Mistletoe Maverick

by Shannon Curtis

  “She’s right, Katie. You’re going to be just fine. We have some deputies on their way.”

  Katie gasped, and Steph had to slap a hand over her own mouth to prevent her startled scream from escaping.

  Something moved in the darkness, and she squinted. Jackson emerged from behind an old, unused stove, clutching his side.

  Relief washed over her, a warm wave of reassuring confidence that almost swept her under, weakening her knees as soon as she recognized the familiar curl of lips, the short blond hair, and those hazel-green eyes that shone almost silver in the gloom.

  “Jackson,” she breathed. Then she frowned as her gaze dropped to the dark, wet patch on his shirt, and her heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my God, you’ve been hit.”

  Chapter Five

  Jackson shrugged, then winced at the pain caused by the movement. “It’s just a graze.” He’d been shot before, and although this burned like a bitch, it wasn’t quite the same sensation.

  “Let me see,” Stephanie said, stepping forward with a concerned look on her face.

  The door upstairs rattled again, and he glanced up. “I don’t think we have time to play nursemaid,” he muttered.

  She frowned. “I’ve strapped the door closed, and at the moment it’s holding. Let me see.” She turned to the kids. “Go sit over there in the corner. Hide behind those old trunks, okay?” Katie nodded, and Aiden paused for a moment, looking up at the door. She touched him on the cheek, overwhelmed by the fierce need to protect these children. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay? Nobody hurts my kids.”

  “Okay, Stephie,” Aiden said, nodding earnestly. Steph blinked. It was the first time he’d called her that.

  She winked and then gently pushed him toward the cover. She had no idea how long the door would hold, but she wanted them hidden and safe, just in case. She turned her attention back to the sheriff, and gaped.

  He’d removed his shirt. He stood there, his expression grim, his skin a rippling contour of silver and darkness. She blinked. He was … magnificent. No, he was injured, damn it. She stepped forward. She shouldn’t be ogling his chest, with its well-formed pectoral muscles, the ridged abdomen that displayed a considerable core strength. She swallowed. Er, no. She … shouldn’t. Her gaze finally dropped to the wound on his side, and she winced. Ouch.

  She reached for his shirt and used the tear created by the bullet graze to start ripping it into strips. “Sorry,” she muttered at his raised eyebrows. It wasn’t every day she ripped a man’s shirt to pieces. She rolled up a swathe of fabric and pressed it to the wound.

  He hissed softly, and she looked up. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  His lips quirked as he nodded. “That’s okay.” She inspected the graze as best she could in the light she had to work with. It wasn’t deep, and it looked like the bleeding had almost stopped. Still, it looked like it would hurt like the blazes.

  She looked up at him. “I don’t have a first-aid kit down here, otherwise I’d clean it properly.”

  His eyebrows rose, and the look he gave her held just a tinge of wickedness. “I’ll let you play nurse, anytime.”

  Her cheeks warmed, and she was grateful for the gloom as she started to wrap the improvised bandages she’d made from his shirt around his lean waist. She tried to focus on her task, passing the bandage behind his back. He didn’t turn, so she reached around him, their bodies almost touching. His body gave off a welcome heat, and she tried not to stare at his chest as she almost embraced him. He was so close, she could see the goose bumps as the chilled air filtered in through the window and across his chest. Bending to gently wrap another torn strip of shirt around his waist put her on level with his pebbled nipples, and if it weren’t for the children hiding, the thumping on the door, and the very real danger stalking them, she would have wanted to do something with those nipples. And from the gleam in his eyes, the feeling was mutual.

  The door at the top of the stairs rattled again, and the man pounded against the timber. “Let me in, damn it!”

  Stephanie tied a knot in the cloth strip, confident it would suffice—at least for a little while. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door. “I don’t know how long that belt will hold,” she admitted, keeping her voice low so the kids couldn’t hear. She glanced over her shoulder. Katie and Aiden peered over the top of a trunk, eyes wide. She sent them a reassuring smile and gave them a thumbs-up signal—until she noticed her trembling hand and hastily lowered it.

  Jackson pulled his weapon out of his holster, and his chest muscles rippled with the movement. “We just need to hold them off until backup arriv—”

  Snow cascaded in through the broken window, and Jackson dragged her back, shoving her behind him. A man’s booted feet appeared, dark against the backdrop of snow, and then he dropped to his knees and peered in through the window.

  “Ha! Gotcha!” His dark eyes gleamed with excitement, and he raised his gun. Jackson shoved her behind an old wood-fuel stove and hunkered down next to her, lifting his own weapon.

  “Freeze. Drop your weapon.”

  The man laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so.” Keeping his gun trained on them, he slid his feet in through the window.

  Stephanie’s heart pounded. This wasn’t happening. Please, lord, this wasn’t happening.

  The door crashed open, and a dark form tumbled down the stairs. The commotion startled the man sliding in the window, and he flinched. The gun went off, and both Stephanie and Jackson hit the ground while Katie and Aiden screamed behind them.

  Stephanie gritted her teeth as she fell on something wet and hard, and then something warm and hard fell on top of her. Jackson covered her body, his chest pressed against her back, his hips against her butt, his legs straddling her to keep her still. He rose up to fire off his own weapon, the noise a deafening explosion so close to her ear. She cried out and tried to cover her ears, but the weight of Jackson’s body prevented her from moving.

  A male voice cried out, and the man holding the gun recoiled, clutching his shoulder and reeling back. His grip loosened, and the gun fell to the floor.

  The other man, shorter and stockier, staggered to his feet and lurched for the gun.

  Sirens pierced the night outside, and blue and red lights flashed down the side drive.

  “Drop the gun,” Jackson growled at the second intruder, his gun cocked and ready.

  The man was bleeding from a cut in his forehead, and he was sweating profusely. Stephanie panted, trying to catch a breath beneath Jackson’s protective body mantle. Something uncomfortable was digging into her sternum, but Jackson wasn’t budging. She looked up at their trespasser. She was surprised. The second intruder was an older man, with gray eyebrows, jowls, and an almost mild manner. His shoulders sagged.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he moaned, although he still hadn’t lowered his weapon. “None of this was supposed to happen.” He gazed about the basement, then his eyes widened when he saw the stove. “Oh, my god. There it is.”

  “You still haven’t hurt anyone,” Jackson told him quietly. “Drop your weapon, and lie down on the floor on your stomach, hands behind your head.”

  “Don’t do it,” the man rasped behind him.

  “There are deputies swarming the house as we speak,” Jackson responded, his voice low, calm. “They’ll be here any minute, and guaranteed, they’ll see you as a threat if you still have that weapon in your hand.” Jackson levered himself off her slightly, raising his other hand to cradle his gun in a two-handed, balanced grip. Stephanie rose slightly as well, and finally figured out what was digging into her chest. A bunch of pebbles must have fallen in with the snow, and she was lying on one.

  Thumps and yells filtered down from above. The deputies were breaking in her front door.

  “Don’t do it,” the other man growled, pressing a hand against his shoulder. “I ain’t goin’ back to jail. That gun and those kids are our ticket outta here.”

  Rage and fear—but
mostly rage, filled Stephanie at his rough words, and she rose to her knees, clutching the pebble in a tight, white-knuckled fist. “You are not going to hurt my kids,” she vowed, her voice low but carrying.

  He sneered at her. “You can’t stop me, sister.”

  A crack echoed through the house, followed by the sound of pounding footsteps in the hall above.

  “Get rid of the sheriff, and we’ll use her and the kids as hostages.”

  Stephanie shook her head, and she slowly slid her hand around to her back pocket for the slingshot. She would not stand by and let these men anywhere near her children—over her dead body.

  “Drop the gun before you get yourself shot,” Jackson growled at the man holding the gun.

  “It’s right there,” he gasped, pointing to the stove. Stephanie had no idea what he was talking about, but she didn’t like the gleam in his eyes as his gaze switched between them and the stove rapidly, as though calculating his chances.

  “Do it! Do it now,” his partner shouted, and lurched forward.

  The man holding the gun paled, his arm trembling as he raised the weapon higher.

  Jackson fired as Stephanie raised her arms in a smooth motion, placing the pebble in the leather strap, pulling it back and launching it across the room.

  The man dropped the gun and screamed, falling back against the stairs. The second man howled as he clutched his face, swearing.

  Jackson was across the room in a flash, kicking the gun across the floor, his weapon trained on the writhing men as deputies flowed into the basement.

  “No, no, no,” the man on the stairs wailed, clutching his arm. “Sweet Bess, please, she’s right there,” he cried, staring at the old stove. Stephanie raced over to the kids, pulling them out from behind the old trunks and holding on to them tightly as the deputies swarmed over the men.

  Jackson leaned against the stove. “We’re going to need some paramedics,” he muttered to one of the officers. “Two wounded.”

  “Three,” Stephanie corrected, and he tilted his head to gaze at her.

  He grinned. “But I already have a nurse.”

  The pudgy man kept wailing about ‘sweet Bess’ as he was carefully handcuffed, whimpering as he was lifted to his feet. The other man was cuffed, his nose misshapen and streaming blood as he was led up the stairs.

  Stephanie turned to the kids, smoothing their hair back to see if they were all right. Katie was pale and shaken, and Aiden hugged her close. She kissed their heads. “You did good, guys.” She pressed a gentle finger under Aiden’s chin until he met her gaze. “You did everything you were told to do, you looked after your sister,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with tears as she smiled at him with pride. “You did great, Aiden. Your mother would be so proud, and I am, too.” She hugged them both, alternating kisses between them.

  In the background she vaguely heard a deputy read the second man his rights, and lifted her head to gaze over her shoulder.

  “Wait a minute,” Stephanie called as the deputies prepared to follow with the second intruder. Jackson lifted a brow in enquiry as she turned to face the cuffed man. “Why?” she asked, lifting her hand to take in the basement, the broken window, the trembling kids who clutched her so tightly. “Why did you do this? I don’t know you. I’ve done nothing to you.”

  The man ducked his head in shame. “I did it for sweet Bess.”

  Stephanie frowned, trying to make sense of his words. “Who’s Bess?”

  “Not who, what,” the man corrected. “Sweet Bess—she’s in that stove.”

  “What the hell is a Sweet Bess?” Stephanie asked, hopelessly baffled. What on earth could possibly be worth terrorizing a woman and two young children, a bullet and a jail sentence?

  “Davy Crockett’s fifth rifle,” the man explained, then shook his head. “You have no idea, do you, the treasure you’ve been living with?”

  Jackson straightened, eyeing the stove, a frown darkening his face. He kicked at the latch, and the door swung open. He checked inside. “It’s empty.”

  The man’s shoulders sagged, and he shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. “I was so sure,” he whispered. The deputies hauled him up the stairs just as two paramedics arrived. They made way for the injured prisoner, backing up to examine him in the full light of the hallway. One noticed Jackson’s bandages and trotted down the stairs to him.

  “I’m fine,” Jackson muttered, trying to wave him away. “It’s just a graze.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” the young man replied brusquely as he surveyed the bandage.

  Jackson rolled his eyes, lifting his gaze to the flue of the stove as the paramedic started to unravel the bandage. He frowned, tilting his head to the side. “Wait a minute.”

  He leaned over to push at the flue, ignoring the paramedic’s instructions to remain still. He glanced over at Stephanie. “Give me a hand.”

  She frowned, but stepped over to assist him, the children moving with her as though they were one giant entity, holding onto her top as though afraid to let her go. She and Jackson tugged at the iron tube. After a moment the metal grated, and Steph felt the flue shift. Jackson gritted his teeth, and then the pipe twisted, and a portion detached from the top of the stove. As Jackson lowered it, Stephanie felt and heard something shift inside. Something heavy.

  Her eyes widened as Jackson gently tipped it down, and the paramedic stepped out of the way, just as curious as they to find out what was inside.

  Out slid a long-barreled rifle, dusty, with what look like an ornately carved tarnished brass plate on the wooden stock.

  Stephanie gaped. She knew nothing about guns, but even she could see this was a unique weapon.

  “Huh.” Jackson propped his arm against the stove. “Well, will you look at that? Sweet Bess.”

  Chapter Six

  “So apparently this was Davy Crockett’s missing gun from the Alamo,” Jackson told his brothers as they sat around the fireplace in his mother’s home on Christmas Eve.

  “And this guy was just some collector who stumbled across an old diary?” Jesse, the eldest brother, asked as he leaned back and took a swig of his beer.

  Jackson nodded. “Uh-huh. Apparently he bought Dickie’s old diary at an auction a year ago, and it mentions how Davy Crockett hid the rifle so the Mexicans wouldn’t get it. The rifle was a gift from Sam Houston, with all this brass sculpting. They say it’s worth a fortune.”

  Justin, the youngest brother, whistled as he shook his head. “And he was ready to kill a woman and two children to get to it?” his tone clearly expressed his disapproval.

  “I don’t think he started out with that intention. He’d originally planned to just break in and steal it, and he’d hired an accomplice, but then they couldn’t find it, they didn’t want to come back another time, and then the accomplice took a shot at me,” Jackson explained. “Things kind of escalated for them after that.”

  “Well, I’m just glad you weren’t seriously hurt,” his mother commented as she entered the dining room opposite with a dish of steaming vegetables.

  Jackson’s eyebrows rose. “I was grazed by a bullet, Ma. How do you define serious?”

  His mother tut-tutted as she placed the dish on the table. “Please. You give birth to four boys and then come talk to me about pain.” She stood back and eyed the table, then nodded in satisfaction.

  Justin nodded. “Ma’s right. If there are no stitches, it doesn’t count.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes. He was getting absolutely no sympathy from his family.

  “Hey, Ma, we’re hungry, but we’ll be eating this food until New Year’s,” Jake King commented as he rose to approach the table. “You’ve cooked for an army.” Jackson turned to survey the table and nodded, for once agreeing with his older brother. They were close in age and looks, but those were pretty much their only common traits.

  “It’s not just for you boys,” Judith King chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. “We have guests—”

&n
bsp; The doorbell pealed, and Judith beamed as she glanced at the delicate marcasite watch strapped to her wrist. “Oh, good, they’re right on time.”

  Jackson glanced at his brothers, who all wore the same surprised expressions. Jesse shrugged, and they followed their mother down the hall to the front door.

  “Welcome,” Judith said as she opened the door, and Jackson halted when he recognized Stephanie and her young charges.

  “Well, hello there,” Jake murmured, and Jackson shot him a glare, then stepped forward.

  “Back off,” he muttered to his brother, and ignored Jake’s soft chuckle.

  “Hi, Mrs. King. Thank you so much for your lovely invitation,” Stephanie said shyly, holding a dish covered with a red-checked cloth. She turned to the children standing behind her. “This is Katie and Aiden.”

  “Oh, call me Judith. I’m so glad you could make it. Come in, please.” Judith stepped aside, and gave the kids a wink as they entered. Katie smiled back, and Aiden blushed.

  Jackson smiled as Stephanie approached. She was beautiful. Her hair was pulled back in a simple, neat braid, and she wore a dark skirt, black boots and a soft, red silk top that clung to her curves and suited her coloring to perfection. He wanted to reach for her. Hold her. Kiss her. Scoop her up and disappear so that he had her all to himself.

  “I, uh, I made some pie,” she said, standing for a moment, uncertain, and Jackson realized all four of the King brothers stood there staring at her. He stepped forward, grinning. He did love pie …

  “Sheriff,” Katie cried, and ran over to give him a hug. His eyebrows rose at the exuberant greeting, and something warm and sweet unfurled inside him as he hugged her back.

  “Hey, Katie. You can call me Jackson, if you like.” He glanced up at Aiden, who looked distinctly uncomfortable, standing next to Stephanie, yet was staring at the brothers with something akin to awe in his eyes. “You, too, Aiden.”

  Aiden blinked, then nodded.