Lyla clutched the knife, afraid to look outside.
“You take one more step and I’ll kill you with the next one.”
She let out the breath she was holding. Jack’s voice was as deadly as the rifle he was pointing at Foxe’s chest. He was on horseback, towering above Connor, his mustache curving around the most menacing expression Lyla had ever seen.
“Now get on your horse and get the hell out! And by God, you can tell Frazier—”
“You can’t order me off my own land, Rafferty! You’re fired!” Connor yelled.
“And you’re dead if you don’t get your ass in that saddle!” Jack clicked back the hammer and took aim. “After what you’ve done to my dog, I’d have no trouble at all putting a bullet through your brain. Or through your back, if you make a move toward Lyla.”
Foxe slowly straightened to his full height, his eyes never leaving the gun Rafferty was pointing at him. His left hand was already an angry red from the hot grease, the front of his coat was in tatters, and he had a bloody gash on one side of his face. “You better be off this ranch by noon,” he snarled as he limped toward his stallion, “because next time I won’t come alone.”
“I’ll be gone before you can get to the bunkhouse to lick your wounds,” Jack taunted. “And you tell your pansy-assed brother to watch his back from here on out. If I ever see him again, he’ll get the same treatment you did.”
Trembling all over, Lyla let the knife clatter to the stovetop when Connor Foxe wheeled his horse around and galloped away in a rage. They’d won this skirmish, but the war was far from over. And Frazier wasn’t the only one who’d be looking over his shoulder for years to come. Right now, though, it was the horrible silence outside that made her throat tighten, and when she saw Jack Rafferty’s face crumple as he dismounted, her worst fears were confirmed. Maudie hopped outside, but when Lyla stepped toward the doorway she was stopped by a ragged voice.
“You don’t want to see what he did to Will with that skillet. I’ll put him out of his misery and give him a decent burial.”
Lyla covered her face with her hands, overcome by sudden, racking sobs. Will had managed to crawl underneath the wagon after his master had fired at Foxe’s feet, and the single shot she heard now went straight through her heart. The dog had known her but a day and had defended her with his last burst of strength, only to be grievously injured by the very weapon she’d used to defend herself.
Jack shuffled toward the nearest clump of trees with the collie’s body cradled in his arms, a spade he’d unstrapped from the wagon sticking out from under one elbow. Maudie trailed behind him, her head hung low. Lyla started outside to comfort him, to release the grip of anguish and guilt that threatened to squeeze her senseless. But Rafferty would want these last moments alone with his beloved friend.
The aroma of biscuits reminded her of all the things that needed to be done if they were to be gone before Foxe sent his hired men after them. Tears streaming down her face, Lyla shut the door and took the pan of biscuits from the oven. They would be food for the trail…and she sensed Jack would leave the cumbersome wagon but take everything the horses could possibly carry.
Quickly she yanked a quilt from the bunk and folded it in half on the floor. Bags of beans, coffee, flour, and other food got stacked down the center of it before she rolled it up and secured it with rope from one of the drawers. In another blanket she wrapped such supplies as matches and cooking utensils. Rafferty seemed to be wearing all the clothes he owned, so in another quilt she bundled up his books and dime novels.
She was ready to tug the sheets off the bunk when her host came inside with a heavy tread. His sorrowful expression lightened a little when he realized what she was doing. “I’ll finish this,” he said with quiet finality. “Got a few…personal effects, you know?”
She nodded, her heart overflowing with feelings she didn’t know how to express. They stood studying each other, awkward in their grief, until a long, forlorn howl from the direction of Will’s grave drove Lyla into Rafferty’s open arms, blubbering uncontrollably. “Mother of God, I’m so s-sorry! Poor Will—wouldn’t have happened had I not barged in—”
“You didn’t want Foxe to bash his skull any more than I did,” Jack murmured with a catch in his voice. “I should’ve shot the bastard. Made him die a slow, painful death like he did to my dog.”
For several moments they clung together, bound by a misery that wrapped around their souls like a black velvet ribbon. Jack stroked her hair, sighing deeply when she slipped her arms beneath his coat to caress his sturdy back. “Lyla…Lyla,” he whispered. “Here I am carrying on about a dog when it’s you I should worry about. You’re in more danger now than you were before you left the house.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she stated. “Connor sneaked in through my bedroom window and came at me, or Hollingsworth would never’ve helped me escape. Foxe Hollow’s no place for a decent person, and I hope he’s not been severely punished…or worse, for betraying Frazier.”
Rafferty chuckled wryly and pulled away to gaze at her. “You seem to inspire the bravest, most loyal support from men who hardly know you, Miss O’Riley. Now—we’d better finish packing before that bunk and your warm, enticing body make me forget about—”
When the door opened suddenly, they sprang together, sharing the fear that somehow Foxe’s men had already come after them. A tall, burly form blocked the winter sunlight, and then a man in a tan hat and a sheepskin-lined coat stepped into the wagon, gazing steadily at them.
Lyla felt her face go white, as though the blood had suddenly drained from her body. It wasn’t possible—not if her eyes and ears and memory could be trusted! Had the weeks of being Foxe’s hostage altered her ability to distinguish between fantasy and reality, or was a phantom of the most incredibly solid sort staring at her, waiting for her to respond?
“Barry,” she breathed. “Barry, is it really you?”
Chapter 24
His jaw twitched. “Maybe I should’ve knocked. Looks like I interrupted something.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. And then she felt the warm gold band of a ring that was his but that he hadn’t given her. Realized just how incriminating this soulful scene with Jack Rafferty must look to a man who’d returned suddenly and inexplicably, from the dead. “It-it’s not what you must be thinking! I…”
Lyla walked out of Jack’s protective embrace as though entranced, drawn by the spell of probing green eyes that pulled her by the heartstrings. He’d spoken—or was it the voice of wistful, wishful imagination reverberating in her mind? How many times had she dreamed of him, of kisses so real they stirred her wildest yearnings? How many times had his bold, virile face haunted her every thought, until death seemed her only release?
Slowly, with a hand that trembled, she reached up. She paused, afraid to trust the sound of his breathing and the pounding of her heart saying yes, yes, and the familiar leathery scent of his jacket. When her fingertips brushed the warm smoothness of his cleanshaven cheek, time ceased to exist.
He was real!
Thompson saw the jolt go through her and forgot that he’d found her in another man’s wagon, in another man’s arms. He crushed her close, clenching his eyes shut with a prayerful joy known only to angels, and men living in the shadow of death. She felt even tinier than he remembered, and looked like a fragile shell of the spritely young woman he feared he’d never see again. “Lyla,” he rasped. “Jesus, honey, I thought—”
When his lips found hers, Lyla threw her arms around his neck and felt herself being lifted, lifted…Barry’s kiss consumed her, as though she were his first morsel of food since that fateful day they’d been shanghaied to the shack.
“I thought you were dead,” she breathed, fondling the hair at his nape, hugging the sturdy breadth of his shoulders. She pulled away to drink in the sight of him, still unable to believe this unfathomable turn of events. “But—but you’re not even scarred, or—”
Barry gave her another
resounding kiss. Her tremulous words explained the hollows in her face and the shadows around her haunted blue eyes. And they affirmed that she, too, had suffered as only he could comprehend during the weeks he’d desperately wanted to see her. “I was lucky,” he mumbled. “Eberhardt wasn’t too creative with his kerosene. Only doused the edges of the shed, so even though it must’ve looked like a scene from hell, I had some time to plan my strategy. Got a little hair singed off coming out, but it’s growing back.”
Lyla listened open-mouthed. “But I saw Buck…it tore my heart out to think he’d break free only to go in and—”
“He’s the best horse there is, Lyla,” Thompson replied. He brushed the hair back from a face that was splotchy from crying and ready to pucker over again. “When he heard my whistle, he came in—flames and all, bless him—and grabbed the rope around my wrists with his teeth. I was a little stunned from the beating the blond fellow gave me, so Buck had to drag me. We got out just before the roof collapsed. Good thing Foxe’s desperadoes didn’t stick around for the bitter end, isn’t it?”
His grin sent a rush of joy through her. So many things to say, so many hopes restored because a bumbling stable manager and Foxe’s three hired killers were too overconfident to be thorough! Lyla’s emotions tumbled over each other: relief, gratitude, and a love that sang to the beat of her resurrected heart. Then she frowned. “If you weren’t hurt, what took you so damn long to find me?”
If ye weren’t hurt, wot took ye sae dam long t’ foind me? Barry laughed in spite of an accent that pointed like a finger. She was indeed the same quick, demanding little imp he adored even as she pulled away from his embrace, awaiting a straight answer. “I holed up at the McClanahans’ to let Idaho take care of my wounds—”
“You just said you escaped unharmed.”
“All right, so I fibbed a little. To keep you from worrying,” he said softly. “I was scorched a few places where my clothes caught fire, and my hands were a mess from that rope rubbing between my fingers, and that wiry blond worked me over pretty good with his fists. But Idaho took good care of all that, and then Matt and Emily got back from Cripple.”
“That’s where I was headed until Foxe’s hooligans ambushed me,” she said quietly. It seemed years ago instead of only weeks, but the memories were as painful as the physical harm they’d done to Thompson.
“That’s what Emily said, and when rumor had it that I disappeared into thin air, and neither of us were at the cabin, Matt checked with Miss Victoria. She said Frazier’d been there to collect your clothes, so he knew you were in trouble.”
Lyla listened, nodding, and then lifted an eyebrow. “All right, that accounts for a week, maybe. What about all the rest of that time? Especially since you knew all along that Frazier had me.”
Thompson cleared his throat. He’d forgotten how persistent and astute Lyla O’Riley could be, a trait he’d better get used to. “All right, so I wasn’t in such good shape,” he confessed. “I’d just gotten out of the hospital, remember. And then with the pounding I took, and the strain of the fire, I—well,” he said with an exasperated shrug, “Matt left me at the Flaming B with Emily and Idaho to recuperate. We agreed that I was to remain unseen—supposedly dead—until we could draw Foxe out into the open. Meanwhile, McClanahan tried to get himself through the entry gate at Foxe Hollow.”
Jack Rafferty grunted. “Surely his reputation as a detective preceded him.”
The marshal blinked. He and Lyla had been so wrapped up in each other they’d forgotten about the dark sheepherder who’d witnessed every kiss and heard their every word. “That was a problem,” he agreed, sensing a fierce protectiveness in Lyla’s mustached companion. “And when McClanahan finally slipped through the boundary security and watched the house a few days, he realized that if Frazier was forced to come out and face charges, Lyla would get hurt. It’s not what I wanted to hear, but we figured he’d cause her no physical harm if we didn’t provoke him, and that eventually he had to leave his house.”
“Aye,” Lyla murmured, “I’m to marry him on St. Valentine’s Day, at the Presbyterian church in Cripple.”
That explained how his aquamarine got on her finger—that bastard Foxe! A wedding could be a perfect part of his ploy, but for now, Lyla was in more danger than he’d anticipated, and they needed to get away from Foxe Hollow.
“I’m truly sorry you had to wait so long, honey,” he said. “Matt tried to send in other men with trumped-up reasons for seeing Foxe, so we could grab him when he couldn’t hurt you, but even his business partners weren’t allowed inside. He knew damn well someone would try to get you out of there.”
The deep lines of concern crossing Barry Thompson’s forehead made her sorry she’d challenged his efforts to free her. Frazier hadn’t harmed her, really, and while she’d passed the endless days dressed like a princess whose only problem was loneliness, the marshal had been recovering from injuries and incidents more harrowing than he would admit to her.
“So if McClanahan’s on the case, how’d you get here?” Rafferty challenged. The herder’s brown eyes studied Thompson for details that didn’t fit. He’d stopped his packing and appeared ready to fight if his questions weren’t answered satisfactorily.
“Matt’s on his honeymoon, and I was sick of being sick.” Barry stroked his woman’s warm, waist-length hair, keeping her close. The stockman had given Lyla sanctuary—and she appreciated it, judging from what he’d seen when he walked in—but he knew better than to underestimate the motives of his shifty-eyed competition.
“By the time I found the stretch of property line McClanahan told me wasn’t guarded, and then slipped up to the house, the blizzard was blowing full force,” he continued matter-of-factly. “Didn’t want to risk finding Connor and his thugs in the barn—couldn’t see it, anyway. So I tied Buck to a post on the back veranda and let myself in to what I figured was the pantry.”
Lyla’s eyes widened. “It wasn’t locked?”
“No, and it wasn’t unoccupied, either,” he replied with a chuckle. “A damn skinny cook—”
“Miss Keating,” she said with a grimace.
“—passed right out when I walked in on her, and when the butler heard the commotion, he came in.”
“Hollingsworth told you Lyla was with me?” the wiry herder demanded. He seemed edgy now, ready to bolt, and Thompson then realized where he’d seen this man before.
“Yeah, but I found out the hard way that you moved your flock during the storm. And I damn near got run down by Foxe’s brother just now, hellbent for the house,” he said in a thoughtful tone. Then he cleared his throat, returning the outlaw’s defiant gaze as he tightened his hold on Lyla. “If you can forget you saw me alive, Rafferty, I can overlook the fact that you’re a poster boy with rewards on your head in three states. Do we understand each other?”
Lyla jumped, astounded, but couldn’t move within Barry’s restrictive bearhug. How long had Thompson known—
“Sounds like a fair deal to me, marshal. Just fixing to leave for parts unknown when you walked in, as a matter of fact.”
“Fine. We’ll let you finish your packing.” Barry steered Lyla toward the door, sensing things would get ugly if they lingered. They stepped out of the wagon and then he turned to look inside it. “I’m only doing this because you protected my woman, you know. Had you so much as unbuttoned her shirt, you’d be dead.”
“Great timing and instincts. On both our parts,” Rafferty replied.
Chapter 25
Lyla’s thoughts raced as the buckskin stallion carried them across the endless range. It was too soon to count this a victory until the border of Foxe Hollow was crossed, yet already the morning had been the most momentous of her life. For the first time ever, she’d willingly injured a man; she’d mourned a dog with an outlaw she liked immensely and had assumed she’d take off with—until she found herself rolling with the motion of Buck’s gallop. His black mane was singed short in some places and his glossy coat was
marred by a few scars, yet like his master, he’d survived the horrible fire and seemed determined to triumph because of it.
She still couldn’t believe Barry was holding her, saving her from eternal agony in Frazier’s mansion. His arm held her close against his broad chest, his fingers slipping between the buttons of the coat Jack had tossed at her as they were leaving. His breath teased at her cheek. An occasional kiss beneath her ear sent tingles along her arms, yet still her mind refused to acknowledge that Barry Thompson was alive and rescuing her, like a fairytale knight on his trusty steed.
Onward they rode, over boundless stretches of frosted grass interrupted only by clumps of crystalline trees and bushes still glazed from the blizzard. The sky above was an intoxicating blue and the horizon beckoned, unchanged after more than an hour’s ride. Lyla refused to relax. Any moment they’d come to the barbed wire border and a man who’d shoot to kill—she was sure of it. Barry, too, remained watchful, so intent on their surroundings he didn’t say a word.
Thompson kept his questions to himself as he guided Buck around the foothills toward a wide, shallow stream. The clear layer of ice shattered beneath the stallion’s hooves as he slowed to a trot to keep his footing in the cold, flowing water. A few miles more and he could demand the answers only Lyla could give…a Lyla who was oddly withdrawn as she rested against him.
Had Frazier brainwashed her into marriage? Or had she actually been in league with the Englishman all along, an attractive accomplice paid to lure him to his death?
He doubted it. If so, she wouldn’t have run from his mansion during a blizzard.
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