by Renee Ryan
The lure was too strong, the promise of reward too large.
Thinking of rewards, Tristan’s mind immediately went to Rachel and the blessing she’d become in his life. He needed to tell her how he felt. He needed to trust that the Lord would protect her. They would face the future together, navigate their fears as a couple—
Tristan froze. Narrowed his eyes. Opened his ears. There was no sound, but he felt a shift in the air, the feel of another presence. Someone had entered the jailhouse.
The steps belonged to a man used to sneaking around in the shadows. Tristan concentrated on the slow, slightly off balance cadence. Step, shuffle, pause. Step, shuffle, pause.
One man, not two.
Frustration tightened his chest.
The footsteps slowed. Then stopped altogether. A fat shadow fell across the floor. Tristan moved away from the safe, closer to the door. He shifted his stance, ready to pounce.
A low, masculine clearing of a throat sounded from the interior of the other room. “Anybody here?”
Recognizing Amos Tucker’s voice, Tristan held his position, waited for the other man to draw closer.
Another step, shuffle, pause.
Tristan peered around the doorjamb. Amos was just around the corner, hobbling closer. Closer.
Tristan melted into the shadows, balanced on the balls of his feet. Just a few more steps and Tristan could grab Amos.
Another step and...
Amos appeared in the doorway. He didn’t notice Tristan. Instead, his beady eyes went straight for the safe.
Tristan held steady.
Releasing a low whistle, Amos entered the room and made his way to the unattended safe. “Well, look at you. Sitting there all by your lonesome.”
Tristan slid in behind Amos and placed the business end of his revolver against the man’s temple. “Amos Tucker, you’re under arrest.”
Amos went very still. His only movement was the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. “You can’t arrest me,” he snarled. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. I just came by for a friendly chat about the weather.”
“Turn around. Nice and slow.”
Amos’s shoulders bunched a half second before he pivoted on his heel and made a break for the door.
With his free hand, Tristan yanked him back around and threw him to the ground.
The lanky man went down hard. A boot heel planted firmly in the center of his back kept the sputtering, cursing thief on the ground.
For a split second Tristan stared at Amos sprawled out beneath his foot, astonished at how easy it had been to subdue the thief who had eluded capture for months. He checked the room again, listened for any other sound besides Amos’s complaining. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Amos was alone.
Wild-eyed and heaving, Amos dragged in a big gulp of air. “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, I tell ya. I’m hurt.”
Lips pressed in a hard line, Tristan holstered his gun, and then wrestled Amos to his feet. A few pushes, several pulls, one hard shove, and then the rangy, dumb man stood inside a jail cell.
Tristan slammed the door shut.
Amos wheeled around, banged two angry fists on the bars. “Let me out.”
“Settle down, Amos. Have yourself a look around. Get comfortable. That jail cell is your new home for the foreseeable future.”
Amos howled in fury. “You think you’re so superior, don’t you, Sheriff?”
“I’m not the one locked behind a wall of iron bars.”
This earned him another long string of muttered oaths.
Tristan waited for him to wind down. “Where’s your brother? Where’s Grant?”
A mean, sinister look filled the other man’s eyes. “You won’t look so smug when I tell you.” He laughed at his own joke. “Grant is at your house, taking care of your woman and your three little brats.”
Tristan’s heart stalled in his chest. No.
“Don’t worry.” Amos gripped the bars and literally rattled his own cage. “My brother ain’t gonna hurt your family, long as I show up with the money by noon.”
A suffocating pressure squeezed in Tristan’s throat, moved down into his chest. He refused to give this man the satisfaction of reacting outwardly. Inside, he burned with rage. With every breath the sensation grew worse. Fear, pain, fear, pain, they became one.
“And if you don’t show up with the money?” he asked, keeping his voice cool and even. “What then?”
Amos’s lips peeled back to reveal a row of tobacco-stained, crooked teeth. “They’re dead.”
No.
Grinning now, Amos pressed his face between the bars. The move distorted his features. “Time’s running out, Sheriff. You better hand over the money so I can go save your family.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Tristan strode to the front door and jerked it open. “You stay here. I’ll save my family.”
He stepped outside and took off at a dead run.
Chapter Twenty-Two
From her place at the kitchen table, Rachel thought she heard the front door open and close.
Emma must have left something behind or perhaps wanted to share another piece of advice concerning Tristan. Hoping it was the latter, Rachel rose from the table and told the girls to finish their food.
“I’ll be right back,” she added over her shoulder.
Barely acknowledging her, they happily continued their semi-heated discussion over whether pink was a prettier color than purple. Daisy was the lone holdout, arguing with her sisters that everyone knew purple was the best. They wholeheartedly disagreed.
Rachel carefully picked her way to the center of the kitchen and stopped, not sure why she hesitated. Something told her to move slowly, to take her time, to listen for anything out of the ordinary. “Emma?”
No response.
She raised her voice slightly higher. “Emma, is that you? Did you forget something?”
Still no response.
Rachel’s skin iced over. Whoever had entered the house, it wasn’t Emma. She would have responded by now. Besides, Rachel remembered locking the door after her sister left.
Heart racing, she motioned for the girls to quiet down.
Three pairs of round, slightly frightened eyes stared back at her, but each child did as she commanded.
She called out, “Tristan?”
Silence.
A nauseating suspicion trembled in her stomach.
Stay here, she mouthed to the girls.
They nodded.
Mouth dry, Rachel advanced to the edge of the kitchen, into the living room. And froze. It took her precious seconds to process the identity of the man glaring back at her.
Grant Tucker.
He looked shaggier than she remembered, more desperate. For a dangerous moment, Rachel’s thoughts tangled over one another, pinpointing to one awful, terrifying realization. There wasn’t enough distance between him and the children she loved.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Rachel Hewitt.” He grinned at her with a half-crazed look in his eyes. “Fancy finding you playing house with the sheriff.”
Her breath hitched in her lungs. “What are you doing here, Grant?”
“Why, Miss Hewitt. I’m paying you a visit.”
Fear hit her like a fast, hard punch to the throat. Tristan’s girls—her girls—were mere feet away from a very dangerous, desperate-looking criminal.
She swallowed hard.
Snickering, Grant moved another step in her direction. Sending up a silent prayer to God, Rachel held her ground.
Grant continued toward her.
She shifted her stance slightly to the right. The new position placed her body directly between him and the girls. “Don’t come any closer,�
� she warned.
He kept advancing, one slimy step at a time, until Rachel was forced to back up or have him run straight into her. She thought she might gag from the foul odor coming off his clothes.
Looming over her, he reached up and swiped the back of his hand across her cheek.
She jerked back.
His eyes hardened. “Where did you stash the sheriff’s brats?”
She ignored the question.
“What do you want?” She suspected, of course, but Grant Tucker wasn’t getting a step closer to her girls. Not without going through her. “The money isn’t here.”
“Amos has that covered.” His gaze filled with frosty disdain. “But first, I have to set things right.”
Keep him talking. It’s your best defense. “How do you plan to do that?”
“I’m gonna hit the sheriff where it’ll hurt most.”
No. No. Grant planned to harm Tristan’s daughters.
“You’re mad.” She spit out the words.
He reached for her again.
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’ll touch you whenever I please.” Breathing hard, expression murderous, he closed his fingers around her throat. “Wonder what the good sheriff will do when he comes home to find you and his brats dead?”
Her stomach pitched.
Lord, help me protect the girls.
She would do anything, sacrifice everything, to keep them safe. No price was too high to pay to protect the children she considered her own.
Grant’s grip tightened around her throat. “Where’d you hide the brats?”
Terror gave her courage. She slammed her knee into his groin.
Howling a stream of obscenities, Grant doubled over in pain.
The moment his hand fell away from her throat, Rachel slipped past him and ran into the kitchen. She skidded to a stop in renewed horror. The table was empty. Where were Tristan’s daughters? She looked frantically around the room.
Had Amos come through the back door and taken them?
Her skin went hot, and her lungs grew so tight she couldn’t pull in a single gasp of air. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a slight movement. The girls were huddled together in the mudroom.
She started for them. Grant caught her braid and yanked her back toward him.
She cried out.
The girls’ mouths gaped open. Tears welled in their eyes.
“Run,” she shouted at them.
“You leave this house,” Grant warned, “and I hurt her.”
To emphasize his point, he twisted her hair around his fist and jerked her back against him.
Pain exploded behind her eyes. Better prepared this time, she swallowed the scream rising in her throat.
“Run,” she managed to ground out.
The girls scooted back a step. And another.
“Run,” Rachel yelled again.
“Don’t take another step,” Grant ordered.
They stood frozen in wide-eyed terror and swung their gazes between Grant and Rachel. Dragging her with him, he reached out and caught Violet’s sleeve.
The child screamed.
Rage shot through her. Vision tinged red, Rachel kicked Amos’s shin, elbowed him in the stomach, then kicked out again.
His grip loosened—just enough—and, with one more blow to his gut, she wrenched free.
A weapon. She needed a weapon.
Her gaze landed on the iron skillet she’d used to make johnnycakes. Giving herself no time to think, she scrambled to the counter, grabbed the handle and raised the skillet in the air.
Focused on getting a firm grip on Violet, Amos didn’t see Rachel coming. She knocked him out with one swipe.
He hit the ground with a loud thud.
“Is he dead?” Lily asked in a whisper.
Rachel noted the rise and fall of his chest. “No.”
Keeping her gaze firmly planted on the unconscious man, she nudged him with the toe of her shoe. He didn’t budge. “You made a big mistake, Grant Tucker, coming here and threatening my family.”
* * *
Tristan ran flat out through town, unmindful of his footing, aware that James Stillwell fell into step beside him. The other man had been heading to the jail when Tristan sprinted out of the building.
One look at his face and the insurance agent joined him without question.
Now Stillwell spoke over the sound of their pounding feet. “The Tucker brothers made their move?”
Tristan gave one firm nod.
They rounded the first corner. As they continued, he explained what happened in the jailhouse. He finished with, “Amos is in a cell.”
Stillwell clenched his jaw. “What about the money?”
“Untouched.”
Tristan turned onto the next street without breaking stride. Stillwell easily kept up the fast pace.
“Grant’s planning to hurt my family.”
“We won’t let that happen.”
Rounding the final block, Tristan slowed, then stopped altogether. He couldn’t afford Grant catching sight of him.
“You take up position near the front door,” Tristan ordered. “I’ll enter through the back.”
He prayed he wasn’t too late, that Grant hadn’t harmed his daughters or Rachel. The four of them were the heart of him, his entire world.
Lord, guide my hands and keep me focused on protecting them, however necessary.
Taking in a fast pull of air, Tristan unlocked the back door and soundlessly slipped inside the mudroom. Flattened against the wall, he mentally calculated how many steps to the kitchen and how many more to the main living area.
Over the roar of his rushing pulse, he listened for voices.
What he heard nearly buckled his knees. A loud thud. And then...
A feral female growl was followed by a fierce declaration. “You made a big mistake, Grant Tucker, coming here and threatening my family.”
Rachel’s voice was so angry and so lethal that a portion of Tristan’s fear quieted. While another escalated. Taunting a dangerous man like Grant Tucker was not a good idea.
Tristan vaulted into the kitchen.
He stopped dead in his tracks, dumbfounded and speechless.
Grant Tucker lay spread-eagled on the ground, no longer a threat. Rachel stood over him, glaring hard. “Attempt to get up, move a single muscle, and I’ll knock you over the head again.”
Grant remained immobile.
Dropping the skillet to the ground, Rachel gathered up Tristan’s daughters into a protective hug. They buried their little faces into her dress. As she soothed them with soft words, she looked larger than life, confident and composed. Tristan had never loved her more than he did in that moment.
His daughters were safe because Rachel had saved them. Awed by her courage, Tristan drew in a sharp breath.
The sound caught Rachel’s attention. Her eyes round and watchful, she stared back at him, as if she didn’t quite believe he was there.
A thousand silent messages passed between them. He stood perfectly still, staring at the woman he loved, accepting that he wanted her in his life, always.
He said her name on a wordless whisper. He wasn’t even sure she heard him. But she wiped her cheeks, sniffled once and then gave him a smile that reached all the way inside his chest and grabbed his heart.
Shaking out of his inertness, he moved quickly. Putting first things first, he went and checked the prisoner. Grant was, indeed, unconscious. He had a sizable lump growing on his head, and his breathing was shallow, his pulse slow but steady.
“Your da’s home,” Rachel whispered to the girls.
Lily looked up first and squealed out his name. “Da! Da! M
iss Rachel saved us from a really, really bad man.”
“It was scary. He grabbed Miss Rachel by the hair,” Daisy said. “And then he came for Violet.”
Frowning, she pulled her little sister close.
In two long strides Tristan reached the center of the kitchen and drew all four of his girls into his arms.
The front door banged open.
Stillwell rushed into the kitchen. The insurance agent took one look at the scene and went immediately to work. He leaned over and slapped Grant in the face.
Grant moaned.
“On your feet,” Stillwell ordered.
Only half aware Stillwell was tugging the slumped body to a standing position, Tristan continued holding his loved ones. Rachel clutched at him nearly as hard as his daughters. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed in that position, holding tightly to one another. But when Tristan looked up, Stillwell had Grant on his feet, his hands tied behind his back.
The insurance agent caught Tristan’s eye. “I’ll take the prisoner back to the jailhouse.”
Tristan stepped forward, with the idea of accompanying them, but Stillwell held up a hand to stop him. “Your family needs you right now.”
Yes, they did. And he needed them. “I’ll meet you at the jail later.”
“Take all the time you want.”
Once the other man was gone, Tristan took Rachel’s hands and stared into her eyes. “You’re remarkable, Rachel Hewitt, the most courageous woman I know.”
Her lips twisted at a wry angle. “It wasn’t courage that drove me. It was fury.”
Such modesty.
His hand slightly shaking, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you.”
She swallowed several times. Her throat continued working, but nothing came out beyond a small gasp of surprise.
“I love you, Rachel Hewitt,” he repeated for both her and their very attentive audience of three.
“You...you really love me?”
He wiped a stray tear off her cheek. His sweet, stubborn, irreplaceable Rachel, why had he resisted loving her for so long? “I really do.”