by Linda Broday
Clay didn’t recognize the voice, but he knew Montana was in trouble. Before he could take another step to help, a figure burst from a nearby room and fired at Clay. Then a second did the same, and a third! He ducked into the blackness of an open door and returned their fire. A hail of bullets shattered the walls around him.
“Don’t you ever give up, Colby?” No mistaking Tarver’s gravelly way of talking.
“Nope. Not when there’s vermin like you running loose.” Clay peeked around the corner. No one in sight, but movement flickered the candles in two sconces along the wall. He’d bet everything he owned that the rest were waiting to kill him after Tarver drew him out.
Montana had to be dead, or he’d be taking care of the problem from his end.
“You want me, come and get me!” Tarver yelled.
“Don’t worry, I plan on it.”
“You know better than to come into a man’s domain with revenge in mind. I killed your drunk friend.”
That laid to rest any question about Montana. Unexpected sorrow washed over Clay. At least the man who’d been an orphan and outcast had died for a worthy cause.
“You keep adding to the list of things I’ll make you pay for.” Clay closed his eyes and prayed his shot was straight and true. Then he leaned out and pulled the trigger, at the same time leaping across the hall.
Someone screamed in pain, confirming he’d hit one of them.
“I hope you brought Tally with you,” Tarver hollered. “Me and her got some settling up to do. I’ll make you watch while I cut out her tongue—first that, then other parts. She’ll scream in agony and you won’t be able to do one damn thing about it.”
This was no idle threat. Tarver would and could do it—but only if he got the chance.
“You’ll have to get by me first.” And that might be a chore. Clay darted down the narrow passage, getting closer to his quarry. He needed to douse the two candles along the wall. That would put them all on the same playing field. As it was, they could see him coming and pick him off. He’d see how they did blind. He’d have the advantage, having learned well from Violet.
A closing door sent a chill through him. Someone had left. One of Tarver’s men could circle around and come in through the kitchen behind him and Tally. Hell!
Knots twisted in his chest so tightly he could barely breathe.
She had no idea they were coming.
Thirty-two
Tally pressed against the wall, making herself as small as possible. She knew this place and she knew Tarver. That gave her a big advantage.
She watched Clay run, zigzagging his way down the dim hallway. He was used to meeting trouble head-on, guns at twenty paces. In fact, he probably did his best work then. But Slade Tarver and the rest had a million tricks and the advantage of being on home ground. Still, they’d lost a few men. She allowed a tight smile. The best thing would be to hide and wait and protect Clay’s back. She tightened her jaw. No one would get past her.
The darkness would be her friend this night, the same way it had shielded her when she’d escaped.
Memories tumbled end over end in her mind. The rank evil inside the stone walls stung her nose and tried to claw into her pores like a burrowing rodent. So much pain and misery, heartbreak and despair. She shook her head to clear the images. She’d survived, and now she’d helped give a lot of the other women a fresh start.
This was a fight she meant to win. It seemed she’d waited a lifetime for justice.
A door squeaked—the kitchen. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded. She’d had ample time to memorize every creak, rattle, and clank when she lived here, and that door had always made a different sound from the others. Her hand tightened around the Colt.
The wait was agonizing.
Quiet footsteps moved behind her. She squatted down against the wall, barely breathing. They wouldn’t expect her to be low.
The footsteps came closer, out into the hall. Slowly. One step at a time.
Her breathing slowed and calm washed over her. This night belonged to her and Clay. They would come out of this and soon be home with Violet.
A shadow moved, floating toward her in the thick gloom.
When the man’s shape got even with her, she raised and pressed her gun to his head. “Drop your weapon.”
The figure jerked in surprise, freezing. He made no move to obey.
“Drop it or die.” She put her mouth close to his ear. “Having trouble believing a woman turned the tables on you? I’m itching for a little justice. Frankly, I hope I get to blow your brains all over these walls.”
She recognized the guard named Jameson.
His smile irritated her. It was more of a smirk actually, which made her seethe. Just when she thought he was going to drop his pistol, he swung it around.
Tally squeezed the trigger. The blast deafened her and sent a shock wave through her.
Jameson slid down the wall. She felt for his gun and stuck it in her waistband. She never knew when she might need an extra.
“Tally? Tally? Answer me.” Clay’s urgent cry pierced her.
“I’m fine.” Tally peered toward the light but couldn’t make him out.
A dark figure suddenly rushed at her from the kitchen, his arm raised.
* * *
What had happened? Had someone else attacked Tally? Frayed nerves and worry jerked inside Clay. He started to turn back when a figure dashed across the hallway from one room to another, shooting as he went. The bullets barely missed Clay. He was a sitting duck. He raised his gun, took aim at the first candle, and squeezed the trigger.
Success! Another shot took out the second one, and total darkness enveloped him. Now they had a level playing field.
“Tally?”
No answer.
He called again. “Tally?”
An orange flash came from his right as someone fired at him in desperation. The bullet didn’t come close.
“Don’t worry, Clay,” Tally said grimly.
Good. Clay waited until he could get a clear shot, then took it. The man yelled. Forward Clay went and rushed to the left of the doorway to the room where he thought Tarver had holed up. Unless he’d already gone out the front? Clay shook his head. No, he’d have heard the door. It had only opened once.
But maybe they’d all gone out. Sweat popped up on his forehead. Had he lost them?
Only…Tally had shot the one behind them.
He shook his head to clear it of doubts. He was positive he heard whispers coming from inside the room. Taking a deep breath, he rushed through the door and rolled across the floor.
A dark figure shot at him. In the brief muzzle flash, Clay made out the shapes of what he thought were four men.
Clay fired. A soft thud told him one had gone down.
“You ain’t gonna get us all, Colby,” Tarver drawled. “Are you ready to die?”
“Is this a Monday?” Clay tried to home in on where the voice was coming from. Keep him talking. Violet could determine a speaker’s location by their voice and he could too.
“What difference does it make?”
“I hate Mondays. Never had anything good happen on one.”
“Then I reckon this is Monday.”
The lying sack of manure. Clay knew for a fact it was Tuesday, but he now had Tarver’s location. The man was to his left.
“Tally dead yet?” Tarver asked conversationally.
“Nope.”
“Good. I’m glad I still get the pleasure of ending her sorry life.”
Clay fired two rapid shots. Had he gotten Tarver? Damn this inky blackness. He heard a rustle of clothing as someone moved toward him.
He shifted and stretched out on the floor. His hand encountered warm flesh. But whose?
“That you, Colby?” Montana whispered close.
“Yeah.”
“They got me.”
“How bad?”
“Some.” There was a pause. “I can shoot.”
“Good.” A plan took shape in Clay’s head, but before he could move, a deafening explosion ripped through the building. Rock, mortar, and ceiling crashed down around him.
Panic twisted like a sword inside him. Something heavy pinned his leg.
Thirty-three
The powerful detonation seemed to echo forever. Clay tried to breathe but found the dust from the blast going into his lungs, and a coughing fit struck him. When the last of the debris had fallen, he began pushing it off. From the feel of the wood, a support from above was on his leg. He tried to move it with his hands while pushing with his free foot, but it refused to budge. He groped around him for something to use as a lever and found what appeared to be a piece of steel. Placing it under the beam, he raised it enough to pull his leg out and lay gasping.
Nothing seemed to hurt, except where the bullet had grazed his side. That part stung like a red-hot ember pressed to his flesh.
He paid it no mind. Thoughts of Tally made him claw harder at the rubble. From her position by the kitchen, she’d probably borne the brunt of the explosion. She could lie mangled or, heaven help him, dead.
His desperation grew with each passing moment. When he felt able, he got to his feet, wishing he could hear. Men around him probably moaned and cried out, but he heard nothing.
Everything was eerily silent in his head.
With great care, he moved through the room until his hand brushed a lamp. The globe was broken but the rest seemed intact. He prayed it still held oil. Fumbling in his pocket, he located a match and struck it, using the faint glow to find the wick. The harsh light revealed the devastation around him.
Three paces to his right, he saw Montana’s face barely visible under the gray debris. The outlaw’s eyes were open, staring, his lips moving and pleading for help.
Although he wanted to rush to Tally, he couldn’t abandon Montana to die. He’d already been hurt bad before the blast. Clay knelt and hurriedly cleared the rubble away, carefully helping Montana to his feet. Blood poured from a head wound and his left arm was bent in an unnatural position. Strangely, he still clutched his gun in his right hand. Montana’s mouth moved but no sound reached Clay’s ears.
With an arm bracing him, Clay half carried him from the room out to the front door and into the night. He took him all the way out to the trees, about thirty yards from the doors, and set him down where danger couldn’t find him in the shadows. Clay hurried back inside. He’d done his best for the outlaw. Now it was time to find Tally.
Men were slowly coming to life in the demolished room, but Clay didn’t stop except to grab the oil lamp. He scrambled over the mound of debris as fast as he could. There was nothing much left of the hallway. The walls had been ripped away. He saw no movement or signs of life. Whoever had set off the blast had to be dead.
And Tally?
Clay swallowed the thickness in this throat. Anyone nearby would’ve also met their fate. Although he cried Tally’s name out over and over, he knew she couldn’t hear him even if by some miracle she’d survived.
Despair settled over him as he worked feverishly to clear a path to the stairs where he’d last seen her. Dear God, judging by the destruction, there’d be nothing left. Not one lock of her fiery-red hair or scrap of leather skirt to find.
Tally Shannon Colby had to lie in pieces under the bottom floor ruins of Creedmore.
Ignoring the agony of his bullet wound, he tossed the wreckage this way and that, his mind frantic. He wouldn’t give up until he found some part of her, some proof that she’d been caught in the blast after all. Pausing to catch his breath, he noticed someone stumbling from the room where he’d been. The dazed man had no weapon and was bleeding heavily, so Clay turned back to his task. Each minute was crucial.
But when he cleared everything down to the floor with no sign of Tally, he collapsed with a sob.
Was this place going to keep her bound forever?
No, she had to be here. There had to be some sign of her.
Pieces of blackened paper lodged in the mess, catching his eye. On a closer look, he found three or four sections. Clay reached for them and held them to the light. He froze.
Dynamite.
From what he could tell, there had to have been at least five sticks. What had the damn fool been thinking? He’d blown up his own men in trying to kill him and Tally.
After resting a moment, he attacked another pile closer to the stairs. One piece at a time, he cleared jagged lumber and rock down within a foot of the floor.
Suddenly, his hand brushed soft flesh. Hope filled him. He grabbed hold and gently lifted up Tally’s leg.
She was here, and the warm skin meant she was alive. But for how long?
He clawed at the pile on top of her with a fury. Little by little, he cleared enough to lift her out. She’d been tucked into a space next to the stairs that had shielded her from the worst of the blast. She opened her eyes and smiled, but the blood still worried him. She had wounds on her arms and face and God knew where else. He carried her outside and sat her next to Montana. The old outlaw smiled, laid his gun in his lap, and took her hand.
The two looked like pure hell, and Clay probably did too, but they were all alive—that was something to celebrate.
He knelt and felt along her bones but found nothing broken, just heavy bleeding on her arm and jagged shrapnel and wood embedded in her flesh. He removed his bandana and tied it around her arm, then gently pulled out the larger pieces of projectiles. He’d leave the small ones until he had light and something to get hold of them.
Tally tenderly touched his face, her winter-blue eyes meeting his brown. Clay pressed his lips to hers in a kiss, careful not to hurt her.
When he glanced up, Montana had pulled himself to his feet. The man hobbled a few steps, staring curiously at the building.
The odor of the blast hung in the air, stinging Clay’s nose, and his ears began to ring faintly. Clay turned toward the hulking asylum to see a man with red hair and a trimmed beard standing outside the entrance.
Pollard Finch.
The man pointed a weapon at Clay. He had no time to react or to grab for his gun. As the bullet left the barrel, Montana fired back and threw himself in front of Clay.
The projectile tore into Montana’s chest and sent him backward. Clay caught and lowered him to the ground, then drew and quickly swung to face Finch. But Montana’s last-second shot had already blown a hole through the despicable bastard.
Horror lined Tally’s face as she scooted to Montana and bent over him, placing her hands on his chest to try to staunch the flow of blood. Clay jerked off his shirt and knelt beside them, pressing the cloth tightly to the wound. Tally leaned back, her hands wet and red with Montana’s blood.
Montana barely breathed, and Clay could only tell that by the slight rise and fall of his chest. The old outlaw’s eyes were open, staring into his. Clay squeezed his hand and, although he knew Montana couldn’t hear, thanked him for taking his bullet.
Montana fumbled in his pocket for a ribbon that Violet had worn in her hair. He smiled and mouthed, “For her.”
Tears flowed down Tally’s cheeks. She laid Montana’s head in her lap and smoothed back his hair. Clay untied the outlaw’s bandana and added it to the soaked shirt. The man wasn’t going to last long. The hole was simply too large.
Something hit the ground beside him, spraying up dirt, and Clay realized it was a bullet. Then another hit near Tally. He swung around to see gunmen in the front windows. He stood and motioned to Tally to follow and dragged Montana behind some trees.
Through hand motions, he asked if she was hit, to which she shook her head. Leaving Tally to guard Montana, he pulled his weapon and returned fire.
One shooter tumbled from his perch. Good.
The gun battle didn’t last long before the ones still inside decided the risk wasn’t worth it. Clay had killed two of them. He knelt down beside Tally, the louder ringing in his ears suggesting that his hearing was slowly beginning to return.
Montana’s breathing had grown shallower, yet by some miracle, he kept clinging to life. Maybe there was a reason. Clay had always heard that having something vital still undone was often enough to cling to life long after someone should’ve died.
The outlaw clutched his shirtfront and pulled him down. “Closer,” he said weakly.
Clay put his ear near Montana’s mouth.
“Not gonna make it. Take Tally home. Forget. Violet…needs you.” Then death claimed the man Clay had once hated with all his soul.
Tally sobbed. She was still deaf from the explosion and didn’t hear the words, but she saw life ebb from Montana’s eyes.
Clay drew her close and held her while she cried. Over the days of riding here, she’d gotten to know the old outlaw, and his story had deeply touched her. And even though Clay had tried to cling to his old hatred, he’d found himself sympathizing as well. Sure, Montana had done lots of bad things, but Clay saw how Montana’s early years alone and the murder of his wife had molded him into the killer he was.
If Clay had bothered to look beyond the outer shell, he’d have seen the man’s heartache and need to find meaning to life. If he lived through this, he vowed to stop being quick to judge.
When Tally had cried herself out, Clay rose. All had become silent inside the ruins of the stone fortress, although he knew a handful had survived the explosion. Maybe they’d found the fight too much and had ridden off.
And if they were still huddled inside, they soon would turn to ash. He had one last order of business. After relaying his intentions to Tally, he sneaked around back for the can of kerosene he’d hidden in the brush, stopping for an extra shirt in his saddlebags and putting it on. Listening through the ringing for voices or coughing, he pushed past the splintered kitchen door and splashed the flammable liquid around inside, then struck a match. Flames rose at once. Clay backed away from the heat and ran back out to the fresh air. Keeping a close eye out for trouble and avoiding broken glass, he slowly went around the asylum, igniting the kerosene.