by Kristin Holt
CHAPTER SIX
The moment his observations—truly, only an hypothesis—fell out of his mouth, he realized he’d gone too far.
Blame it on the roiling, desperate urge to solve the mystery of the Ruffian Gang.
Blame it on the burgeoning awareness that he wanted to know everything about this woman. Everything.
Blame it on Mrs. Finlay’s blasted blue-ribbon gingerbread and her heated insistence that Noelle was her daughter.
Coupled with the heated discussion he’d overheard prior to supper, he’d be an unworthy lawman if he couldn’t put two and two together and come up with four.
He did regret the sharp pain marring Noelle’s beautiful face. “I’m sorry.”
He shouldn’t have said a word, no matter the conjecture swirling about his thoughts. He didn’t need to be right, not near as much as he needed…what?
To keep this woman safe?
To make this woman happy?
She jerked away, or tried to, but he held her fast. His arm at her back proved helpful in keeping her close. He slid his free hand around her for good measure.
He really shouldn’t hold her like this.
He shouldn’t.
Especially not with her mad at him.
“I am sorry,” he insisted. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Who told you?”
Fear colored her tone of voice. He recognized fear. Knew it intimately. Fear made people unpredictable. Made rational people do irrational things.
He didn’t want to know what fear would do to Noelle Finlay.
“Nobody told me. Just saw what I saw, heard what I heard, and based on a life of fighting crime, I sort of—”
“You think my life is a crime?” She tried to wrest free.
He held on tighter. He must make her understand.
This wasn’t the time or the place for this conversation. Not in the open, not with a thousand vantage points all the way around them where the Ruffian Gang could be lying in wait. He needed all his faculties. He ought to keep a sharp eye open. He should be listening for footfalls in the snow, a whisper of voices, odors that don’t belong.
Anything but swallowed up in this little slip of a woman he couldn’t ignore.
“Your life is not a crime. You are not a crime.”
“But my parents are.”
“Don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth.”
“You’re the one who asked that ridiculous question.”
“Wasn’t ridiculous, now was it?”
She fell silent, even as she stiffened. She knew. And it was true. What on earth had happened, how had it happened? Unless Noelle had started out a cousin to the Finlays—a double-cousin, with parents who were brothers and sisters to Phil and Caroline—‘cause she looked so darn much like Luke, Dallas, Timothy, Gerald, Miranda—all of ‘em.
The only question that remained…was Phil her father?
This time, he’d let sleeping dogs lie.
“No one knows about that, all right?” She slowly relaxed, the tension in her body waning like a dying storm. “If you have an ounce of respect for my family, if you care about me at all, you won’t say a word. Not to anyone.”
He felt no satisfaction, knowing his hunch had been correct. “I swear I won’t divulge a thing.”
“See you don’t.” All pleading had fled. The steely woman before him was a spitting image of the cougar-like Mrs. Finlay in the kitchen. Like mother, like daughter. Noelle was her mother’s daughter.
“If I ever tell you about—” She shrugged, the movement of her little frame reminding him how very close he held her. “If I ever tell you my family’s secrets, if I ever bring you into the fold, so to speak, you’d better be in to stay.”
In other words, he’d never know the situation, at least not from her, unless he and she…
She and he…
He cleared his throat.
The possibilities—the impossibilities, rather—she and him? Together? Him, married to the Finlays?
Effie, a sister-in-law.
Like the past twenty-four hours.
Effie and Luke had been in the crowded house, sitting at the kitchen table at mealtime, and he’d barely taken note.
He’d been too swept up in the warmth of inclusion and too focused on the dark-haired beauty at his side.
“O.K.” He cleared his throat again. How could he possibly say this? “If you ever tell me all about it, I’ll know.”
She nodded, the movement jerky. Her little hands had taken fistfuls of his greatcoat—when had that happened? Why hadn’t he noticed?
He figured lots of stuff went on ‘round here he didn’t notice.
That scared him.
“That’s right.” She pushed up on her toes, as if she would kiss him this time.
He drew in a startled, deep breath. Even in the frozen out-of-doors, he caught a whisper of her scent. Flowers and clean woman and spices from her baking. Longing for so much more nearly drowned him.
“If I ever tell you all of it,” she confirmed, “you’ll know you’re mine.”
Noelle couldn’t sleep.
Not with the anxiety of the day heaped upon her already frayed nerves.
Especially not with Gus asleep in this house.
His presence ought to lull her to sleep with confidence and peace and safety.
Instead, he distracted her constantly. She’d heard him go outside for a cigarette, smelled the hint of tobacco clinging to the air. Few of her brothers smoked, and her father did not. The fragrance tantalized, lingered, reminded her he was here.
She tossed back the covers, pushed her feet into slippers and pulled on her wrapper. Warm milk. That would do it.
She made her way to the kitchen, slipping down the stairs and avoiding the squeaky fourth tread. A quick poke to the banked fire within the range, a hearty splash of milk from the icebox into a saucepan, and a dollop of brandy, a spoonful of sugar.
In the parlor, she heard Gus turn over on the sofa. Apparently, he wasn’t asleep, either.
This was ridiculous, really. He hadn’t needed to sleep here. Not with the army of Finlays, gun-ready, and keeping watch. Nothing would happen.
Old Duke lumbered into the kitchen, stretching his legs behind him. Poor arthritic pup.
“Want to go out?” Noelle rubbed the collie behind both ears.
Duke shook off her love-pats and nudged the doorknob with his nose.
“Hurry back,” she whispered. “It’s too cold to stay out long.”
Bitter cold wind, carrying a drove of falling snow, swept through the open door.
She turned back to the stove, stirring her hot milk, grateful for the warmth of the fire.
The house creaked and settled, the wind battering the siding. Snug as a bug.
The milk steamed and she reached for a mug, poured the beverage in and blew over its surface. The first sip tasted like home. Warm, relaxing, and oh, so enjoyable.
Duke scratched at the back door. She set down her mug, claimed the old towel used to dry off the dog after his romp through the snow, and opened the kitchen door.
With her gaze trained at knee-height, fully expecting the dog’s snow-covered coat, she barely caught a glimpse of dark trousers tucked into boots behind a curtain of heavy snowfall. In that split moment, fear registered, swift and cold. Freezing temperatures cut through her flannel nightgown and wrapper.
Two men—at least two—grabbed her by both arms. One shoved a cloth that stank of pungent medicine against her face.
She couldn’t breathe.
Terror sank its fangs deep.
She fought.
Struggled, twisted and turned, bucked.
One of the men closed the door softly. So softly, no one would hear.
Her slipper flipped free.
Bare flesh sank in snow.
Where was Duke?
Why hadn’t he barked?
Gus!
She fought to remain conscious, to wrest her face free of the
cloying stench on that cloth, to connect a foot against her captor’s knee, but awareness faded, scoping in until she had no peripheral vision.
They’d kill her.
Death stalked her, seconds from pouncing.
She’d die from exposure, if not a knife to her throat.
Why hadn’t she told Gus she loved him?
Gus!
One man’s face loomed. “Settle down,” he whispered. “Nighty-night, sweet thing.”
A full hour before the sun’s first hint of dawn tinted the wintry horizon, the Finlay family discovered Noelle’s absence.
Within seconds of a sister noticing Noelle wasn’t safely tucked in bed, the entire household had woken. A desperate, feverish search yielded nothing but an unlocked back door and a mug of cold milk on the table.
August Rose had been a trusted U.S. Marshal. He’d guarded federal judges, protected dozens of them from threats, seen and unseen.
Guilt buried him, sure as an avalanche, crushing the breath from his lungs.
The Finlays had trusted him.
Noelle had trusted him.
And he’d lost her.
The fault was his.
Entirely his.
Gus stood outside in his shirtsleeves in the driving snow that had fallen steady and fast for six hours, obliterating tracks. The bandits could have gone anywhere or nowhere.
The Ruffian Gang must have waited for the storm, planned it, grabbed the opportunity. They had to have known the snow would delay retaliation.
Six hours since Gus had lain half-awake in the parlor while she puttered about the kitchen, heating milk.
He’d thought her safe.
He’d heard the door open and shut, heard her murmuring to the dog. Knew she’d let the collie out. Then in.
He’d fallen asleep.
Fool.
She hadn’t let the dog in. No Duke. Had the faithful, aged dog followed her captives?
His heart wrenched. Pain radiated in sickening stabs. Fear, greater than any he’d known, screamed in his thoughts, jumbled and vindictive.
Temperatures well below freezing, the chances of her surviving the past six hours were nil. Not in a flannel nightgown, wrapper, and slippers.
He shook, violently, his body fighting to stay warm. Fighting for life.
He didn’t want to consider the terror, the pain, the misery Noelle had suffered.
Six long hours.
The Ruffian Gang’s escalating crimes showed their lack of conscience.
Guilt drove Gus to his knees in the snow. The frost stabbed deep, punishing, but not enough.
What were the chances she was still alive?
He deserved the cold and snow, stinging his skin and burrowing into his marrow.
An innocent woman, so full of life and vitality, who’d stood in this yard and reminded him what it felt like to care about a woman—
Had that been just last night?
Emotion strangled his throat, cutting off his air. He scanned the yard, a bleakness so severe he thought he’d succumb then and there.
A lump in the snow…big enough to be human? Why hadn’t he seen it before?
He charged, fell to his knees. Paddled the snow away in huge swaths.
Encountered black and white fur. Frozen and caked with congealed blood at the throat.
The Ruffian Gang had slit a cow’s throat, then a dog’s.
What would they inflict upon Noelle?
Emotion overrode, choked, swelled, erupted in a scream of fury. He bellowed a second time—more animal than human. He’d never, not even when Effie’s father had banished Gus and his pa far to the north, removing them from Effie’s life with precision—had such helplessness overwhelmed him.
Eviscerated, he screamed until his throat was raw. “Noelle!”
Gus stood on shaking legs. His teeth chattered. Hands and feet numb, he stumbled toward the house.
Until they located Noelle, he would not rest, would not slow.
On the slim chance she was alive, he had to move.
He forced back the tide of emotion and dug deep for the level-headed lawman.
At the kitchen door, he stomped off clinging snow. Fire shot through frozen feet.
“Sheriff?” Caroline, tears flowing down her cheeks, met him with a blanket.
Another time, another place, he would have been ashamed of all the woman had likely seen through the window. Him on his knees. Howling in agonized desperation.
He nodded at Noelle’s mother, accepted a blanket he didn’t deserve.
In the kitchen, Phil and the boys had stoked the fire in the range. They wolfed down plates of scrambled eggs and shoved toast in their mouths. Dressed for the weather, armed, they’d be ready to ride inside of two minutes.
“What we gonna do now?” Dallas, his first whiskers upon his chin, looked to Gus with unwarranted trust.
A dozen things needed doing, all at once. “Phil, alert the bunkhouse. Send ‘em in pairs.”
Phil nodded.
“Bring in your married sons and daughter and their families.” Gus fought the shakes, struggled to get blood moving again and his body temperature up. He’d be of no use to Noelle if he couldn’t think straight. “The women and children will be safest here. Tell the men to dress warm, arm themselves, carry food and blankets. Noelle will need immediate care.”
“I’ll go, Pa.” Timothy, lanky, tall, as dark-haired as all the Finlays.
“No.” Gus gestured toward town with a tip of his head. He opened the blanket to capture heat from the stove. “I need you and Dallas to head for town. Alert the deputies. Tell ‘em what happened, and to spread the word. Folks there need to be prepared. Tell ‘em to stay home, keep an eye out, help their neighbors.”
“But it’s Saturday.” Timothy sought agreement from his parents. “A week before Christmas. Nobody will stay home.”
Gus flexed his frozen toes in his wet boots, cursing the weather for the hundredth time. Tracking would be so much easier in any other season.
“They will if they’re smart.” Phil set his empty plate on the table and pulled on his gloves. “Anything else you want my men to do, besides bring in my family?”
“Yes.” Gus’s pride had taken a beating, and it’d be a whole lot worse once everyone knew. “Leave half here, armed and ready. I want them in and around the house, safeguarding the women and children. Send the other half—door to door. Warn the neighbors and enlist as many strong riders and straight shots as possible.”
Timothy set his plate on the table with a thunk. “I say we ride. Time’s wasting.”
“I’d like nothing more myself, son.” Gus understood. “We’re outnumbered, best I can tell, watching this gang over the past month. I aim to change that.”
“Dallas and I can start tracking.”
“You going to do as you’re told?” Gus stared the youth straight in the eye. The boy was nearly as tall as himself, several inches taller than his father. “Can I trust you to take orders?”
Tim set his jaw. A muscle kicked in his lean cheek. Seconds passed. “Yes sir.”
“Then I hereby deputize you to act in capacity of Mountain Home’s Sheriff.”
“Deputy? Yes!”
Gus settled a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That means you do exactly as you’re told. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Me too?” Dallas asked.
A quick glance at Phil and Caroline for approval, and Gus nodded. “You too. Now git. Ride fast but take care of the horses.”
The snow made for treacherous travel and the boys knew it. A horse could fall lame too easily.
“Yes sir.”
“One more thing.” He scooped up Noelle’s pencil drawing of the gang’s leader. “Spread the word this likeness is posted at the jail house. Tack it up inside.”
“I will.”
“Be quick. We ride the minute you return.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
From the moment Noelle awoke, her mind foggy, and a
disgusting taste in her mouth, questions rattled about in her aching head.
She pulled the woolen blanket higher around her shoulders and fiddled with the end of her braid.
Gus searched for her, even now, with her brothers and brother-in-law, Noelle was certain. He’d follow, despite the storm.
Because the drug had knocked her out cold, she hadn’t any idea how far out of Mountain Home proper they’d traveled. Hours? Longer?
Where was this well-tended, fully stocked cabin?
For all she knew, they’d left the valley altogether.
Eventually, Gus and his men would have searched each homestead, every abandoned dwelling, and they’d expand their search. They would find her.
Why had these monsters taken her?
Why had they bundled her in blankets, provided heavy woolen stockings, protected her from the elements?
Most importantly, why would this band of miscreants allow her to see their faces?
They knew she could identify them. That didn’t bode well for her safety.
They’d kill her.
Why did they wait? She felt like a goose, fattened up for Christmas.
She wanted answers, needed answers. They’d not bound her, gagged her, nor constrained her—so she would speak.
“Why did you kidnap me?” She directed her question to the one they called Boss, letting her anger and frustration show.
He shrugged in a manner that screamed insolence.
“You had a reason.”
He ignored her. Stringy, unkempt hair hung to his shoulders. Dark at the scalp but gradually lightened to a reddish brown at the ends, as if he’d spent much time in the sun. His full beard shone red in the lantern light.
“I saw you butcher a cow. So, what? That’s life. People butcher cattle every winter.”
But not like he had. Gus said they’d not taken the meat. The monsters hadn’t so much as hacked off a haunch to carry away.
The remaining seven men avoided her questions in one way or another. Two slept. One stirred the stew on the stove. The one she’d dubbed Tall and Ugly stared into the fire. Another took great care feeding another log into the hearth. So she focused all of her attention on the ringleader.