by Jenna Ryan
Barb coughed out a laugh. “If the guy you’re looking for’s half as dumb as this bottle of charged water, you won’t have any trouble rounding him up at Luke’s.”
“He’s not quite as dumb.” McBride stood. “But he’s plenty predictable.”
“He’s also desperate.” Alessandra repacked the medical kit, snapped the lock and gave Billy’s leg a pat. “We’re also thinking he might be out of money.”
Which really only left one question in her mind. But it was a big one, and no matter how hard she tried to set it aside, she couldn’t. Rory had told her that, despite a fabricated reputation, he was terrible with firearms. If that was true, then who’d been using the assault rifle that had killed Eddie Rickard?
WHILE SHE MIGHT not be able to banish the question completely, it wasn’t difficult for Alessandra to banish it from the forefront of her mind.
If possible, Luke’s Bar was even more of a dive than his cousin Barb’s. Leaving a rather boisterous street celebration behind them, McBride pushed through a poorly hung door into a low-lit room that smelled like whiskey, sweat and cigarettes. Dead center of the room stood a fighting cage. It had a concave canvas floor and more dark streaks and splotches than Alessandra could count.
Lovely, she thought, and tugged the hat he’d placed on her head a little lower.
Deep inside, she spied three pool tables. The clack of balls rose above stuttering Amy Winehouse. Someone whacked the jukebox, and the stutter stopped.
She felt as if hidden eyes locked on and tracked them as they made their way across the floor. Nothing obvious, but the sensation of ants on her skin escalated with every step.
“I should have closed the clinic before Smith and his dog rolled up Friday night,” she murmured, taking a covert look around. “Then I would have never gotten mixed up with this…and you.”
“That’ll learn ya, darlin’.” There was a faint tease in McBride’s tone, but she noticed his eyes never stopped moving. And he kept a firm hold on her hand.
She bumped his shoulder. “Tell me again why we didn’t ask the sheriff for help.”
“Too many cooks, Alessandra.”
“Yes, you said that before. It’s not an answer.”
“I called his office while you were pulling that spike out of Billy’s foot. Sheriff’s in Cheyenne for a few days. Family emergency. You met Deputy Pepper. His counterpart didn’t inspire a whole lot more confidence, and I’m not big on official clutter in any case.”
“I really should have closed the clinic on time.”
He’d insisted she wear a jacket, so it only took a few minutes for the heat to set on edge what few nerves she was managing to keep under control.
“He’s not playing pool,” she noted, as she looked around the bar. “Any sign of a back room?”
“Not so far.” He sounded preoccupied so she followed his gaze and tried to guess why he was staring at the kitchen.
A man’s voice cut in before she could ask.
“You looking for me?”
McBride’s eyes remained on the kitchen as he replied, “If you’re Luke, yeah.”
They turned to regard a man half as large as Rory. When he and McBride moved aside, Alessandra gave him a long good look.
Barb’s cousin was short, ripped and openly defiant. He made her think of a wolverine and not the X-Men kind. She sensed a strong bite-first-ask-any-serious-questions-later attitude. In other words, nothing McBride couldn’t handle.
Swinging around, she made a more thorough study of the room.
“You ever been in the cage?” someone behind her asked.
She glanced back at a woman with shorn black hair, black shorts and large, rippling biceps. “Not really my thing.” She regarded the dark streaks on the floor. “It looks…painful.”
“Can be if you’re slow and stupid. I smell class and Ralph Lauren perfume under that flyboy jacket you’re wearing. What is it you’re hoping to find in here? Lie and say a job and I’ll pop you in the mouth.”
Alessandra believed her. “My, uh, husband’s looking for someone. A man.”
“We got a lot of those.”
“This one’s big, he’s bad and he has a scar on his collarbone.”
“What’s his sin?”
“He’s an escaped felon. A murderer.”
“His vice?”
“Gambling and women.”
“Double whammy. Clover!” She shouted above hoots, pool balls and Rascal Flatts at maximum volume.
The woman who wandered over had ice-blue eyes set in a sun-weathered forty-something face.
“Big, ugly, with a scar here.” Alessandra’s companion used a skull-painted fingertip to demonstrate. “Seen him anywhere?”
Clover’s smile was slow and sly. “Sounds like the guy who got lucky at craps a while back. He gave Sue fifty bucks to send anyone with questions on to Elbow—that’s a town fifty miles north of here.” The blue eyes twinkled. “Too bad for him Sue’s shift ended five minutes later. Badder still he didn’t give me the fifty.”
Recognizing the game, Alessandra tilted her head at a speculative angle. “I can do a hundred—fifty a piece—if you tell me where he is now.”
“She’s with a cop,” the first woman warned the one named Clover. “Helluva looker, but still a cop. He’s talking to Luke, who doesn’t look happy.”
“Luke never looks happy.” Clover sashayed closer. “Fifty more, pretty sister, and we’ll waylay the boss while you and the cop check out the door down the hall. If your guy’s still there and you see Margo, tell her we said hi.”
She’d probably regret this, Alessandra thought, but slipped her hand into McBride’s pocket, located his wallet and hoped he had sufficient cash.
He did. Five seconds after it disappeared into a pair of bras, the women went flying over a table and came up scratching, clawing and kicking.
A potbellied man elbowed past. “I got twenty on Clover.”
“Fifty on Raven,” someone else shouted.
And the stampede began. Men who’d been leering moments before now jostled and bumped her aside. Luke jumped into the fray, and even the cooks rushed out of the kitchen.
She was watching money change hands at a fast and furious rate when McBride grabbed her. “You might not like my world, Alessandra, but you’re finding your niche fast enough. I almost didn’t feel you picking my pocket.”
He’d set his mouth close to her ear, so close a shiver of something—excitement?—shimmered through her bloodstream.
Exasperated with herself, she turned her head, stared for a moment, then kissed him. Long and hard and with just enough mad around the edges to make a statement. When she pulled free, her whole mouth tingled. Served her right for attempting to prove a nonexistent point.
“I’m going insane,” she decided. “If it isn’t all about sex, and it shouldn’t be in any healthy relationship, why can’t I stop thinking about it and you at all the wrong moments?”
“Because sex and danger go hand in hand, and we’ve been immersed in the second thing since Friday night.”
Her lips tipped into a false smile. “Well, I feel better. But before we abandon reason and start making out on the floor, you should know that Rory might be doing exactly that in a hidden room down a hallway next to the kitchen. The info plus diversion cost you a hundred and fifty bucks, but I’m betting it’s accurate. Call’s yours, McBride. If we go in, though, I’m staying behind you. A naked Rory Simms isn’t something I want to see right now.”
“Don’t blame you.” With a quick kiss—for luck, he claimed—McBride took her hand and forged a path through the sea of cheering bodies to a barely visible opening at the far end of the bar.
A pool ball had jumped off one of the tables and rolled between her feet. Alessandra picked it up while McBride pulled out his Glock.
Sex, danger and a sleek powerful weapon in the right hands. The thrill had to be in the mix. Toss in McBride himself, and the heat factor shot off the scale.
The jukebox played on. The women fought on. Halfway down the narrow corridor, McBride held her back with a hand, listened at a door, then tried the knob. When the latch held, he backed up a step and gave it a kick.
It had to be bad luck that Rory’s back was to the window and the woman in front of him, who hastily grabbed a sheet, blocked any shot McBride might have had. Openmouthed and obviously startled, Rory snatched up the pants that were puddled at his feet and dove across the sill.
The woman dropped the sheet and streaked to the opening. Red-faced and determined, she started to climb out herself, swearing and flailing at McBride behind her.
Unable to think of anything better, Alessandra rushed over and grabbed her hair. The woman whirled, a light of fury glowing in her black-rimmed eyes.
“Go.” She waved McBride forward. “I can handle this.” She hoped.
Huffing like an enraged bull, the woman gave her a shove, then stomped around the room searching for her clothes. “You had no right to barge in,” she shouted, and banged a fist on the wall for effect. “That’s half my rent money that just jumped out the window. He’s the first guy who’s shown any interest in ten days, and you make him cut out without paying. I’m sick of the cage. Raven’s faster than me, and younger. One day, I’m gonna get killed on that canvas.” Her mouth took an unappealing downward turn. “Who are you, anyway?”
Keeping her distance, Alessandra threw a bright green tank top across the bed. “It’s a very long, very complicated story. But believe me when I tell you, you’re better off wrestling Raven than Rory.”
“Bull. You ever fought Raven?”
“No. Have you ever fought a murderer?”
“Yes.” The woman’s sneer gave way to a fierce and frightening smile. Using her top like a rope, she snapped the fabric. “Know what else?” She bent forward to offer a menacing, “I won.”
Chapter Eleven
Rory plunged into the heart of the street party. And he was smart enough to run hunched over so McBride couldn’t see his head. Still, his path of destruction was wide, and more than one disgruntled bystander aimed a boot at him.
“That way,” a grandfather with a corn dog told McBride. “Could be he’s going for the old livery. Fella gets in there, even one the size of a moose, you’ll have a devil of a time fishing him out.”
A voice in McBride’s head nagged him as he worked through the crowd in the direction of the distant livery. It echoed and got louder with every step. It’s not as simple as it appears…. There’s something more to this, something obscured by the obvious….
He spotted his quarry fifty yards ahead. Rory was going for the big barn all right. Made sense. Spillage from the anniversary celebration littered the mouth of the building. There were wagons and flatbeds, tractors, trucks and trailers. Parade floats had been stripped down and others were under construction. Arches and canopies, ramps and rigging were stacked, strewn or leaning on every available surface.
McBride used the larger vehicles for cover in case Rory decided to shoot. That he didn’t suggested he’d placed unwarranted faith in his Loden contact and possibly in the late Eddie Rickard.
As the din from the festival receded, McBride picked up the closer sounds of rushing feet, heard an unwieldy body crashing into assorted protrusions. He gave his eyes five seconds to adjust, then eased across the threshold and into the shadows.
Like him, Rory opted to stop. Question was, where in this jam-packed welter of parade paraphernalia would a frantic fugitive feel it was safe to slide in and sweat it out?
Gun up, McBride skirted the rows of stacked crates that, in his opinion, represented the best hiding spots. He checked under wagons and inside an old Pullman on street wheels. The worn velvet seats contained nothing but dust. The shades were up and none of the shadows around them stirred.
He was ten feet past the train car when he heard a small scrape. “Gotcha, Rory,” he said softly, and, bringing his gun down, fired in the direction of the sound.
As he’d hoped, Rory surged up from behind a gray surrey, froze like a bloated ferret, then bolted.
He lumbered toward the back of the building. Since there was no door visible, McBride figured he’d switch directions the moment he spotted decent cover and try for the side exit. Jamming his gun into his waistband, he vaulted over a pair of sawhorses, followed a long shadow and arrived there at the same time.
Rory barreled into sight, saw him and braked. “I told her to tell you to back off,” he shouted.
He launched a box of metal parts at McBride’s head. Finally, he pulled out a gun. He squeezed off two shots, plus an over-the-shoulder third. McBride considered firing back, but figured he was close enough to go for the tackle.
They’d been positioned at right angles to each other. A dozen running steps, a hop up onto the tongue of a wooden wagon and he had Rory knocked down and bucking on the packed dirt floor.
The impact, struggle and brief exchange of punches produced more than a little blood and, in McBride’s case, a pain that seared from shoulder to wrist. Still, the damage was lighter than it could have been.
“You think this is over, McBride, but it’s not. Eddie’ll see to that. When he catches—”
“Eddie’s dead, Rory.”
“What?” The big man’s head reared up. “You killed him?”
“Someone did. A bullet caught him between the ribs. He bled to death in his truck last night.”
“But…” The fight simply drained out of him. “Eddie’s dead?”
McBride swiped an arm across his face, came up with a smear of blood and grimaced. “I thought you told Alessandra you didn’t care if he died.”
“I don’t… I did. But it wasn’t supposed to go like this. Him dead and me caught. Casey’ll kill you now for sure.” His brow furrowed, “Me, too, maybe. Hell!”
It was the terror in the last word that had McBride bracing to offset the mighty heave that almost pitched him from Rory’s back. He managed to get his forearm across his prisoner’s neck. “I’m willing to bet the rifle used on Alessandra and me a few nights ago is the one responsible for Eddie’s death. Assuming your sister didn’t dispatch another henchman, that only leaves one viable suspect as triggerman. You were in the vicinity, Rory, and I don’t think you trust your sister to keep you alive any more than she trusts you to keep the family’s secrets.”
A powerful shudder passed through Rory’s body. The single eye he turned in McBride’s direction glinted, but whether from fear or derision he couldn’t be sure.
“You find that rifle,” Rory told him in a flat, emotionless tone. “But you better do it fast because whatever Casey has planned for me, she’ll plan it double for you, and, yeah, your pretty lady friend, too. I’m telling you, and I ain’t lying. The only time I ever picked up a rifle was when I was fifteen years old and my best buddy’s grandpa left his old Varminter lying loose in the basement. I pulled the trigger once and blew my buddy’s arm off at the elbow. I haven’t touched another one since.” His eye—still unreadable—glinted again. “Choice is yours, McBride. Are you gonna take the word of a murderer, or take your chances with the murderer’s untrustworthy sister?”
THE SYSTEM OF PROCESSING criminals in Loden required a stream of back and forth phone calls, misplaced arrest forms and, all tolled, approximately two more hours of patience than McBride currently possessed.
By midnight, the out of town sheriff told McBride to ignore his bickering deputies and work with the dispatcher to arrange transportation of the prisoner to a holding cell in Cheyenne.
In the end, and with a headache the size of the Grand Tetons slamming in his skull, McBride decided to do the transporting himself. A local rancher volunteered to ride shotgun. That was Rory taken care of.
But no way was McBride taking Alessandra to Cheyenne. Not with a live bomb on board. Against his better judgment, he let her talk him into leaving her in Loden for the day, thanked the hotel manager for the space that miraculously opened up and finally hauled his gear int
o the rustic lobby.
“You’re in the honeymoon suite,” the woman at the desk informed him. She grinned and winked. “I sent your pretty lady up ten minutes ago. Told her we’d get the rest of her things to her as soon as Marvin’s finished with the fireworks display.”
“Ten minutes?” McBride looked up from the register Alessandra had already signed. “She’s been here for ninety.”
“I know, but we got to talking. One thing led to another, and my cat’s been feeling poorly lately, so she offered to take a look at him. He’s eighteen, and it turns out his thyroid’s probably out of whack, like his mama’s.” She winked again. “Dr. Norris says that’s a fixable feline problem, so to show my gratitude, I sent a bottle of red wine to your room, because red’s romantic, and the two of you look so damn good together, I couldn’t resist. Now don’t you worry about those bags. They’ll be sitting outside your door next time you open it.”
Feeling achy and tired, McBride made the most expedient exit he could—unfortunately, not fast enough to avoid the two dozen Facebook photos of her grandchildren. Finally, he climbed the narrow staircases to the third floor.
He expected Alessandra either to be asleep on the bed or soaking in a hot tub, if there was a tub, he thought. But all he could see when he opened the door was her mile-long legs crossed and propped up on the windowsill. She wore her calf-high suede boots, his battered leather jacket and hat, a pair of really skimpy lace panties and, if his suddenly empty brain wasn’t hallucinating, absolutely nothing else.
“’Bout time you showed up, Marshal.” Her amused drawl made his throat go dry. Without looking over, she dangled a glass of ruby-red claret. “I gotta tell you, this wine is good. Damn good. The desk lady really knows her California labels.” Head provocatively angled, she cast him a sultry look from under her lashes. “You want it, honey lamb, you’re gonna have to come and get it.”
Okay, he could either go with this—and God knew he wanted to—or he could take the high road, which God also knew had never been his way. Booting the door shut, he started toward her. “Are you drunk?”