Riley's Retribution

by Rebecca York

  And now he’d better remember who he really was and why he was here. He had a job to do for Big Sky.

  He eased away from her and quickly pulled on the pants and boots he’d discarded. He went out to check on Buttercup. And while he was outside in the cold, he tried to figure out how to get his relationship with Courtney back where it belonged.

  MAYBE COURTNEY was feeling the same way. He didn’t talk to her over the next couple of days, although he did see her near the house a few times.

  But he received a communication of another sort. A note from Boone Fowler appeared in the mailbox, and Kelly brought it up with the rest of the mail.

  “Crown Prince Nikolai is speaking in Billings tomorrow. I’d like you to attend—so you can really understand what’s wrong with this country, where we make a hero of a foreign interloper who’s gotten us involved in a war we have no business fighting.”

  Riley grimaced. Fowler hadn’t given him much notice. But at least the meeting was at 7:00 p.m. So he could leave the ranch without shirking his duties.

  When he told Kelly he’d be out for the evening, the other man gave him a considering look.

  “You’re not planning to get drunk, are you?”

  Riley shook his head. “I learned my lesson a few days ago. As a matter of fact, I’m going to a lecture.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Crown Prince Nikolai is speaking in Billings. I want to hear him. You want to come along?”

  As he’d anticipated, Kelly shook his head.

  THE CROWN PRINCE of Lukinburg stood in front of his closet full of expensive suits. He had special luggage for packing his outfits, so they traveled perfectly. And a valet named Boris whose only job was taking care of the prince’s clothing.

  So what should he wear for the upcoming speech in Billings?

  He sniffed derisively. The town fathers had dubbed this one-horse town “The Magic City.” He’d been driven around the place in his private limousine. And he was definitely underwhelmed. Billings was a cow town with too much Western flavor. One of the big attractions they bragged about—the Buffalo Bill Historic Center—wasn’t even in the same state. And they made a big deal of the Little Big Horn National Monument, where a bunch of Plains Indians wiped out an entire battalion of the Seventh Cavalry.

  He laughed. Apparently these Americans were easy to impress. Which was why his choice of clothing was important. All his suits were custom-made by a tailor in London. They all coordinated with shirts and ties from an exclusive Paris house. He fingered a gray silk-and-wool jacket. Then moved on to a blue cashmere blazer. Perhaps a blazer was too casual for the event. Or perhaps the people in Montana would appreciate seeing royalty dressed down a bit for the occasion.

  Yes. The blue blazer. And light gray slacks. With a white shirt and a red tie with small blue figures. The colors of the American flag. That would do nicely. The ladies would like the effect. He never forgot about his attraction for the ladies.

  Finished with the clothing selection, he turned back to his notes. He had a lot of stock paragraphs. But the wording always had to be changed. And he hadn’t gotten tonight’s speech exactly right yet. He had to be precise in his delivery—while maintaining rapport with the audience.

  Sitting at the desk, he poured himself a drink of the single-malt scotch he’d come to enjoy. It was a pleasure he could only indulge in private, however. In public he must come across as sober and reliable—a signal to the American public that they could put their faith in him for the future of Lukinburg.

  As he sipped the amber liquor, he went over the sheets he’d printed that morning. Skimming over the first part, he got to the words, “And now we begin.”

  That phrase had a special meaning for his followers in the United States. It was a signal for them to pay close attention to what came next.

  He smiled to himself, appreciating his rhetorical skills. He was walking a fine line with this talk, but he was sure it would accomplish exactly what he wanted.

  RILEY WALKED into the large VFW hall that the prince had rented. Probably for symbolic reasons. The place was packed—with females making up more than fifty percent of the audience.

  He spotted several of Boone Fowler’s men in the audience, but not the head honcho himself. Probably they’d been assigned to check up on the new recruit, and he was thankful he’d arrived early enough to get in.

  A hush fell on the audience when the mayor came out to introduce the main attraction. He recited the prince’s patriotic credentials, then explained why he was taking his case to the American people.

  When Nikolai himself walked onto the stage, he immediately took command of the hall.

  Riley had studied pictures of the heir to the Lukinburg throne. But he wasn’t prepared for the impression the thirtysomething prince made.

  The man stood very still, allowing the thunderous applause to wash over him for several minutes. Riley took in his curly dark hair, dazzlingly white smile, chiseled cheekbones and powerfully elegant physique covered by an expensive sports jacket and slacks. Really, he looked more like a movie star than anything else.

  But he carried himself with an air of authority that must have been drummed into him since childhood. When he began to speak, there was absolute silence in the hall.

  He described his father’s repressive regime, telling the crowd that young girls in his country were forced into marriage, and boys were forced into the army. He proclaimed his opposition to a government that could drain the money from the treasury to build palaces for the king. And he thanked the American people for coming to the aid of his country.

  Every few moments, the crowd interrupted him with applause. And when he finished, reporters mobbed the stage, shouting questions.

  Riley took notes, in case Fowler was going to quiz him later. He stayed to watch some of the media circus, then drove back to the ranch.

  The light was on in the main house when he came up the driveway, and he longed to knock on Courtney’s door. To be honest, he longed to crawl under the covers with her again and make love. Maybe this time she’d let him keep the light on while he stroked and kissed those full, firm breasts. Pregnancy had transformed her into a fertility goddess.

  He made a low sound as he cut off the fantasy. If he didn’t stop thinking about her that way, he was going to explode.

  A movement in one of the lighted windows made him glance up. He saw her looking out at him.

  More than ever he ached to go to her. Instead he turned toward the bunkhouse, because that was his only honorable option.

  HE WAS IN THE BARN early the next morning when Courtney came in. She gave him a long look. When he didn’t speak, she cleared her throat.

  “You went to hear Prince Nikolai last night?”

  “Yeah. Who told you—Kelly?”

  “No. Jake.” She looked around and spotted the man himself approaching the barn. “Why don’t you come up to the house for a cup of tea?”

  He might have declined. But he found he couldn’t turn down the direct request. “Okay.”

  They walked in silence to the house. When they were inside with the door closed, she turned to him. “I wasn’t expecting you to make any kind of commitment the other night, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He scuffed his booted foot against the hall floor. “I’m not free to.”

  “And I get the feeling you’re not going to tell me why.”

  He clenched his fists at his sides, struggling with frustration. “I can’t.”

  She hung up her coat and marched down the hall to the kitchen. He slammed his own coat onto the rack and hurried to follow her.

  She was standing at the sink, her shoulders hunched, her head bowed.

  He ached to reach for her, but he was afraid that if he did, they’d end up in the bedroom again.

  “I need to straighten some things out in my personal life,” he said, giving her the only explanation for his behavior that he could. He hadn’t been authorized by Big Sky to tel
l her what was really going on, and his training was too ingrained to jeopardize the mission for his personal feelings—or hers.

  “And then what?”

  “Then we can talk…about us. Don’t ask me to say anything more right now.”

  She looked as if she wanted to do just that. Instead she ran water into the kettle and set it on the stove.

  “Do you object to my going to see the prince last night?” he asked.

  “No. But I was surprised.”

  “What do you think of him?” he asked.

  “He’s charming. And intelligent. As a matter of fact, I listened to the speech on the radio.”

  “And?”

  “He was educated at Harvard, but he makes some odd grammatical mistakes. Like using me when he should have said I. Or using the wrong word—or one that’s not quite right.”

  She filled mugs and added the same teabags she had before.

  “Yeah. But basically, he came across pretty well. Especially to the ladies.”

  She nodded. “He’s so charismatic.”

  “But you don’t agree with his logic.”

  “Like I told you, I was for the war. Until my…” She stopped and started over. “My ex-husband was killed over there. Then I started thinking about all the men we’ve lost and whether the sacrifice is worth it.”

  He added sugar to his tea and sipped. “How do most people around here feel?”

  “I’m kind of out of touch with most people.”

  “Mmm.”

  “But I’m going to the opening of the battered-women’s shelter next week.”

  He sat up straighter. “That doesn’t exactly fit in with your policy of staying home where you’re safe.”

  She set her mug down with a thunk. “I won’t be a prisoner here. And I think I’ll be safe in a crowd.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  She ran her finger around the top of the mug, then finally said, “I have to prove this town can’t defeat me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. I can’t hide at the ranch forever.”

  She looked as though she wanted to say something else, and he waited tensely. Apparently she changed her mind, and he left a few minutes later because he didn’t want her to see the worry written on his face.

  But he stuck close to the ranch yard and kept tabs on her. And when she walked purposefully toward him in the barn the next day, he felt his chest tighten.

  “I, uh, wonder if you’d mind going into town with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I need some groceries.”

  “Can’t someone else get them?”

  “The person around here who knows how to save money at the grocery store is me.”

  He gritted his teeth, then made an effort to relax his jaw. “Then I’ll certainly come along.”

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  “You know my position on your leaving the ranch.”

  They glared at each other.

  “I can ask someone else.”

  “I’d rather it be me. Let me tell the hands.”

  After informing Jake where he was going, he climbed into the cab beside her.

  There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her. What came out of his mouth was, “Glad we aren’t expecting snow again.”

  She gave him a sidewise look. “Right.”

  He wondered if he could think of a dumber comment. After a moment he asked, “So has anything suspicious happened in the house?”

  “No,” she said quietly, but he’d learned to read her pretty well.

  “I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Okay. It has nothing to do with the house. Somebody followed me from town the other day.”

  “You mean when you came to get me out of jail,” he asked carefully.

  “Yes, then.”

  “And you’re just mentioning it.”

  “I gave him the slip at the big rocks.”

  If he’d been driving, he would have turned around and headed back to the ranch. Instead, he concentrated on not shouting at her. “I told you to be careful,” he said in a deceptively quiet voice.

  “I am.”

  “Like going to town now?”

  “I asked you to come with me.”

  “What about going to the opening of the battered-women’s shelter?”

  “That’s with a big crowd,” she said, giving him the line she’d used before.

  “Yeah, I’ve been wondering about their advertising it so widely. Shouldn’t they be keeping the location secret—so if a woman comes there, her lowlife husband can’t find her.”

  “Maybe they can operate that way in the city,” Courtney answered. “But out here, when you build a new building, everybody knows what it’s for.”

  Riley nodded.

  “So they might as well have a grand opening.”

  “With a lot of people. So somebody could get close to you and stab you in the abdomen, and nobody would see who it was.”

  She gasped. “Stop it! You’re trying to scare me.”

  “Right.”

  She gave him a dark look and switched on the radio—loud. He wanted to tell her she was the most obstinate woman he’d ever met. But he knew that his own mother had some of the same qualities. She’d once knifed a man who had followed her to her car and tried to assault her in the parking lot.

  Instead of continuing the argument, he settled for watching the scenery.

  As they pulled into the grocery store parking lot, which was relatively empty, he scanned the area, looking for trouble—and found it.

  The militia was in town. “Oh, great,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Fowler and his gang. Go in and pick up some stuff, then let’s get out of here.”

  “I thought you were best buddies with Fowler.”

  “I never said that.”

  “What is your relationship with him?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out the truth, but he knew it was against regulations, so he kept quiet.

  Her head whipped toward him. “Don’t ignore me!”

  “This conversation is pointless. Go in and get your groceries.”

  She slammed into a parking space. And he sat in the truck, watching Fowler and his men—unable to banish a tight feeling in his chest.

  One of the men had detached himself from the group. It was the guy named Anderson, who had questioned Fowler in the bar.

  As Riley watched, he slipped furtively around the back of a row of stores.

  Something was going on. But what?

  Fowler spotted Riley and waved.

  Riley waved back.

  The militia leader spoke to the men with him. They walked toward the bar, while Fowler started toward the drugstore farther along the street.

  Riley saw Anderson stick his head around the corner, his eyes narrowed. Now what?

  Just then he spotted Courtney through the big window at the front of the grocery store. She was pushing her cart toward the door.

  Getting out of the truck, he trotted toward the store, arriving just as Courtney stepped into the sunlight.

  “Get back inside,” he said gruffly.

  She froze in place, giving him a shocked look.

  He pushed her behind him, just as the shooting started.

  Chapter Twelve

  Riley shielded Courtney with his body, silently thanking God that she’d asked him to come to town with her. Lord, what if she’d stepped into the line of fire?

  He heard the fear in his voice as he growled, “Get back inside. Then get down. Tell everybody in there to get on the damn floor.”

  “What about you?”

  “Get inside!” he said again.

  For once in her life, she did as he asked, scrambling away as he crouched low, sheltering himself against the building.

  He could see Fowler taking cover behind a parked car. W
hen he looked the other way, he caught a flash of movement and knew that Anderson had ducked back around the corner, gun in hand.

  Most of the militia men had said yes every time Fowler said jump.

  But this one had dared to talk back in the bar. Now he was making a more direct challenge to his leader’s authority. And endangering everyone who happened to be on the streets in Spur City.

  So where was Sheriff Pennington when they needed him? Riley snorted. Probably hiding under his damn desk.

  Riley looked up, seeing Fowler staring at him. In the Special Forces they’d sometimes used hand signals. But he couldn’t count on Fowler’s knowing any of them. So Riley pointed to himself—then to his right and made a circular motion, indicating that he was going to try and circle around the shooter.

  Fowler gave him a small nod.

  Moving quickly, Riley drew his gun and sprinted around the back of the grocery. He was moving fast, looking for Anderson.

  He paused behind a Dumpster, his breath coming hard. No sign of the would-be assassin. So which way had the guy gone?

  Riley moved cautiously, step by step, looking in doorways and behind heaps of trash.

  Finally he spotted the gunman crouched down behind a storage shed, waiting for Fowler to walk into his line of vision.

  Riley picked up a tin can and tossed it against the wall of a nearby building.

  Anderson whirled and fired at the spot where the can had landed.

  Then another shot rang out—then another as Anderson keeled over.

  Fowler stepped from the corner of the building, gun in hand. “Got ya,” he growled as he went down beside his former comrade in arms to make sure he was dead.

  With a satisfied look, he lifted his head toward Riley. “Good work.”

  “Thanks,” he answered, still coping with the cold-blooded execution. Fowler hadn’t been in immediate danger. But he’d simply pulled out his gun and shot.

  “You drew his attention, so I could get him. But we’ll say he had his gun pointed at me.”

  Before he could answer, running footsteps had them both looking up. Pennington had finally put in his appearance, followed by several of the militia.