“Fire in the hole!”
Mal touched the flame to the fuse, and waved out the match.
One.
He ran to Bertie’s position, grabbed her about the waist, and bent his taller frame over hers.
Two.
He jerked her fully behind the pillar to ensure her protection.
Three.
He tightened his grip and braced for the explosion.
Four.
The concussive blast echoed through the basement, shaking the rafters and setting the canned goods to clinking and rattling on the shelves. Mal didn’t wait for things to calm, though. He released Bertie and darted forward.
Plaster dust filled their air, creating a thick, white haze that threatened to choke him. Chunks of brick and plaster covered the floor. Yet all Mal cared about was the jagged hole in the center of the wall. A hole as big as his head. And behind it? Glorious gray stones. Crumbling, weak stones loosened either by the explosion or from age.
Mal snatched up the hammer from the workbench and used the back side of the head like a pickaxe, stabbing inside the hole and yanking until entire bricks pulled free and pounded to the floor beside his feet. Slam. Yank. Slam. Yank. Over and over. Faster and faster. His urgency building with each swing.
As soon as the hole was as wide as his shoulders, he stopped swinging at the brick and started swinging at the stone. Pebbles rained down behind what was left of the wall.
Mal swung again. And again. Harder each time. Needing to hit the hollow. To reach inside and search for a thief’s treasure. For Emma’s ransom.
The hammer connected with a particularly large stone. Reverberations jolted his wrist, his elbow, his shoulder and neck. The rock didn’t crumble like the rest. So Mal swung again, but at a slightly higher location. Solid. Unyielding. Supported by something?
He chose a third spot, a few inches higher and slammed the hammer against the stone. This time, rocks rained down again, only the pebbles that fell inward clanked against something. Something metallic. Something that could be a strongbox.
Mal flew at the higher-level stones in a flurry of strikes. When the stone was decimated as high as he could reach, he tossed the hammer to the ground and leaned forward into the hole. But it was too high to get the right leverage.
“Get me something to stand on,” he shouted, hoping Bertie was still in the room. His focus had been so intent on the wall, he had no idea if she was there or not.
A wooden step stool appeared at his feet.
“Thanks.”
He kicked bricks and stones away to clear an area, then set the stool against the wall and jumped straight to the top step. He reached into the chimney again, shoving his head and shoulders into the space. This time his palms came to rest against a hard, flat surface. Please let it be the gold.
Letting out a grunt that expanded into a full-out roar, he pushed against the box with everything he had. All at once it gave and plummeted down the flue with a crash. Mal nearly followed it down, but the lower section of brick braced his thighs and kept him on his feet.
Mal righted himself, hopped down from the stool, and kicked it out of his way. He retrieved the hammer and tore into the brick with a vengeance, slamming and wrenching until he could finally see the small hearth opening at the floor and the steel box stamped U.S. Army lying at a lopsided angle inside.
His fingers closed around the handholds, and he hoisted it up, the heft of the box sending silent cheers of victory clamoring through his brain. The gold. Praise God! The gold!
Mal dropped the heavy box onto the workbench and rubbed at his suddenly watery eyes. Stupid things wouldn’t stop leaking. Dratted plaster dust.
He swiped a final time at his eyes and gave a good long sniff before grabbing up the box again and turning to face his aunt. “Time to get Emma.”
37
“They’re leavin’, girlie.” Angus lowered his field glasses long enough to cast a superior smirk over his shoulder at Emma before turning back to watch the parade of wagons rolling out of Harper’s Station. “Looks like that man of yours ain’t as big a fool as I thought. Turns out he knows when he’s beaten.” He cackled as he fit the binoculars back to his eyes, enjoying the spectacle far too much.
Emma glared at the back of her abductor, wishing she could scald his hide with all the righteous indignation boiling inside her, but her jaw still ached from the last time she’d lit into him. He’d shut her up with his fist. Going another round would only weaken her chance of escape. She needed to be strong. Alert. Ready to seize any opportunity that presented itself.
Unfortunately, her escape options were limited, seeing as how she was tied to a tree. Of all the times for a man to respect her intelligence and abilities. She’d gladly exchange her suffragette card for a captor who believed her too dull witted and timid to bother guarding. But she was stuck with Angus, a man whose paranoia had him anticipating trouble five steps ahead.
Which meant he’d never keep his word about letting her go once the town had been emptied. Not when he knew she’d run straight to the authorities with his name and description the instant she was released. He planned to kill her, one way or the other.
“No sign of the law, either,” Angus gloated. “Not that I expected there would be. Last time I sent Ned into Seymour, he told me the sheriff was out with a posse chasin’ down them rustlers that’ve been stirrin’ up trouble to the south. Them fellers have plagued the sheriff for months. Nearly as slippery as I am.” He barked out a laugh. “Tabor won’t be back for days yet. You won’t be getting help from that quarter.” Angus shot her a taunting look.
Emma lifted her chin and schooled her features into a completely bored expression. It was the best she could do to thwart him. He’d not gain the satisfaction of seeing her fear, her worry, her anger. Not anymore. She might be tied to a tree with rope securing her waist and arms, but she wasn’t conquered.
Her captor scowled at her, then turned back to his spying. Emma felt a tiny surge of victory and smiled.
“Greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world.” The familiar verse rose to bolster her spirit. She had allies. Powerful ones. Neither God nor Malachi would abandon her. One was with her now, and one was coming. She felt it in her heart of hearts. Malachi was coming for her, and when he got here, there’d be a reckoning.
The reckoning came less than an hour later.
“What’s that fella doing?” Angus shifted to a different vantage point and resituated the field glasses against his face. “He’s supposed to be leavin’ like the rest of ’em. What’s he doin’ headin’ to the church?”
“You think he plans to make a stand, Pa?” Ned glanced from Emma to his pa and back again, his forehead lined with worry.
“Be right foolish of him, but it wouldn’t cause me much trouble if he did. All I’d have to do is distract him for a few seconds, then take him down from behind. He ain’t got any backup. Saw that big fella driving the store lady’s wagon outta town a while back.”
Ned shuffled his feet through the dirt, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. “He don’t seem like the kind to be distracted easily.”
He’s not. Emma met Ned’s gaze, tried to give him courage to make a stand of his own. But he just looked away.
“Every man can be distracted, boy. You just have to know his weakness.” Angus turned to his son and grinned with such malevolence, Emma half expected to see fangs protruding from the viper’s mouth. “We got Shaw’s weakness right here.” He nodded toward Emma. “Put a bullet in her, sling her over a saddle, and send the horse galloping into town . . . Shaw won’t be able to help himself. He’ll leave his cover to chase her down, try to save her . . .” Angus gave a snort of disgust, then twisted fully around to smile at Emma. “And that’s when I’ll shoot him in the back. He’ll never even see it comin’.”
“You animal!” Emma struggled against her bindings, desperate to get free so Angus couldn’t use her as a weapon against Malachi. She wanted to pounce
on the fiend herself and scratch his eyes out for even voicing such a horrible plot.
But the ropes held fast, and all her struggling managed to accomplish was bruising her forearms and ribs while entertaining the beast. His laughter crawled over her skin like a family of scorpions, poking and stinging and making her want to weep.
“That got your back up, didn’t it, girlie? Seems you ain’t so indifferent, after all.” Angus took a step toward her, his right hand balled into a fist.
“Pa,” Ned interrupted, squinting into the distance. “Shaw ain’t climbin’ into the steeple. He’s hangin’ something from the roof. Looks like a sheet smeared with something dark in the middle.” The boy pointed toward town.
“What?” Angus stomped away from her, pushed his son out of the way, and brought his field glasses back up to his eyes. “A white sheet,” he scoffed. “The mark of surren . . .” The word died away, replaced by a string of curses. “He can’t . . . It has to be a bluff.”
“What, Pa? What’s happened?”
Angus shoved the field glasses hard into his son’s chest, then started pacing, muttering vile invectives against Malachi under his breath.
Ned held the lenses up to his eyes. “‘Found your gold. Time to trade.’”
Emma knew better than to let her triumph show while Angus tramped about in an agitated state. The man was volatile. But now he was also vulnerable. Thanks to Malachi.
Seemed the outlaw had been right—every man did have a weakness. Even Angus.
Malachi stood in the churchyard, his back against the north wall, listening to the wind whip against the sheet he’d nailed to the roof twenty minutes ago. How much longer? He scanned the landscape between the church and the river, searching for a sign, any sign, that his message had been received.
He hadn’t wanted to stumble through the woods, calling out to Angus and giving away his position and tactical advantage. All the man would have to do was shoot Mal from a covered position then search out the gold for himself. And without Mal to stand in his way, Angus would dispose of Emma with equal speed.
No, he’d needed to lure the man into the open, someplace where they would be on equal footing, someplace where he had more power to bargain for Emma’s life. So he’d borrowed a can of black paint and a brush from Tori’s store and used one of Bertie’s old sheets to create a message for Angus. One the outlaw would be sure to see . . . as long as the man had been watching the exodus of the townsfolk.
Mal had been so certain that Angus would park himself in a place where he could watch all the comings and goings. But what if he hadn’t? What if he truly was waiting for morning to make his move and didn’t see the sign?
Mal shifted his position, tightening his grip on the rifle he held. No time to second-guess himself now. God had led him to this point. He just had to have faith. To stay strong and trust that if the Lord wanted him to change plans, he’d find a way to let Mal know.
Five minutes passed. Then another five. The sun dipped lower in the sky, slanting light beneath Mal’s hat brim, impeding his vision. He raised his left hand to shade his eyes, more concerned with spotting the enemy than in having both hands on the rifle.
As if that movement had been a signal, in the next heartbeat, two horses cantered out of the woods and across the brush-laden prairie. The first was a big chestnut with black socks and mane, the markings etched in Mal’s memory with keen precision after the shootout by the bank. It carried two riders. A large, barrel-chested man and a slender, black-haired angel. The angel rode in front, her body shielding the man who held a revolver to her temple. Mal barely even glanced at the second horse. The small sorrel and its youthful rider didn’t pose much of a threat, though Mal did a quick scan, anyway, to ascertain that the boy did not have his weapon drawn.
Angus reined in his chestnut a good twenty yards from the church. “If this is a trick, Shaw, your woman’s gonna be the one to pay the price. If I don’t see my gold in the next two minutes, you’ll see my bullet blow through her pretty little head.”
Mal tamped down the searing rage that churned in his gut and lifted his rifle with cool precision. He didn’t aim the barrel directly at Angus, not with Emma in the way, but he had it up and ready, his finger steady on the trigger.
“It’s no trick. I found the strongbox in the basement hearth of the old station house. Wedged in the flue about five feet from the floor. Sound familiar?”
The chestnut danced restively to the side, a sure indication his rider was agitated. Mal narrowed his gaze. Good. Time to even the odds a little more.
“Let the woman go, and I’ll tell you where I’ve hidden it.”
Angus tightened his hold on Emma. “Not a chance. I let go of the skirt, and you take a shot at me. I ain’t a fool, Shaw. You tell me where the gold is . . . then I’ll let ’er go.”
Mal slowly shook his head. “Nope. Soon as you know the gold’s location, Emma’s as good as dead.”
“What d’ya propose we do, then, cowboy? Stand here and jaw all evenin’?” he scoffed. “I ain’t exactly the socializin’ type.”
“I propose that we set aside our weapons and handle this trade like gentlemen. You and the boy dismount and send the horses on their way, then you and I lower our weapons and kick them aside. Once that’s done, send the boy over, and I’ll give him further instructions.”
“How do I know you won’t attack him or take him hostage?”
Like you did with Emma? But Mal kept the accusation to himself and simply shrugged. “He can keep his pistol—can train it on me the whole time, if he wants.”
Mal knew he had to appear to give Angus the upper hand or the man would never agree to the terms. Besides, he could afford to be a little generous, seeing as how he had strategically placed a few extra weapons of his own.
Angus mulled it over, shifting in his saddle. He clearly wanted to agree. The restless energy flowing from him into his mount was a sure indication of his being torn. The moment Mal had accurately described the gold’s hiding place, Angus had been salivating over how to reclaim it. Hopefully his greed would win out over caution.
After a long, heart-stopping minute, it did.
“Ned! Get off your horse, boy, and do as he said. Aim your gun at his chest. Don’t give him an inch.”
The boy obeyed. Dismounted. Gave his sorrel a slap on the rump to send it trotting off into the field between the church and station house. Then he drew his pistol and aimed it straight at Mal’s torso. The kid had a steady hand—steadier than Mal had expected, making him a little uneasy. Perhaps the boy wasn’t as unwilling a participant as Flora had led him to believe.
Angus had to holster his revolver in order to maintain his grip on Emma while dismounting. Mal breathed easier the instant the gun disappeared from Emma’s temple. He met her gaze across the churchyard, promising her with his eyes that he would take care of her, keep her safe. Her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened. She was ready. Mal bit back a smile. His angel was a fighter.
“All right, Shaw.” Angus slapped the hindquarters of his own horse, sending the rifle in the saddle boot safely out of reach. “Let’s see that rifle of yours hit the dirt.”
Malachi complied. He slowly lowered the weapon to the ground, then used the toe of his right boot to kick it out of reach.
“Now the holster.” Angus gestured with a jerk of his chin.
Mal unbuckled the gun belt, folded it over, and tossed it in the same direction as the rifle. Then he raised his hands in the air to show himself unarmed. In truth he still had a knife in his boot and a second revolver in the waistband of his trousers against the small of his back, but he figured his opponent would be similarly armed during their truce.
Holding Emma tight with a beefy arm across her midsection, pinning her hands to her sides, Angus slowly worked the buckle loose on his own gun belt and let it fall to the ground. Instead of kicking it away, he dragged Emma three paces to the left.
“Go on, boy,” the outlaw ordered his son. “Get
me my gold.”
Ned marched forward, his pistol never wavering. But as he neared, Mal saw all the fear and uncertainty playing in his eyes. Flora had been right. The kid was in over his head. He put on a good show, probably learned that skill early on in order to avoid his pa’s temper, but he hadn’t yet learned how to deaden the truth from his eyes.
When the boy stood two paces away, Mal whispered to him in a voice barely loud enough to carry between the two of them. “Your ma will tell you where the gold is. She’s in the church.”
Ned’s eyebrows arched so high they disappeared behind the shaggy hair hanging over his forehead. The gun gave a little wobble.
“What’s he tellin’ ya, boy?” Angus demanded. “Where’s my gold?”
Like a good little solider, Ned kept his gaze trained on the target and never looked away as he called out to his father. “I-I don’t know. He said there . . . there’d be a message inside the church.”
“Well, get after it, then.”
“What about him?” Ned asked, tipping his head toward Mal.
Angus grinned and moved his left hand up to Emma’s throat. She shook her head vigorously from side to side in an effort to escape his grasp, but he was too strong and she had nowhere to go. “Don’t worry ’bout him, boy. He won’t try nothin’. Not while I got his woman. If he does, I’ll just squeeze. Shouldn’t take long for the little lady to suffocate. Such a delicate creature. Ain’t that right, Shaw?”
Angus tightened his grip beneath Emma’s jaw, forcing her chin up toward the sky. Mal seethed but held his position. As long as she was still breathing, he had to let this play out.
38
Tension coiled like a spring inside Emma, her senses on high alert even as the outlaw’s hand tightened on her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She knew Malachi must have a plan, but she couldn’t see him. Not with her head tilted so far upward. If he gave a signal, she wouldn’t see it. And she couldn’t risk making a move before he was ready. Not if she wanted to ensure his safety.