THE TROPHY WIFE

by Ginna Gray

  This land had been here for eons before the Stantons came and assumed stewardship. It would be here long after she and Max were gone. Hopefully their children and grandchildren and many generations beyond would continue that legacy and privilege. There was pride in working the land, a sense of accomplishment, and the sweet pleasure of having found your place in the world.

  Max had also learned to open his heart and let love in. To return that love in full measure.

  Elizabeth was certain that he had not foreseen that happening when he'd come to her with his bizarre proposal. Or that if he had, he would have gone through with the marriage. But what was done, was done and could not be undone.

  Not that he'd want to now. He was truly happy. As was she.

  "Now, back to what I was saying," he murmured when he settled back on the sofa with Elizabeth and again put her feet in his lap. "It seems to me that you're doing a lot of smiling for a woman who got out of the hospital just a few hours ago. What're you thinking about, Mrs. Riordan?"

  "I was just thinking that, if it weren't for that man out there trying to kill me, this would be the happiest Christmas of my life. I have my family and loved ones with me, I'm head over heels in love with my husband. And I'm going to have my first child."

  "First?"

  "Yes. I know that I want more than one. Don't you?"

  "With you as their mother? You bet." He gave her an intense look that would have scared her witless as little as six weeks ago, but now sent a shiver of delight trickling down her spine. "But let's get back to the other stuff. I particularly like that head-over-heels part."

  "You would." As punishment, she pressed her foot against a sensitive part of his anatomy, and was rewarded when he sucked in a breath.

  Hooking his hand around the back of her neck, he pulled her upper body closer and whispered while nuzzling her ear, "Oh, baby, you're going to pay for that later."

  "How much later?"

  Max drew back and read the mischief and desire in her eyes. "I've created a monster," he said, shaking his head. "And you know what the doctor said. No exertion for the next couple of weeks."

  It was Elizabeth's turn to groan. "But, Ma-aax."

  "Don't try those wiles on me. I'll—"

  Martha appeared in the doorway. "Dinner will be ready soon. If Mr. Quinton isn't back from his walk by then, should I hold the meal?"

  "Where is that boy?" Talitha put down the ornament she'd been about to hang and walked over to the window, twitching aside the sheer panel. "Ah, here he comes now. Goodness gracious, why is he running like that? Oh, my word! The barn is on fire! Smoke is pouring out of the doors!"

  "What?"

  "Oh, no!"

  Talking at once, everyone rushed over to the row of windows across the back wall of the den.

  Elizabeth grabbed her husband's hand as he bounded up off the sofa. "Max. Go help put it out. Please. Truman and the hands can't do it alone."

  "I'd like to, babe, but I can't leave you here alone."

  "Please, Max. Like you said, I'm safe here. Go. Please." She nodded toward Troy. "And take him with you."

  He looked through the window at the barn. The smoke was billowing thicker. "All right. But you stay put, okay? Don't budge off this sofa."

  "I'll be fine. Go."

  "C'mon, Troy."

  "Me? What can I do? I don't know anything about fighting fires."

  "Neither do I, but we'll learn. C'mon!" The men tore out of the den, grabbing coats off the hooks in the mudroom as they passed by. Max cleared the back porch steps in one leap and took off at a dead run for the barn, Troy following at a jog.

  "Fire! The barn's on fire!" Elizabeth heard Quinton yell. "I was coming to get you! C'mon! I think we can save the barn if we hurry!"

  The women crowded out onto the back porch, leaving the door open so that Elizabeth could hear. One of the many four-wheelers the farmhands used sat next to the steps. "Hey, hop on," she heard Mimi urge. "We can help, too."

  "We can't leave Elizabeth," Talitha said, but her niece could hear the longing in the older woman's voice. Her aunt, bless her soul, dearly loved to be in the middle of things.

  "Hold on." Mimi popped back into the house and stuck her head inside the den. "Will you be okay here with Martha for a few minutes?"

  "Of course." She made a shooing motion with her hands. "Go. Go. They need all the help they can get."

  For good measure, Mimi stuck her head into the kitchen, too. "Martha, sweetie, stay with our girl, will you?"

  "Of course. Go on with you."

  The four-wheeler started up. When the sound began to recede, Elizabeth disobeyed Max's order, leaving the sofa to totter over to the windows. She pulled back the curtain and caught her breath. "Oh, dear."

  The barn itself wasn't on fire, she was somewhat relieved to see. The blaze had started in a haystack next to it. Probably by a carelessly flicked match or cigarette, she thought. The barn was in danger, however. Already flames were licking at one of the doors and smoke billowed against a spectacular sunset.

  The barn was one of the oldest structures on the farm, and the thought of losing it made Elizabeth feel sick.

  "Take a good look, lady. That's the last thing you're gonna see."

  The brassy, New York-accented voice shot through Elizabeth like an arrow shaft. She spun around, then had to grasp the windowsill behind her to keep her balance. For a moment the room tilted slowly, then righted, and her gaze locked on the massive man in the black leather trench coat.

  Illogically, it ran through Elizabeth's head that the man standing in the arched doorway fit Mimi's description of him to a T. Loathsome-looking beast—like a slimy slug in a fancy suit.

  "You. How did you get in here?"

  "You mean past those dumb-ass country cops? Easy. Having a copy of your aunt's keys helped, of course. It was cramped in that trunk, though."

  "You hid in Aunt Talitha's trunk? How … how did you know they wouldn't search her car?"

  "I have my sources. You've been one lucky broad. Fact is, you've become an embarrassment. But your luck has run out. I've had enough of Texas and crazy gun-toting women."

  "Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

  "It's what I do. People pay me to kill other people."

  "Who is paying you? I'll pay you more. Please, don't do this. For God's sake, I'm going to have a baby."

  "Is that right? Too bad. This is personal now. I don't like being made to look bad." He raised a gun with a silencer on the barrel. "Say your prayers quick."

  Phttt!

  Elizabeth screamed and made a dive for the floor behind a high-backed Queen Anne chair as a lamp exploded six inches from her hip.

  Phttt! Phttt!

  Tufts of cotton batting and upholstery material shot out of the back of the chair, just inches above Elizabeth's head, and she screamed again.

  "Mercy sake's alive, what's all the racket in here—" Drying a coffee cup, Martha came around the corner from the kitchen.

  The man swung the gun her way and squeezed off another shot. Phttt!

  "Martha, get down! Get down!"

  The housekeeper threw the china cup straight up and began to dance around, hysterically flapping her hands and screaming every breath. "Aaah! Aaah!"

  "Martha! Get down!"

  "Shut the hell up!" the killer shouted, and punctuated the order with another shot. Phttt!

  The volume of Martha's screams racheted up another notch.

  Whether it was sheer dumb luck or the power of prayer, her hysterical dance took her out the door, through the mud-room and onto the back porch.

  "Damn fool woman," the gunman grumbled. Lying with her cheek pressed to the cold hardwood floor, head throbbing, heart pounding, her lungs working like a smithy's bellows and Martha's receding screams echoing in her ears, Elizabeth struggled to figure a way out. Think. Think, for God's sake. You have to do something. You can't just lie here like a lamb and wait to be slaughtered. Think!

  She glanced toward the gun
man. From beneath the chair she saw his mirror-polished shoes heading her way. Oh, God.

  Then she saw it, right in front of her nose—Mimi's impossibly large tote bag, sitting on the floor beside the chair. Another glance at the approaching shoes told her she didn't have much time. Breathing hard, she worked her right arm out of its sling, grabbed the purse and yanked it to her. Phttt.

  "Whaddaya gonna do, huh? Hit me with your purse?" he said with a dry chuckle that sent a chill down Elizabeth's spine.

  Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she jammed both hands into the bag and made a whimpering sound of gratitude when they closed around the grip of the .357 Magnum and her forefingers found the trigger. In one desperate, continuous motion she rolled to her back and lifted her arms, leather purse and all, and as the black-clad figure came around the chair and loomed over her, she squeezed the trigger.

  Ka-boom!

  The bottom of Mimi's purse exploded and the recoil bucked Elizabeth's hands up over her head. If the purse had not been around the weapon it would probably have jumped right out of her hands.

  The massive man gave an "oof" and stumbled backward several steps, clutching his abdomen, a stunned look on his face. He tumbled over a sofa, taking it over backward with him.

  Phttt! Phttt!

  On the way down he got off two wild shots before sprawling on his back, taking out a two-hundred-year-old vase on the fireplace mantel and gouging a hole in the original old pressed-tin ceiling of the den.

  Sobbing, tears streaming down her face, Elizabeth climbed to her knees and held the gun out at arm's length again.

  Ka-boom!

  "Aaah! Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I give up. For crissake, lady, don't shoot me again."

  From outside came shouts and screams. Max bellowed her name over and over. The sounds grew closer, but Elizabeth paid no attention. She clutched the arm of the mutilated Queen Anne chair and climbed to her feet. Unsteady but determined, she staggered across the room to the man, both arms stuffed into what was left of Mimi's purse, holding the Magnum in a two-handed grip. The gun's wobbling barrel protruded an inch or so from the gaping bottom.

  She edged around the end of the sofa and the man lifted his gun, but his hand was so wobbly he could barely hold it.

  "You're too … trusting, you stupid bitch," he said in his chilling flat voice. "This is a Glock. It holds … nine shots. I've … I've got one left."

  "I've got more than one," Elizabeth said through gritted teeth. She was shaking and her tears streamed like an open faucet, but she didn't budge.

  "You won't kill me. You don't have what it takes."

  "Are you crazy? You tried to kill me and my unborn child. You so much as twitch and I'll blow your head off. I want to know who hired you."

  He shook his head. "No." He groaned and pressed his free hand to his belly. "I'm … gut shot. For crissake, call 911."

  "No. Not until you tell me who is paying you to kill me."

  "C'mon, lady. I'm … in agony here."

  "My sympathy is all used up. You can lie there and bleed to death, for all I care. I'm not calling for help until you give up the name. From the look of the puddle of blood, you'd better hurry."

  The Glock slid out of his fingers and clattered to the hardwood floor.

  Elizabeth kicked it aside.

  "All right. I'll … I'll tell … you," he whispered. "Be-bend down."

  "Oh, no. This is as … close as I get. Just say it." Unable to make a sound, he mouthed the name. Elizabeth's eyes widened. "No. You're lying. You must be lying."

  "Elizabeth!" Max yelled, and heavy footsteps hit the back porch.

  The man made a feeble attempt to shake his head. "N-no. Not … ly…ing. Sw-swear. Please." His eyes began to roll back in his head.

  "Elizabeth!"

  Never taking her gaze from the gunman, she withdrew one hand from the purse, took the receiver off the phone sitting on a nearby table and punched in 911. At the same instant Max burst into the room.

  His face was red, his eyes wild. "Elizabeth! Thank God!" He crossed the room in two long strides and snatched her into his arms. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you again?"

  Sobbing, her knees buckling, Elizabeth sagged against Max and burrowed her face against his chest.

  "This is 911. What is your emergency?" came a distant voice from the telephone. "Ma'am? Ma'am, are you there? Please state your emergency."

  Max picked up the receiver. "This is Max Riordan at Mimosa Landing. We have a man shot. Send an ambulance and the police."

  "Did you say a man has been shot?" the operator asked.

  "Just get somebody here. Fast."

  "Sir, don't hang up. Don't hang—" Max dropped the receiver and wrapped both arms around his wife.

  More footsteps hammered across the back porch as the others began arriving. Soon everyone but Truman and the farmhands was crowded around, talking at once. They were making so much noise it took a few minutes for anyone to realize that the walkie-talkie sitting on the coffee table was squawking.

  "This is Deputy Peters on the gate guard. Was that gunfire we heard?"

  "Somebody answer that," Max barked. Holding on to Elizabeth with an iron grip, he could not stop running his hands over her body again and again, reassuring himself that she was, indeed, unharmed.

  "Sir? Sir? Are you still there?"

  Troy picked up the telephone receiver. On the verge of hysteria, Elizabeth almost laughed. Always a spiffy dresser who looked as though he'd just stepped from the pages of GQ magazine, Troy's face and clothing were covered with soot, as were Max's. "You heard the man. Get an ambulance and police to Mimosa Landing." He replaced the receiver, then calmly picked up the walkie-talkie. "Affirmative, Detective. We've had gunfire. A man is shot."

  "We're on our way."

  Quinton picked up the Glock. "I'll take this character into another room away from the ladies and keep an eye on him until they get here."

  "No!" Elizabeth turned within Max's embrace. "Put the gun down, Quinton," she sobbed, doing her level best to lift the Magnum again. "Now! Put it down or I'll shoot."

  "Elizabeth! Have you lost your mind?" Camille demanded.

  "No. It was Quinton who hired this man to kill me."

  "Wha-what?"

  "C'mon, cuz," Quinton coaxed. "You know me. I wouldn't do a thing like that. I love you. We've been buddies and pals since we were kids."

  "It's too late, Quinton. You can't bluff or charm your way out of this. Before this … this creature lost consciousness, he told me who had hired him."

  Quinton looked offended. "And you're going to take the word of a hired killer over mine?"

  "Yes."

  Cars screeched to a halt in the driveway and a second later the deputies banged on the door. "Police! Open up!"

  A calmer but still shaken Martha started to go let them in, but Quinton pointed the gun at her.

  "Stay where you are!"

  "Oh, Quinton," his sister moaned. "You did hire him. Even after finding out she was pregnant, you didn't call him off."

  Ignoring her, he swung the Glock from the housekeeper back to Elizabeth. "All of you stay where you are. I'm leaving."

  "You're not going anywhere." Elizabeth tried again to raise the mutilated purse and gun. "I have a gun, too. And I have four shots left. Your hired gun has already fired all nine of his. Weren't you counting?"

  Doubt flickered across Quinton's face for an instant, but he decided to call her bluff. "I don't believe you. I don't think he'd be that stupid. Anyway, you won't shoot me. I doubt if you've got the strength even if you managed to muster the will."

  "Open up! Open up in there!"

  Surreptitiously, while Quinton had been watching Elizabeth, Max had slid his hands down her arms inside the purse. His hands closed over hers and steadied the wobbling gun. "If she won't, I sure as hell will," he growled, aiming the barrel at Quinton's heart. "And at this range, I can't miss."

  Aunt Talitha stepped forward. The subtle move put her partway
between her nephew and Elizabeth and Max. "Quinton Moseby, put down that gun this instant."

  He swung the weapon toward the old woman. "Sorry, Aunt Talitha. I'm not a little boy anymore. That tone doesn't scare me now. I love you, Auntie. I truly do. Just as I love Elizabeth. I don't want to shoot either of you, but I will."

  "You'll do no such thing," Camille declared, stepping between their aunt and her brother. "I'm not going to let you do something so despicable."

  "Get out of the way, Camille. What are you being so protective for, anyway? You hate Elizabeth."

  "For heaven's sake, Quinton. I don't hate Elizabeth. Oh, I admit I've always been envious of her. Who can blame me? She's beautiful and smart and always the perfect lady. Everyone likes her. Most of all I'm envious that she got to grow up here. But I still love her. She's family. I did all that grousing just to pull her chain a little.

  "No matter what you all think, I'm not stupid. I know that Elizabeth hasn't and wouldn't cheat us. Our branch of the family has already received its share of the Stanton holdings. You and I just had the bad luck to have the flighty twin sister for our grandmother, is all.

  "But I swear to you, I didn't mean any of that stuff I've been taunting Elizabeth with all these years."

  "It doesn't matter. I had to. As you pointed out, if she has that child it will inherit everything. This way, with her and the child and Aunt Talitha gone, everything would have been ours. Now she's ruined it all."

  "So I was to be next, was I?" their aunt snapped, her regal head held high.

  "No. I figured I would step in and take Elizabeth's place running everything until you died. I swear, I never planned to kill you, Auntie."

  "Humph. That's some comfort, I suppose."

  "I don't understand, Quinton," Elizabeth said. "Why this sudden desperate need for money? You have what most people would consider a generous income and you've always seemed to enjoy your life as it is."

  "True. But I'm in deep trouble, cuz. I owe a great deal of money to some very nasty, very dangerous people. The only reason they haven't nailed my knees to the floor already is because I told them I would inherit the Stanton fortune if I could get rid of you."