“Retta,” Harrison yelled, nearing the front porch. He jumped off Copper and raced inside, frantically searching each room, finding nothing amiss except for the splintered wood where someone had kicked the door open.
Running back outside, he found Frank lowering Peter to the ground, his chest ripped open from a gunshot wound. And if that hadn’t killed him, the letter opener jammed into the open wound, straight into his heart, would have.
Jerking the bloodied piece of paper from the sharp blade, Harrison ground out, “Retta and Addie are missing.”
Frank paced furiously. “We’ve got to find Slim Morgan.”
After reading the note, Harrison crumpled it into a ball. Rage filled him, and he quaked from the force of it. “We’re to drop off ten thousand dollars near the well on the abandoned Johnston ranch, or he’ll kill Addie. We have until sunrise.”
Frank spun and punched the tree, then pulled his arm back and punched it again. He turned eyes hard as steel toward Harrison. “If Slim harms one hair on that child’s head I’m going to skin him alive and feed his carcass to the wolves.”
Harrison glanced at Peter’s bloodied body. Shoving aside his grief at the man’s death took almost everything he had. He would mourn his friend later, after Retta and their daughter returned home safe. “I took them to the Washburn’s cabin this morning on the way to the mine. Retta wanted to help out with Nell’s chores.” He smoothed out the crinkled paper in his hand. “There’s no mention of Retta.”
“Think she’s still at the cabin?”
“She’s fiercely protective of Addie. It doesn’t make any sense she’d let Peter take our child anywhere alone.”
They both turned and strode back to their horses. As Harrison grabbed the reins, Noodle trotted over to them carrying something in his mouth. Harrison crouched down and scooped him up with one hand, then tugged what looked like a piece of leather from his tiny jaws. One of the pup’s milk teeth came loose as Harrison freed the worn leather.
“Look at this.” He held the object aloft. It stank of cheap tobacco and one side boasted a tarnished chunk of silver, shaped like a ‘B.’
Frank cursed again, snatching the pouch from Harrison. “That belongs to Brody.”
Chapter 19
Retta sat back on her heels and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. Piecing together oilcloth wasn’t a pleasant task, and she’d stabbed her finger several times with the thick, sharp needle. It was worth the sweaty effort, in the name of greater family comfort.
In each crowded bedroom of the Washburns’ cabin, a few of the younger miners had finished cutting into the walls, and were now sanding them smooth. Another miner pounded together frames. By evening Clem and Nell would have four extra—and necessary—windows, one in each bedroom plus the front room. Harrison had already placed an order for glass. In the meantime, the oilcloth would help keep out the bugs at night, and could be rolled up easily enough to let in air during the day.
“Nell, I’m done here. I’ll get the biscuits going, all right?” she called, rising and stretching out her stiff legs. When no answer came, Retta slapped a hand to her lower back and stumbled to the tiny kitchen, where a pot bubbled on a cast-iron stove that’d seen better days.
On the corner table Nell’s daughters laid out bowls and spoons for the beef and potato stew Retta had tossed together earlier in the day. One of the girls, ten-year-old Lizzie, scratched absently at her arm, and Retta winced to see the pimply rash forming. Blast it, another child affected by chickenpox.
Thankful she had sent Addie back to the ranch with Peter, Retta crossed the room and gently took the remainder of the spoons from the child’s hand. “Lizzie, stop scratching. Fetch a rag and go outside to the creek, splash some water on you. All right?”
“Yes, Missus Carter,” Lizzie replied, clearly miserable.
Retta laid the back of her hand against the child’s temple, sighing in relief to find her skin sticky but cool.
“No fever, thank heavens. That’s a good sign.” She patted Lizzie’s thin shoulder reassuringly. “Rose,” she addressed the other girl, a scant year younger, “go with your sister and rinse off. Just in case.”
As both girls scampered out the door and it creaked shut behind them, Retta started the biscuits, mixing flour and Rumford together. The baking powder didn’t look too potent, and she made a mental note to purchase extra when she visited the mercantile. Fresh beef lard left over from breakfast would help disguise any stale taste, and the Washburn children would crumble their biscuits in their stew anyway. How she wished she could do more for these families, with their small dwellings and sketchy necessities. The men worked so hard, and their womenfolk kept producing more mouths to feed.
A shout from outside startled her and she dropped the mixing spoon in the flour. Retta tossed a discarded dishtowel over the bowl to thwart the flies she’d spotted in the kitchen. What on earth was it now? She hurried to the front room and out onto the sloping porch just as Harrison and Frank tore up the trail.
Harrison leapt off Copper before the beast even stopped moving, striding to her and yanking her into his arms. Retta automatically huddled into his embrace as he nestled his face into her neck. She could feel the tremor in his big frame as he gripped the back of her head, holding on too hard.
She winced. “Ow.” He’d caught her hair in his fingers. She pushed him away until she could study his face, pale and drawn. Was he sick? Had he caught the chickenpox, too? “Harrison, what is it?”
“I . . .” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple a knot against the open neck of his work shirt. Turning, she shielded her eyes against the high afternoon sun, spotting Frank, reins in hand while his and Harrison’s horses grazed in the grassy scrub along the front of the cabin.
Several miners stood nearby, listening to Frank as he spoke low. Whatever he told them had anger forming on their weathered faces, and more than one man had made fists from tensed, windburnt fingers. Retta spun toward her husband. “You’re frightening me, Harrison.” Inexplicable tears burned in her eyes as her worry mounted.
“It’s Peter. He’s—” Harrison held her close, as if worried she’d collapse. “He’s dead. We’re certain Brody Mills killed him.” At her shocked cry, his fingers curled in a painful grip. “There’s more.”
“No, oh no.”
Sagging in his hold, Retta clapped a hand over her mouth, but a scream escaped as Harrison uttered the most agonizingly terrible words. “Brody’s got Addie.”
~ ~ ~
The snick of the lock caught Slim’s attention, and he brought the cocked revolver up, holding it steady. On the old settee in the corner, the Carter girl slept, whimpering now and then. He’d crammed some laudanum down her scrawny little gullet an hour ago, anything to avoid listening to her sniveling. Bringing her to the saloon hadn’t been the smartest idea. At least he’d thought to hide her in the old office. Nobody came back here.
“Boss?” Brody’s harsh whisper echoed in the shabby room.
“Over here.” Slim motioned with the weapon. “Keep your voice down.”
Brody edged closer in the dim room, pausing when he spotted the sleeping girl. “What’s she doin’ here?”
“Change of plans.” Slim uncocked his revolver and pointed toward the sagging chair across from him, waiting until Brody took a seat. He leaned in. “Listen carefully. Hide the girl. I’ve got some dealings in the works and I want her out of the way.”
“Where? Those Carters are gonna tear this town apart lookin’ for her.” Brody cast a glance toward the curled-up lump on the settee.
“I don’t give a damn where. Use your sad excuse for a brain and figure it out.”
“How long do I hide her?” Brody’s incessant questions grated on Slim’s dwindling patience.
Idjit’s not worth a thimbleful of horseshit. Slim flung
himself back in his chair, his temper spiking. Every time he solved one problem, two more cropped up. Like that slimy worm Jenkins, who’d not only started hinting about being owed money for keeping his fat lips buttoned shut, but had threatened to tell Lambert all about Slim’s bank dealings.
Slim bit out, “Until I tell you to kill her.” He only needed the piss-soaked little runt alive long enough to collect the ransom he’d written down and left embedded in a hanging man’s chest. Once he had the money in hand, the girl could rot for all he cared.
He’d regret the loss of Retta, but ten thousand dollars would go a long way toward consoling him. A smile slid across his face as he took amused note of the distasteful frown on Brody’s face when he looked over at the Carter girl.
“What’s the matter, Mills?” Slim taunted, low and ugly. “Never been around children before?” He rose slowly to his feet and advanced until he towered over the sleeping lump on the sofa. “Never killed one either, I suppose.”
Brody snorted, though he eyed Slim with caution. “Ain’t got a problem killin’ no one.”
Slim toyed with the revolver he’d re-holstered. “I’m giving you a very important job, Mills. You better tell me now if you’re not equipped to follow a few simple orders. I might have to rethink my investment in your employment, if you understand my meaning.”
Brody held his ground even when Slim drew his revolver from its holster and hooked it over his index finger, spinning it by the trigger. Watching Brody’s bewhiskered face for any sign of weakness, Slim abruptly stopped the spinning motion and the gun barrel jerked into place an inch from the man’s left eye.
An audible swallow was his only reaction.
“Can I count on you, Mills?” Slim’s voice was soft, gentle. Lethal.
“Yessir.”
Deftly holstering his revolver, he patted Brody on one tense shoulder. “Well, now, that’s mighty fine.”
Slim offered a wide grin. Lifting his hat from a side table, he settled it on his head, then strode to the door. Turning briefly, he jerked a thumb toward the sleeping child. “Find a place to stash the brat, then meet me in town. Oh, and take this.”
Fishing the bottle of laudanum from his coat pocket, he tossed it to Brody, who caught it neatly. “If she gets mouthy, dose her. I don’t care where you put her.”
“How long we gonna keep her alive?”
Setting his hat to a jauntier angle, Slim smoothed his brocaded lapels. “Until she’s no longer useful.”
~ ~ ~
Harrison scrubbed both hands over his burning eyes as he paced outside Clem Washburn’s cabin. Someone, probably Dub, had slapped oilcloth over the holes in the walls. And why in hell he noticed something so unimportant, while his family fell apart . . . Pausing near the open door, he was grateful to see Nell and a few of the other wives surrounding Retta, offering comfort. She’d sobbed so hard in his arms earlier, the collar and front of his shirt remained soaked. Never had he felt so helpless.
Every instinct screamed at him to burst into town with both barrels gunning for Brody Mills. Wouldn’t solve anything if he did. A cool head was vital.
As if reading his thoughts, Frank walked over and grasped his shoulder. “You all right?” He released a low curse. “Stupid question, sorry.” He nodded toward the men gathered in a circle, waiting. “Got five for a posse. Ten more volunteered, but I chose the ones who can handle themselves the best.”
“Thanks.” Harrison registered names and marital status as he looked the men over. Young, strong. Single, probably most important of all. God only knew what they’d find in town, or beyond in the hills if they found Brody’d gone on the run. Besides, he wouldn’t wish this kind of worry and pain on anyone with a family. Bad enough these men risked themselves, though Harrison would be forever grateful.
“I’d better spend a few minutes with Retta.”
Frank’s hand dropped from his shoulder as Harrison entered the cabin where his wife stood.
She flew into his arms, and he cradled her slight frame. Harrison stroked her hair, pressing his mouth against her neck, uncaring of who might be watching. Drawing back, he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. It trembled, then firmed, even as her eyes brimmed in tears.
“I want you to stay with Nell,” he began, but she was already shaking her head furiously. “You can’t stay by yourself right now. Be reasonable.” He gripped her upper arms when she tried to pull away. “Retta, please—”
She twisted out of his hands and faced him, her braid coming undone, her dress wrinkled and stained. Even with red-rimmed eyes, she looked so lovely, his heart splintered. Harrison reached for her and she darted sideways, out the door, her mouth thinned into a stubborn line.
“I’m not going back to the ranch and I won’t just wait here. I’m going to town with you.” She untied her apron and tossed it to Nell, who’d ventured out onto the porch and stood with her mouth agape. The apron landed at her feet and she stared at it for a moment before bending to pick it up.
Harrison strove to contain his temper. “You can’t go, Retta. This is a posse, not an outing to town.”
“I know perfectly well what it is.” She jabbed her index finger toward the cluster of men and horses. “I know who you’re looking for, and there isn’t a chance I’d stay behind. You can’t ask me nor can you stop me.” Her cheeks had flushed red, bright slashes in her weary face. If he tried to hold her back, she’d likely filch his Bowie right out of its sheath and stab him with it.
Frank had come up behind her, and at his touch on her arm she wrenched away. “Not one word, Frank. I’m going.”
“Goddammit all, sister.” Frank rubbed at his injured shoulder. Harrison suspected it bothered him more than he let on. “You can’t go.” Frank looked as worried and pissed as Harrison felt. “We’re hunting a criminal, armed and dangerous. Once we get him we’re gonna do whatever it takes to make him tell us where Addie is. Ain’t no place for a woman to be.”
“I’m going.” Retta included both of them in those two firm words. “She’s my daughter. I want a horse and a gun.” She folded her arms decisively.
“Jesus Lord, woman! No horse. And no gun.” Harrison had heard enough. He strode forward and yanked her to his chest, ignoring the fist she landed on his shoulder. She struggled, surprising him with her sudden strength. Harrison silently held tight. Finding it pointless to say anything else, he waited her out.
Finally, she quieted and stared up at him with such wounded eyes, he actually flinched. Slowly she relaxed her fingers, then slipped her palm up and cradled his jaw. The change from furious hurt to sad acceptance defeated him. In this small war, she’d won.
Harrison crushed her close, meeting Frank’s scowl over her head. Bending, he placed his mouth close to her ear. “You ride with me. You stay with Betsey in the mercantile, and you don’t get a gun. Deal?”
He slapped a hand over the hot retort that threatened to burst from her lips. “Take it or leave it.”
She stiffened, but he felt her lips purse against his palm. He waited until she nodded, before he removed his hand. Rising up on her toes, she kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Harrison,” she whispered.
As Harrison turned her toward the horses, Frank called, “Mount up.”
Chapter 20
“At the first sign of trouble, I want you to run and hide.” Harrison shot a quick glance over his shoulder at Retta, where she clung to him on Copper’s back. His jaw ticked at the sight of her tearstained face. “I promise, we’ll get her back.”
“Damn right we will,” Frank growled, urging Beauty to go faster. “Then Brody’s a dead man.”
Retta buried her face against his back and nodded. “Just find her.” The break in her voice felt like a hot branding iron shoved into his gut.
“Brody’s mine,” Harrison bit out. His brain ne
arly exploded with rage each time he thought of Addie frightened, without her mother, and in the hands of a lowlife like Mills.
“Don’t you worry, Missus Carter.” Dub guided his mare closer, keeping pace a short distance away. “We’ll get your youngin’ back. Brody might be a dirty snake, but he ain’t ever hurt a child.”
From Harrison’s other side, Joe piped in, “I don’t believe the man’s smart enough to figure out something like this on his own.”
Harrison nodded as the town came into sight. “My money’s on Morgan.”
“Agreed,” Frank replied.
As they entered Little Creede, Harrison headed straight for the Lucky Lady. “Dub, go get the sheriff.” Without waiting for a reply, he cantered up to the front of the saloon. Dismounting, he hitched Copper’s reins, then turned and gripped Retta’s slim waist to swing her down.
Stark fear shone from her eyes though her lips formed a brave smile. “I’m all right, Harrison.” She gave him a little push. “Go. Find Addie.”
Harrison cupped her face in his palms, brushing his thumbs across her damp cheeks as he stared into her eyes. Not believing for a minute that she’d run to safety if trouble started, he called to his brother, dismounting nearby. “Take care of her, Frank.”
Frank gave him a curt nod. “If he’s in there, Harrison, you drag his carcass out here so we can all get a whack at him until he tells us where Addie is.”
With a grim smile, Harrison leapt onto the slatted sidewalk in front of the Lucky Lady and plowed through the swinging doors. He had no intention of sharing this showdown with anyone else. If the son of a cur had taken his daughter, Harrison would get the truth out of him, one way or the other. Then he’d make Brody beg for death.
When he entered, Cat Purdue glanced up from across the room. One look at him and her friendly smile dropped off her face. As if sensing danger, those closest to the entrance swiveled their heads in his direction. Harrison spotted Brody slamming back a shot at a corner table and strode toward him across the warped wooden floor.
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