from the spray of earthen clods and rocks.
So easily, he could have been killed.
Again, she thanked the Madonna that he hadn’t.
The tawny-gold lashes fluttered open, and his deep almond-colored eyes rolled as they tried to focus. They cleared and met hers.
“Gina,” he said raggedly.
He tried to sit up. She nudged him back down again.
“Shh,” she whispered. “Do not move yet.”
“Are you…hurt?”
Her heart squeezed that his worry had been for her first, with none for himself. Was it any wonder she had fallen in love with him? “I did not feel the bomb like you did.”
He grimaced and rolled to his side; one knee came up, his attempt to stand. “I have to…go after them.”
“They are not here,” she said firmly and pressed a hand on his shoulder to keep him down. “You cannot find them now.”
His bleary gaze jumped to her. “How long ago?”
“Very long.” She stretched the truth a little.
“Damn it.” He lay back again. “I almost…had ’em.”
“Yes.” She didn’t need to mention he’d almost been killed from his bravery at the same time.
“You were…crazy fool to come ridin’ down that hill, woman.”
She smoothed the hair from his forehead. “I hear the gun shoot. Two men are against you. When I see you in the doorway, I want to help, that is all.”
The relief from knowing he wasn’t shot or dead had left her knees wobbly. She would’ve done anything to help capture the Sokolovs, even in the smallest way.
She knew now he wouldn’t have needed her, but he’d fallen so still, she began to worry he’d been injured worse than she thought. Her urgency to get to his father’s house intensified.
A chill had settled into the air. The sun would soon sink from the sky, and the ride wouldn’t be a fast one. She rose and left him, but only to walk their mounts right up to where he lay on the ground. Bending, she gave him a careful shake.
“We must leave, Creed. You must help me get you on your horse. Can you do that?”
He roused. Winced. Groaned. “Just…point me in the right direction.”
“Come. Up, up.”
With a fair amount of prodding and coaxing, she managed to get him into the saddle. He slouched in the seat with his eyes closed, and she feared he’d lose consciousness again and tumble right off. Worriedly, she took his reins, then climbed onto the bay and gripped hers.
He would think she was taking him back to the West Camp, the one he’d brought her to, closest to the city limits. But Marcus had told her how to find the main house. Just follow the fence line, he’d said, and she would get there.
That’s what she did. Until night fell, and it seemed they rode forever. Eventually, it all came into view, though, and sprawled out before her. The Sherman homestead. A majestic place, with lights in every window on the ground level. Soon, with the late hour, they’d shine on the top one, too. Cattle grazed on distant pasture, their black shapes silhouetted in the moonlight. Various outbuildings were scattered along the horizon, their uses Gina could only speculate.
A testament to Gus Sherman’s success.
But Creed’s home, nonetheless.
It’d been devastating to leave hers in Sicily. She couldn’t begin to think how it would feel to leave one like this in hurt and anger, to fight wars in lands which offered far less comfort or security. Or love. And how could his father not miss him during the years Creed had been gone?
Gina turned the horses into a tree-lined lane. Despite the troubles that kept him away, she was bringing Creed home again.
And she prayed it was the right thing to do.
Chapter Twenty
A muted confusion of noise dragged Creed upward from the fringes of oblivion. He fought the confusion, strained to identify it. Pieces. One by one.
He crawled higher. Noise came louder. Dogs barking, frenzied and persistent. Something slammed. A door. Footsteps running. A vague light shadowed the darkness in his mind.
He c
rawled faster. Shed the oblivion. He realized he was in the saddle, slouched over, barely hanging on. He slitted his eyes. A blurred shape of a woman sat beside him. A woman, Gina. Next to him on a horse.
He fought to comprehend it. The confusion.
“Gina! God Almighty, is that you? What happened?”
Lanterns appeared. Everywhere. The light hurt his eyes, and he closed them again. The voice talking to her, faintly familiar, asking questions. His brain churned to identify, to understand.
“Oh, Marcus. There is an explosion, and Creed, I bring him, because—”
“An explosion?”
“Sì, sì. A bomb, and—”
“God Almighty. Hey, Smoke. Get Pa out here. Y’hear me? Get him!”
“Who’ve you got there, Marcus? Is that Creed? What in blazes—”
“Do what I tell you, Smoke! Hube, give me a hand. Lonnie, you, too. Is he hurt, Gina?”
More light. More voices. More footsteps running in the dirt. Creed opened his eyes again. Wider. Clearer.
“There is no blood, but he does not want to stay awake.”
Gina looked worried. Creed tried to talk. To tell her he wasn’t anywhere close to dead. He just needed a little more time to bring himself out of the dark. But the words didn’t come.
“The bomb throws him up into the air.” Gina kept explaining, kept sounding worried. “And when he comes down again, he cannot stay awake very long.”
Arms lifted. Hands grasped. Creed felt himself pulled from the saddle.
“Easy with him. Easy! Something might be broken.”
Markie sounded worried, too. A door slammed. More light.
“What the hell is going on out here?” a voice boomed.
Crystal clear, recognition hit. The Old Man. Creed fought the hands. His father’s disappointment. Failure that brought Creed back home.
“Whoa, easy. It’s all right, big brother.” Markie again, right beside him. His low voice soothing. Understanding.
Creed stopped fighting. Markie knew. Markie understood about Pa’s disappointment.
“It’s Creed, Gus. He’s hurt,” Hube said, voice flat.
“Creed? Sweet God. Bring him in the house. Mary Cat!” Again, the Old Man’s voice boomed. “Clear the table! They’ve got Creed out here.”
The hands carried him up steps. He felt weightless, helpless, like a baby. Boot steps tromped across the porch floor. Into the main house.
They brought him to the kitchen. Creed squinted into the brightness; his brain registered smells. Brewed coffee, roasted beef, a strawberry pie, fresh-baked. Air, warm and fragrant.
“Lay him on the table,” the Old Man ordered.
Mary Catherine whisked aside a plate, the last of their dinner dishes.
“Oh, please be careful with him,” she said, the words sounding worried like the rest of them.
The hands eased him down, but Creed resisted and pushed them away. He struggled to sit up, swayed, caught himself before he rolled off the edge.
“Damned if you’ll lay me here…like a slab in a morgue,” he growled, the sound rusty and hoarse.
The men didn’t move, as if stunned to hear him speak. They appeared cautious, uncertain of what he was capable of. What they should let him do, mostly.
Then, the Old Man pulled out a chair, thumped it next to the table.
“All right, son. Sit, if that’s what you’d rather do,” he said.
Son. Creed went still at the word. How long had it’d been since he’d heard his father say it?
Gus Sherman, acknowledging Creed as his son.
Creed’s lip curled, and his bleary gaze slammed into the Old Man’s. Eyes, the same shade of burnt brown as his own. Markie’s, too. All three of them, bearing the same Sherman trait.
But Creed saw pain, too. Worry. Raw fear of what could have happened.
His rebellion died. More often of late, it seemed to. The anger with his father, the wounds Creed fought to keep from healing.
En masse, the men moved to help him into the chair, but he waved them off and managed it well enough on his own. His vision cleared in degrees. Somehow, being here, his strength eased back, too, where it belonged, in his muscles and bones. His head pounded like an Apache war drum, but he could think again, and that counted most.
They all stood around him. Staring. His father’s men. Hube Clark, Smokey Gibson, Lonnie Rogers. Markie. All of them, years on the Sherman payroll. Loyal and honest and hardworking. As devoted to his father as he was to them.
And Creed had no grudge with the cowboys. Never had, and suddenly, the years fell away. All lousy six of them.
His father thrust a glass tumbler filled with whiskey at him, his hand, Creed noted, not quite steady.
“Drink up,” he commanded. “Then tell us what happened.”
Creed took the glass, lifted the rim to his lips, but he didn’t drink. He caught sight of Gina, standing forgotten in the doorway.
He didn’t need the whiskey to get his blood warming from the sight of her. She had some explaining to do, her reasons for bringing him home, to his father’s house. But for now, it’d wait. She was as much a part of him as everyone else in this room. He refused to have her on the outside, looking in.
“Gina.” He pulled out a chair, dragged it beside his. “Come here.”
The men turned toward her. In unison, their hats came off, their respect for the female gender instant, genuine, especially one associated with a Sherman. They parted, and she walked toward him, a graceful mix of pride and woman. She sat, hands folded tight in her lap.
The straight line of her shoulders revealed she was nervous, overwhelmed at being the center of attention among strangers. The Old Man, likely, most of all.
Creed hadn’t painted a friendly picture of him, and the regret stung. He handed her his glass. Liquid courage for the both of them.
But Mary Catherine made a sound of admonishment.
“No, not like that.” She took a cup and saucer, pretty with pink painted flowers, from the cupboard. Ma’s good china, he recalled. Mary Catherine filled the cup with coffee. “Gus, pour a little in here. It’ll go down easier for her.”
The Old Man trickled in some Old Taylor. She stirred with a spoon and handed the doctored-up brew to Gina.
Gina accepted with a hesitant smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. My name is Mary Catherine, but maybe you already know that.”
She nodded once. Carefully. “I do.”
“And your name is Gina?”
“Yes. Gina Briganti.”
“Marcus told us he met you. I must admit, we’ve been most curious about you ever since.” Mary Catherine pulled her white crocheted shawl from her shoulders. “You’re not wearing a coat, and you must be chilled clear through. Here. Wear this.”
“Oh.” Gina didn’t seem to know what to make of it, but she tugged the wrap closer about her. “Thank you.”
Mary Catherine laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Both of you have been through a terrible ordeal. My husband—” she darted a quick glance at Creed “—Creed’s father, must know everything.” She moved away to stand at his side. “Please. Start from the beginning.”
Her kindness toward Gina moved Creed. Left him shaken with the knowledge that while he was gone, she’d grown into Ma’s role as matriarch of the Sherman family, wife to one of the most influential ranchers around.
And it humbled him that she did it well. With compassion and with ease, and damn it, had he been too hard on her and the Old Man? Had Creed’s grief from losing Ma blinded him to the realization that life moved on, and why in hell should Pa be left alone the rest of his life while it did?
Creed’s head pounded from confusion, and he threw back a healthy gulp of whiskey.
By the time his glass sat empty on the table, Gina had explained everything, from the moment the Sokolovs started the fire at the Premier Shirtwaist Company factory to their throwing the vitriol bomb at the line shack in the North Camp. Afterward, no
one spoke. But tears shimmered in Mary Catherine’s eyes.
“Oh, Gina. Your mother…how awful for you.”
“She is alive. I feel it here.” Gina pressed a fist over her heart. “I dream of her at night, and she tells me she waits. She knows I come for her. With Creed’s help, it is not long before I see her again.”
Pa nodded, grim. “Must be hard for you to be out here, so far from the city.”
“Yes.” Her dark eyes held his without wavering. “But I must have vengeance. It is important to me, too. I do not want to live in fear that Nikolai and Alex will kill again because I do nothing to help stop them.”
“They’ll be stopped.” Pa’s expression turned hard with the same fierce determination that drove him to defy innumerable odds in his life as a powerful rancher. The man he was. He turned to Creed. “You think they’re hiding somewhere on Sherman land?”
With the whiskey’s help, the fog in Creed’s brain had all but lifted, the aches in his body numbed. He could think again. Feel the hate. Keep the hunger for revenge surging strong inside him.
“I’m convinced of it,” he said. He recalled Nikolai’s injury, his need of the healing waters. “Gina knows of their guilt, and they know she’s with me. They want us both dead.” His glance swept over Markie, the Sherman men. The Old Man and Mary Catherine. Creed never intended to involve them in his war, but now, he’d done just that. And it scared the hell out of him. “Once they get wind we’re here, none of you will be safe.”
“You think we haven’t had enemies before?” Pa demanded.
“None like this,” Creed shot back.
“They have the bombs,” Gina added, miserable.
“That can kill a dozen men in the blink of an eye,” Creed finished.
“Then we find them before they find you and the rest of us,” Pa said, his tone hard. “It’s that simple.”
Simple? Simple?
It was all Creed could do to keep from yelling this fight couldn’t be more difficult. The rise of anarchism was a secret enemy, as complex as the minds of the fanatics behind it. How could he possibly win? How could any soldier or army or even a military as powerful as the one right here in the United States?