Westin’s Wyoming Page 11

  “Take them where?”

  “I have to keep looking, Jamie. You know that.”

  “But—”

  “You can get the boy back to the ranch as fast without me as you can with me.”

  “But I have a compass. I can find my way in this blizzard, and you…”

  “Don’t waste time arguing with me.”

  Jamie nodded. “You’re as stubborn as Birch. Okay. After I get the boy to safety I’ll come back—”

  “No,” Pierce said. They’d been moving outside to the horses as they spoke. Jamie climbed up on the gelding and Pierce handed up the still child, tucking blankets around his head as Jamie cradled him in his arms. “Bad enough one of us is wandering around out in this. Stay put. Don’t leave the boy alone with anyone from Chatioux.”

  “Pauline says they’ve scattered like stray calves. She doesn’t know where the hell they all are.”

  “Be careful,” Pierce said, and patting the gelding’s rump, watched as Jamie disappeared into the snow.

  As Pierce closed the shanty door, his gaze once again landed on the dead bodyguard. This time he caught sight of something gold glittering in the man’s hand and went inside to check it out. He found a fine gold chain twisted in Harley’s fingers, a small diamond flower cupped in his hand.

  The princess’s necklace.

  He pried it from the dead man’s grasp, dreading what—or who—he would find next. Lucas Garvey bleeding to death in the snow? Analise? But why hurt her?

  Then again, why kill Darrell, why kill Harley?

  And who was in on it with Harley?

  Anger chasing away weariness, he left behind the shanty and the secrets it held.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Somehow Analise managed to fall asleep. She awoke with a start as something slipped from her face.

  A man squatted in front of her. As she gasped through the gag, he ran a finger down her cheek. “What’s the matter, darlin’? Startle you?”

  Her blindfold dangled from his other hand.

  She shook her head, frantically searching the room for Toby. There wasn’t a single indication he’d ever been there.

  “How about you give me a little of what you’re giving Pierce Westin,” the man said.

  She shook her head again. Her neck and shoulders ached from the tension of having her arms pulled so tight behind her, wrists laced together.

  He produced a large pocketknife and popped out the blade. “I can use this to convince you to be friendly or I can use it to cut that gag and give you something to eat and drink. Your choice, darlin’.”

  Analise squeezed her eyes shut, but the man’s lascivious grin was just as vivid with her eyes closed as it was with them open. He had dark hair cut poorly, falling over a thin, weathered face. Small eyes and mouth, bigger than average nose, red blotches of high color on his cheeks emphasizing old scars of juvenile acne. His breath smelled more than ever of spirits. He must have been drinking as she nodded off.

  Her eyes opened as his fingers slid down her throat. He caught the tab of her coat zipper and pulled it down, and then his hands reached under her jacket, under her shirt, grasping at her breasts. Spit glistened on his thin lips.

  There was nothing she could do to stop him short of squirming away and this she did. To her dismay, her measly fighting efforts seemed to arouse him and the next thing she knew, he’d clenched her throat in one hand while throwing her flat on her back, arms pinned beneath her.

  “That’s how you want it, darlin’? Rough? That’s fine with me.”

  A blast of cold air announced the door opening and for one wild incredible moment, Analise expected Pierce to materialize. She twisted her neck and caught a glimpse of a man who looked much like the one groping her. The newcomer raced across the floor with a rifle held at his side. He tore Analise’s attacker away.

  “Damn it, Doyle. Do you always have to mess everything up?”

  Analise recognized the man who had just rescued her. He’d been the one who came to her room last night, the one who told Pierce about the fire…

  Lucas.

  He was staring down at her and by the expression in his eyes, she could tell he knew she’d identified him.

  “Damn it,” he repeated, kicking Doyle who had fallen into a sitting position a few feet away. Raising his head like an angry wolf in the wild, he repeated, “Damn it! You had to see the fear in her eyes, didn’t you? You had to ruin everything.”

  “Just a dang minute,” Doyle said, laboriously getting to his feet. “I’m the one who got us this gig. I’m the one they approached, I’m the one who made the deal, I’m the one who’s going to make you rich, little brother.”

  “That’s cause you’re the one who spends all his time down at Clancy’s. Some of us have actual jobs.”

  “You call freezing your ass off searching for stray cows a good time, be my guest, go back to it.”

  “I can’t go back,” Lucas said. “You know that. Especially now that the princess recognizes me.”

  Doyle laughed as he stared down at Analise, then back at Lucas. “Do you really think she’s going to live to tell the tale? Use your head, dude. She’s a dead woman.”

  Lucas didn’t look convinced, but the glance he cast Analise was murderous. He turned to Doyle and said, “Just put your coat on and come outside. I need help hiding the snowmobiles.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s trussed up like a calf at a rodeo. She won’t go nowhere.”

  THE WORLD WAS a cold, miserable place, more white than anything Pierce had ever seen, even when he was a kid. What he wouldn’t give to have either or both of his brothers with him. Where in the heck was Cody?

  Through the falling snow he finally saw the wooden sides of the eastern feed barn. The ranch produced a lot of its own hay during the short summer; to not do so would mean buying feed and that meant tens of thousands of dollars. The best quality was tucked away in weatherproof structures like this one and distributed throughout the winter. Growing hay was as integral a part of ranching as growing cows.

  He approached on the sly and entered using the stalls in the far back. He brought the horses in out of the snow, too, letting them eat from the bountiful store of feed. Leaving them there, he took the rifle from its scabbard and made his way between rolled towers of hay, the smells bringing summer harvest back to mind.

  Was that the first positive memory he’d had about this place since getting here? No, there were others. Riding Sam out to check the fences, the smell of the kitchen on a cold morning, the huge sky that could be ominous like it was now or as crisp and blue as the Mediterranean. The jagged mountains, the trees, the pure clean air and the satisfaction of working hard.

  He moved slowly and quietly, listening as he inched his way along. Was that a creak in the loft? Hard to tell. The wind made a lot of things groan and squeak.

  By the time he neared the open area in front he knew he was alone. Stepping into the narrow clearing proved his senses hadn’t misled him. No one had been here for quite a while, the doors were closed, the air was cold but undisturbed.

  No princess.

  He sat down on a wooden bench and put his head in his hands, closing his eyes. Fatigue and weariness were catching up with him and he didn’t know what to do next. His stomach had gone beyond hunger to no-man’s-land but the thought of eating what Pauline had sent made him cringe. The Indian site seemed a remote and improbable possibility, but that’s all he could think of. He’d go there next.

  He threw his head back against the wall, smothering a yawn in his fist. His mind conjured up the image of the ranch office the afternoon before. The princess seated in the big chair, him perched on the desk. She’d looked so pretty sitting there, even as scared as she’d been. Maybe when you were born royal you figured out how to command any room; her delicate aura had dwarfed the heavy, masculine office furniture.

  He stared straight ahead. The furniture. What was his tired brain trying to tell him? He rubbed his eye
s and the image of the hunting lodge depicted in the painting behind the chair flashed through his mind—of course!

  The old hunting lodge, not used much anymore, certainly not this time of year—less than a mile from here.

  How had he forgotten it? Had he been so zeroed in on the cave because of its relevance to Princess Analise’s reason for her visit that he’d neglected to recall the lodge?

  Fatigue gone, he popped to his feet and ran back toward the horses.

  ANALISE STARTLED AWAKE with the sounds of Toby’s cries echoing through her brain. Impossible. Nothing had changed. She must have been dreaming. Her stomach heaved with worry.

  What if they’d killed Toby? What would she tell his parents? Tears took giant stinging bites in the back of her nose but she refused to allow them to fall.

  There was something else at issue, as well, and that was the original reason for the visit to Wyoming. If Toby or she were killed there would be official inquiries as well as the attending media circus. For that matter, it might already be too late. Kidnapping was a federal offense. Her mother’s reason for sending Analise to the Open Sky Ranch would come out and the information Analise was sent to secure and destroy could become public knowledge.

  And that could mean the end of the Chatioux she knew and loved and the destruction of her family.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  Think. Do something to help yourself. Do it for your family.

  The man called Doyle sat slumped in a big chair in front of the dwindling fire. Occasionally he lifted a bottle to his lips and drank, but now that she watched more carefully, she realized he wasn’t even doing that much.

  Was he asleep?

  Hope surged through her at the thought. She had to hurry. The other man might give up waiting for Pierce and return at any minute, but she couldn’t sit here and waste an opportunity. Think, Analise.

  She could use the wall to push herself to her feet if she could just roll back into a sitting position without arousing Doyle’s attention. She’d never done it that way before, but she’d seen her older brother, Alexander, do it on occasion. She devoted the next few minutes to getting situated, freezing every time the dry hay rustled beneath her weight. Finally she was ready to press her back and bound hands against the wood and, slivers be damned, push with her leg muscles. It was way harder than Alexander made it look…?.

  Doyle made a snorting noise. His hand dropped to his side and the empty flask he’d been holding toppled harmlessly to the wood floor.

  Where did he keep that knife? Where was the little gun he’d taken from her? Something, anything.

  She would have to hop across the room. It seemed like a good way to commit suicide, but what were her options? Wait here like a lamb? She took a tentative hop, a tiny little thing a baby bunny wouldn’t be proud of, but it gave her courage. Doyle didn’t open an eye. In fact, it seemed his snoring became even more pronounced.

  A few more modest hops began to give her confidence. She would have to pass in front of the one big window that wasn’t boarded up or hopelessly cracked and if Lucas happened to be watching, that would be dangerous, but there was no other choice.

  She could see the pocket of Doyle’s coat hanging down by his legs and it looked as though it held something relatively heavy. Like a knife. She kept at it, small hop after small hop, biting down hard on the gag as she moved, struggling to control her breathing.

  Finally she was at his side. She would have to reach in at an angle because of the way her wrists were tied behind her back. The trick would be to move quickly but gently.

  Fate favors the bold. That’s what her father was fond of saying.

  Turning, she bent her knees and slipped her hands into the deep pocket.

  Her fingers touched steel. Not the knife. She’d hit pay dirt. The small gun slipped into her hands and for the first time since this ordeal began, she felt sure she could turn things around. Could she shoot this guy? Hell, yes.

  Slowly, she pulled her hands and the precious gun from his pocket, working out in her head how she could get into a position where she could use it. But then a vise clamped onto her wrists and a second later, Doyle pulled her down across his lap. “Well, hi there, darlin’,” he slurred.

  Disappointment rose up her throat.

  He pried the gun from her fingers and pointed it at her forehead. “This what you was going to do to me, darlin’?”

  His finger squeezed the trigger and she flinched but although there was a clicking noise, it wasn’t a bullet that appeared. Instead a small flame shot out the barrel.

  A cigarette lighter? Her salvation was a cigarette lighter?

  “Bet you wish you’d found this instead,” he said, and this time he held the knife, the lethal-looking blade just inches from her face.

  With a leering grin, he lowered the tip in slow motion. Analise lay as still as a terrified mouse trapped under a cat’s paw as the broad blade filled her vision. The cold touch of metal grazed her cheek, and a second later, he’d cut the gag free and pulled it from her parched mouth.

  “How about showing me a little gratitude?” he said, pawing at her. His plans for her were pretty damn clear.

  She turned her face away and his damp lips connected with her ear. “You’re a dead woman,” he hissed.

  Analise jerked away, half falling to the floor. Doyle swore at her but it was swallowed by a gunshot coming from outside. He instantly grabbed her hair and pulled her across the room. With one violent motion, he threw her on the hay, then lurched back to the fireplace for his gun, and this one wasn’t a toy. Holding the knife in front of him, he shoved the gun in his belt. It had been on the hearth and she hadn’t seen it.

  To Analise, a gunshot meant rescue and rescue meant Pierce Westin. She lay on the hay, determined to help if she could.

  Opportunity presented itself as Doyle raced toward the door. With all the strength fueled into her hatred of this man and her desire to be free, she rolled herself in front of him. He fell over the top of her, falling hard and fast on top of her. Right before she passed out, she heard an unholy sound issue from his mouth.

  PIERCE LOOKED AT the lodge and the small barn from a distance. What would he do if he was the captor?

  If alone, he’d stay in the house with the princess.

  If there were two or more, he’d send someone to the barn loft for a good vantage point. Since Pierce wasn’t sure who or how many he was looking for, it made sense to start with the loft.

  The first good news he received came as he sneaked into the barn and found two Open Sky snowmobiles and the battered trailer used to haul gear around the ranch. There was an old tarp in the trailer and some blackened cord but nothing else—no bodies, hallelujah! Two snowmobiles meant at least two captors.

  And it meant Analise was here.

  It was getting dark by this time and the barn was deeply shadowed. A slender ladder led up to the loft. Pierce climbed it slowly, methodically, chafing with anxiety to just get it over with, tempering that anxiety with caution. He had no advantage except surprise. He couldn’t afford to waste it.

  He’d left his hat downstairs and he peered over the edge into the loft itself, certain at first that he’d figured things wrong. But then he heard a soft snore and gazing into the gloom, finally made out a figure huddled in a blanket in front of the partially open hay door.

  Lucas.

  Had he escaped or was he part of this?

  Still aiming for stealth, Pierce hoisted himself into the loft and began a slow walk toward his hired hand. He saw the rifle in Lucas’s hand and made sure his gun was in his own.

  With less than ten feet to cover, Lucas awoke with a start. His gaze immediately swiveled around to Pierce. He tried to jump up but got tangled in the blanket and stumbled. Pierce rushed the last few feet, unwilling to shoot, but Lucas had no such compunction and a shot whizzed past Pierce’s ear.

  Now whoever was in the house would know someone was out here.

  “Damn,” he mut
tered even as caught Lucas around the waist and wrestled him to the floor, knocking the rifle out of his grip.

  “You traitor, where is she?” he asked as he patted Lucas down and retrieved the rifle from the floor. “How many of you are there?”

  Lucas glared at him.

  Pierce nodded his head toward the ladder. “Let’s go. And you better pray the princess is okay.” Somehow, he got himself and Lucas down the ladder. “Put your hands on top of your head,” he snapped as he shoved Lucas out the side door ahead of him.

  The snow had started again, and it was clear it wasn’t going to let up anytime soon. Maybe that and the encroaching night would help obscure him and Lucas marching toward the house, maybe it wouldn’t.

  There was a back door to the lodge but Pierce didn’t want to take the time to use it, not when that wild bullet had sounded an alarm. He kept his gun trained on Lucas’s head as he pushed him along.

  “Did you kill Darrell?” he asked pointedly.

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t exactly a courtroom where you can plead the Fifth, you moron.”

  Lucas shook his head.

  “You started the fire, didn’t you?”

  “Needed a diversion,” he grumbled.

  “You damn bastard. Call off whoever is in there with the princess.”

  “Or you’ll what? Shoot me?”

  “I might. Or maybe I’ll just bash in your head and leave you to die like you did that defenseless little kid, or better yet, maybe I’ll stuff you in an ice hole like you did Harley.”

  “Hey, now, wait just a second, I never hurt no one.”

  “Give it up, Lucas. You’re a lousy liar.”

  “No, it’s true. I didn’t do any of that.” Some of the bravado slipped from his voice.

  “I’m listening.”

  Lucas shook his head.

  “Talk,” Pierce urged, his voice low. “If you didn’t kill anyone, this is your big chance for redemption.”