The Fortune Page 11

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” John put his arm around Frankie’s back and turned toward the door.

  Before they could reach it, however, the door burst open with enough force to make the door stick to the sod wall. Declan Callahan stood there, bloody, filthy and enraged.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Malloy.”

  Frankie’s stomach twisted at the appearance of the man who had kidnapped her. John reached for his gun, but the sheriff already had one pointed at his back. Declan advanced on him and another gun appeared beside John’s cheek.

  “Don’t come a step closer, mister.” The sheriff of this small town had a few surprises up his sleeve, including a second pistol.

  Callahan halted, his hands opening and closing into fists. The man must have run from the moment he’d woken until he stepped into the building. Pure rage drove him, that much was obvious. John didn’t look afraid of the big Irishman. She was more afraid Sheriff Everett would string him up, then deliver his body for the thousand-dollar reward.

  The lawman turned his pistol on Frankie. “You’re both under arrest. No doubt there’s a reward on your head too.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “My lucky day, Malloy.”

  Chapter Seven

  The cell was six foot by six foot, leaving little room for privacy. Frankie stood at the tiny window, the steel bars just as sturdy as the ones on the door. John sat on the edge of the dirty cot, his elbows on his knees, his expression blank and hard.

  Callahan sat in the other cell, staring at them with hot fury oozing from every pore. She tried not to look at him, but she could feel his gaze on her back, creeping across her skin. He could be angry all he wanted, she would not allow herself to feel guilty.

  “I will bring you back to Peck, Frankie. No matter what your beau does, I won’t fail.” Callahan sounded as determined to return her to New York as she was to avoid going back.

  “I will die first.”

  “Not my first choice, but ’tis an option.”

  John growled low in his throat. “Shut up. Just fucking shut up.”

  She didn’t know if he was speaking to her or Callahan, but his tone definitely pricked her pride.

  “I’ll talk the day through if I want.” Callahan got to his feet and gripped the bars separating the two cells. “I owe you a beating, Malloy. I promise you I’ll collect.”

  “You are a fool. They’ll hang me before you can land one punch.” John flicked his hand in dismissal. “Then they’ll charge you with kidnapping and no matter what or who Peck is, they aren’t going to save you.”

  “Oliver Peck has a long reach, Malloy. Don’t doubt it.”

  “Oliver can go scratch. I don’t give a rat’s ass how long his goddamn arms are.” John got to his feet as well, hands fisted. “Right now his name and his reach don’t mean shit. You and me, we’re going to hang.”

  The image of John hanging from a tree made Frankie’s stomach clench so hard bile coated the back of her throat. No matter what happened, she would not allow that to happen.

  “Not a chance.” Callahan rattled the bars. “I’ll chew through these bars and take her from you.”

  “Like hell you will.” John moved closer.

  In a moment, the fists would be flying through the bars. The male creature was entirely too perverse.

  “Both of you shut up. Merde!” she shouted. “I am heartily sick and tired of male posturing and threats. This behavior is not getting us anywhere. Go to your corners and be quiet unless you have something constructive to say.”

  Callahan’s mouth opened and closed, then he let go of the bars and sat down heavily on the cot. She had seen glimpses of the good man fighting to get out of him. He could have hit her, beaten her senseless or worse, but he hadn’t. That told her something existed beneath the surface of the hired muscle besides avarice and blind obedience.

  “You never stop talking,” John groused, but he returned to the cot.

  Satisfied she’d won the minor skirmish, Frankie sat beside him. It was time to tell him, both of them, about Oliver Peck and the choices she’d made for her family.

  “I moved from France when I was a small girl and grew up in New York, in Brooklyn. My father is the best wood craftsman in the world. He makes wood sing beneath his hands, creating works of art disguised as furniture.” She closed her eyes, remembering the smell of wood shavings in her father’s shop, sweeping up sawdust, learning different chisels and helping her father polish a finished piece. Those were the memories she treasured. She hoped to make more in Oregon. “He did not always collect money when he should, allowed people to buy on credit, with little hope of payment. His heart is too soft and he is too generous by nature. That did not put food on the table or pay for four daughters’ needs.”

  John didn’t say a word, but she felt him relax. It helped her continue with her tale, as dark as it was going to be.

  “Oliver Peck is a bad man, one who loans money for exorbitant interest, who forces women to sell themselves and murders people for profit. My father took out a loan from Oliver to help us get through last winter. When I found out what he had done, I begged him to return the money, but he refused, his pride not allowing him to admit he had been wrong.” She clenched her hands to forestall any shaking. “Maman worked long hours at the hospital and knew nothing of what my father had done. It was up to me to right the situation. I started making arrangements to sell what we had and go to Oregon. It was the best opportunity for us, for all of us.”

  “You went to Peck.” John didn’t ask, he stated.

  “Yes, I found out where he did business and went to see him. The building was immaculate, clean and well-furnished with quality pieces. Oliver himself was dressed like a gentleman, the outward appearance of a trustworthy man. I thought perhaps he would be reasonable and allow us to cancel the debt no matter what we had to sell or sacrifice.” Her laugh was bitter. “I was mistaken in so many ways.”

  John took her hand. “What happened?”

  Callahan was listening, leaning forward as far as he could. She didn’t care what he heard. It was about time her kidnapper knew exactly what Oliver Peck did. Perhaps he might even change his mind about bringing her back to New York.

  “He offered to forgive the debt in exchange for owning me. I refused, of course, and told him we would sell all our possessions and pay what we borrowed. He smiled handsomely and told me I had no choice. By stepping across his threshold I had already agreed to the deal. From that moment on, I was held prisoner in his house.” Shadows of the bleak days in the fortress slid across her skin. “I had everything I could ever want, but I was a prisoner. Oliver held absolute power over everyone and everything. One of the maids, Laurel, took pity on me and smuggled out a letter to my sister Josephine.”

  She took a deep breath to calm herself, but the shivers started nonetheless. John moved closer and his large hand landed on her back. The warmth seeped through her clothing and to her surprise, she felt better at his touch.

  “I had already convinced my parents it was time to leave New York and take a chance on Oregon. I arranged to sell everything, including the furniture, my father’s shop, most of our clothing and belongings, and finally the apartment. Before we had accumulated enough to pay the debt then travel to Missouri and buy a wagon with supplies, I was taken prisoner by Oliver.” She closed her eyes remembering the pounding terror as she ran through the streets as though the hounds of hell were chasing her. “I left behind the money for the debt and never looked back.”

  John took her hand. “There is something you left out.”

  Frankie opened her eyes and looked at him. “What?”

  His beautiful blue eyes were overflowing with sympathy and anger. “How long were you a prisoner?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat, the pain still raw inside her. The confession would rip the scab off the fresh wound in her heart.

  “Three days.” They were the darkest of her life, but she’d survived and escaped.

  John’s intake
of breath was tiny, but she heard it. It was another slice of pain through her soul. He knew what she did, what Oliver did, during those three days. John was no fool. She braced herself for the censure and his withdrawal. Shame flooded her, although in her head she knew it wasn’t her fault.

  Instead he pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his strong arms around her. “Ah, hell, Frankie, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  Frankie’s eyes stung with tears and her heart ached for his gentle acceptance. She never thought to tell anyone what Oliver did. John knew her darkest secret, that which poisoned her life, lying inside her like a spider in a shadowy corner.

  She told her tears not to fall, vowed months ago to never shed another tear over Oliver Peck. He was the devil incarnate, sent to Earth to keep Lucifer’s works alive and well amongst humans. To put it simply, he was evil. She hated him with ever fiber of her being.

  “I won’t let him take you, Frankie. Ever.” John whispered against her neck. “I promise you.”

  “Thank you.” She wanted to say I love you, but it was too soon to reveal that to him. No matter what, she would protect her heart.

  Tomorrow John may hang for murder. Callahan could snatch her again. Peck could send someone else after her. Sheriff Everett could hang all three of them. Many dangers awaited, but now, for this moment, all she needed or wanted was John Malloy. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe.

  Her heart did a funny pittypat. For all the fighting and foolishness between them, he was a good man, one she had fallen in love with, no matter what her head told her. She breathed in his scent, of man, of outdoors, of John. There was no place in the world she’d rather be than in his arms, even if they sat in a jail cell together.

  “You haven’t asked me.” His voice rumbled through his chest, the vibrations humming through her own.

  “Asked you what?” She didn’t want to move from her perch. His lap was comfortable.

  “Whether I did it.”

  This was his story to tell, his time to reveal his secret to her. She sat up, very alert and aware of the man who held her. Frankie looked into his eyes and saw so much, her throat tightened. Beneath the teasing, the deliberate boorish behavior, he was a man with his own dark shadows that danced in the corners.

  “I did not have to ask. You would never murder anyone.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Killing is not murder and sometimes, people need to be killed.” It was bloodthirsty of her, but she believed what she said, and she believed in John.

  “You still haven’t asked me.” He held back, hanging on to his aloofness, keeping his own counsel.

  “I will not ask,” she whispered, her heart aching for more than half of a conversation with him. “But I will listen.”

  He nodded but didn’t respond. She wanted to turn the clock back two minutes, to feel the safety and comfort of his lap without the awkwardness that now hung between them. Frankie got to her feet with a combination of reluctance and determination. She was nothing if not strong and independent. The time spent feeling taken care of, safe and almost loved, was precious, but she wasn’t fool enough to think it was permanent. Nothing in life was, the year to date had proved that to be true.

  John scowled up at her. She didn’t want to hope he was going to pull her back on his lap, but she did anyway. He opened his mouth when something sounded from outside the window. Frankie turned and listened.

  “Is that a dog?”

  “Probably that flea-bitten thing that followed you around.” John folded his arms. “Foolish mutt.”

  Frankie leaned on the sill of the window, which was at shoulder level. “Dog?” Another whine sounded from outside. “Is that you, boy? I am sorry, but I cannot play. I have another engagement.”

  John snorted at the same time Callahan did. She frowned at them in turn. “Both of you hush up.”

  “You’re talking to a dog about a social engagement.” John’s smile lit up his entire face, momentarily flummoxing her. She’d seen him grin but she’d never seen the full force of his handsome smile. “That’s plumb crazy, Frankie.”

  “It is not crazy. Dog seemed like a nice animal.” She turned away from John, before she made a complete fool of herself over his looks.

  “He can’t help us and he’s likely looking for a handout.” John leaned back against the wall. “Tell him to shoo.”

  “Do not tell me what to do, John Malloy. I will speak to the dog if I want to.” She stood on her tiptoes and tried to see out the window but to no avail. It was just too high for her to view anything but the sky and trees behind the building.

  “Suit yourself but it’s foo—” A horse’s neigh split the air and John’s eyes widened. “Blue?”

  He jumped off the cot and nearly pushed her aside in his exuberance. The man really did love his horse.

  “Damn, he is out there.” He reached through the bars, seemingly to pet the mustang. “Good boy.”

  “I cannot speak to the dog, but you can speak to your horse?” Frankie folded her arms and frowned at him.

  “It’s different. Blue has been my horse for five years. He’s my friend, my companion. Hell, I talked more to him than any person.” John’s expression had softened as he continued to pet his horse through the bars. Frankie thought it was foolish to judge her then turn around and do the same thing, but she couldn’t help but be impressed by his loyalty and love for the equine.

  “I do not think he can help us either. We are fresh out of hay.”

  John spoke softly to the horse, low enough she couldn’t hear him. She wanted to give him privacy, as much as she could, anyway.

  He leaned over and spoke into her ear. His lips were soft and warm against her skin, raising the small hairs on the back of her neck. “The building is made of sod. If we tie his reins to the bars, I think he can pull them out.”

  She tensed, her heart thundering at the notion they would escape from jail. “Should we risk it?”

  “I like my neck the way it is. I don’t want it stretched for a crime I didn’t commit.” He took her upper arm.

  The danger was real, the escape even more so. How did she get into a position where she was in jail and planning her escape? The world had truly turned topsy-turvy. Her hands shook even as her stomach churned.

  “What about Monsieur Callahan?” She didn’t want to glance over at the big Irishman, although there was no chance he could hear their soft words.

  “I don’t give a damn about him. It’ll be full dark when the moon goes down in a few hours. That’s our chance.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry I got you into this.” His breath gusted across her mouth.

  She wanted to kiss him.

  Ridiculous time to have the primal urge but once the thought was in her head she could not get it out. She leaned forward until her lips were so close, she breathed in John and he breathed in her. He made a noise deep in his throat and she closed the distance between them.

  Wrong place, wrong time, but oh so very right.

  His lips were as soft as she remembered, moving against hers with deliberate movements. He nibbled at her mouth, tiny laps from his tongue and kisses between the nips. Her body was on fire, burning hot from her head to her toes. Sweet heat pooled low and deep. Her pussy throbbed, wet and aching.

  He pulled back and she gasped, lurching toward him. He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her.

  “Holy hell, woman, you sure know how to put me off center.” His voice was husky with the same need racing through her.

  “I did not mean to.” She sucked in a much-needed breath. “I do not know what happened to me.”

  Frankie had no idea she would feel such desire for a man. Any man. She had endured what she had to, and made it through using her internal strength. Now she was reaching for something she wanted instead of making sure everyone else got what they needed. Following her own needs and urges was refreshing, freeing, exhilarating. She could easily get used to the feeling.

  She kissed him hard and quick, then
stepped away. She did not want to give Callahan a show. “More later.”

  He shook his head and hugged her. The day could not possibly get any stranger. At least John was still with her, a steady presence she could count on.

  John was about to jump out of his skin. Blue, the good horse he was, stayed by the window in the jail, his gentle whuffles the only sign he remained. If the dog had brought the horse to them, he might have to change his opinion of the damn mutt. They were both smart animals, and with their help he and Frankie might just get out of jail. He had to get them out of there somehow.

  Frankie.

  The woman was under his skin. The fact was, he could hardly control his urges around her. When she’d kissed him earlier, he’d nearly slammed her up against the sod wall and buried himself inside her. Hell, he was hard just thinking about kissing her.

  She distracted him. He had never been so out of sorts before. Between being aroused, annoyed, amused and intrigued, she elicited emotions he hadn’t known he was capable of. What it meant, he wasn’t ready to think about.

  John had left behind all commitments, and any family ties, years ago. He wasn’t ready to knot himself into a relationship he didn’t want or need. His goal was still to buy his land and settle there for good. Veronica’s machinations might ruin his plans, but the situation with Frankie was the true threat.

  Frankie had sacrificed everything for those she loved. There was no comparison between the women. One was amazing, the other all icing and no cake, regardless of the situation Veronica was in. Of course, he was engaged to Veronica, and his future—the ranch—depended on finishing the wagon train job and his full pay. Buck knew who buttered his bread, and rich people like Veronica’s Pa owned men like the wagon master.

  It was an incredibly awkward and frustrating situation. Frankie was the kind of woman who would settle in a new place and make her way with her chin up and shoulders back. Veronica couldn’t possibly be happy living on a ranch without the finer things in life. There simply was no way he could marry her without earning more money, which meant another wagon train. He would have to give up his dream of a ranch for another year, much as it pained him to do so.