Broddock-Black 05 - Force of Nature (21 page)

❧

Flynn rode flat-out, his mount responding without benefit of whip or spur, as though understanding the urgency of their mission. The paint’s ears dropped back; his stride lengthened and he flew over the rough ground. His men kept pace, their ponies prime bloodstock, their loyalty to Flynn absolute.

The Empire ranch was as familiar to Flynn as his own after years of surveillance. He even knew where the billiard room was, and he prayed during the seemingly endless ride, when he hadn’t prayed in years, when cynical and impious, he’d given up asking the gods for help. He prayed to any god who would listen:
Please, please, please, keep her safe.

It was well known that Hugh Mortimer had been sent abroad because he’d killed a woman, by accident it was said. But rumor had it he liked violence with his sex and he’d been warned off twice in Helena for hurting the girls in the brothels.

If he'd dared hurt Jo, God help him,
Flynn vowed.

He would cut Hugh Mortimer into little pieces.

❧

After deploying their forces in the thickets surrounding the breaks, Hazard gave orders to leave the Englishmen for Flynn. The rest were fair game.

“Although, I’d prefer the hired guns be eliminated first,” he added. “We don’t need their kind in the territory.” It was a time of rough-and-ready vigilante justice, when the populace in the West looked askance at hired killers and dealt with them in a swift and summary fashion. Judges looked the other way and the army stayed clear of internal disputes, particularly if prominent citizens were involved.

❧

Flynn heard the first shots faintly as he and his men approached the ranch from the low ground behind the stables. Screened by a stand of cottonwoods until they were within twenty yards of the buildings, Flynn dismounted at that point and said simply, “Follow me.” His men knew what to do. They followed close behind as he sprinted across the stable yard. The shooting suddenly escalated in the west as they reached the back porch of the ranch house, indication that the battle was fully engaged.

Opening the door without pausing to reconnoiter, Flynn entered the house, his Colt poised. The back hall was deserted, not surprising with the number of men the English had brought with them to the parley. And household servants weren’t a concern. Signaling his intent with a nod of his head, he loped down the hall, his men fanned out behind him.

He and Frank saw each other at the same time, but Flynn didn’t slow his pace; he only tightened his finger on the trigger of his Colt.

The old man standing before a door as though guarding it, threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot, for God’s sake, don’t shoot!” Panic rang through his voice. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

“Where is she?” Flynn already knew the answer, the man’s fear patent, his last remark exposing his involvement.

“I didn’t touch her, I swear.” Frank pointed at the door. “She’s in there.”

“Is she alone?” If someone was guarding Jo, his entrance could endanger her.

“Yes, just her. They all left.”

“If you’re fucking with me, I’ll kill you.”

Frank knew he meant it. He also knew this was Flynn Ito glaring at him sure as hell. “I swear, she’s alone. Tied up, sir. I didn’t dare help her, but I was hopin’. It’s a long story, sir; she’ll be glad to see you.”

Flynn’s surprise showed for a flashing moment. How did the man know what Jo would like? But already shoving the door open, he dismissed useless speculation.

When he saw Jo trussed and naked, flagrantly on exhibit for the loathsome English, he came to a dead stop, inundated by a surge of fury so powerful he couldn’t breathe.

Having turned at the sound of the door opening, she recognized him instantly, tears welling in her eyes. “Flynn!”

She was undeniably naked. Worse, she’d been naked, her legs spread wide, for who knows how long with those sadistic bastards. Quickly shutting the door, he told himself to breathe as though his brain required instructions in the presence of such heinous depravity. As he approached the table, he took note of the billiard ball, saw how wet it was and with what, observed the handle of the discarded pool cue, still dark with her essence.

She reeked of whiskey; she didn’t like whiskey and her gaze was unfocused. He told himself they’d made her do what she did. He rationally understood that she hadn’t been willing. But the ball was drenched, sticky and wet, and he knew why.

Forcing down the bile rising in his throat, he spoke as moderately as he could, as clearly with her understanding possibly compromised. “Your father’s holding the Empire crew in the breaks. No one can hurt you now. You’re safe.” And then he quickly moved forward, carefully cut the ropes from her wrists and ankles, reddened and raw from her bonds. “Can you move?” He was almost afraid to ask, not sure he could deal with the answer.

She didn’t immediately answer as though trying to understand what he’d said, and then she nodded and shutting her eyes, she suddenly began shaking.

“They’re gone. It’s over,” Flynn whispered, gathering her into his arms. Gently raising her to a seated position, he quickly unbuttoned the top buttons on his linen shirt, jerked the garment off and dropped it over her head. Helping her to slide her arms into the sleeves, he lifted her off the table and holding her steady, set her on her feet. With relief, he saw that his shirt fell below her knees. He’d never realized he was so prudish. Scooping her up into his arms, he moved toward the door.

“I can walk.”

“No.”

The grim timbre of his voice alarmed her, her senses minutely attuned to male displeasure in the wake of her torment. “Are you angry?” she asked as a child might, anxious and fearful.

“No, not at all.”

But she was conscious at some level of the effort it required for him to answer with grace.

“I just want you out of danger as soon as possible.”

Again, that terrifying undercurrent of restraint in his voice.

His men were standing guard when he opened the door, Frank hovering nearby. Without pausing, Flynn nodded his head in the direction from which they’d come and swiftly moved away.

Frank ran to keep up. “Sir,” he quavered, the uncertainty in his voice palpable. “Could we ride out with you?”

Not breaking stride, Flynn shot him a look. “We’re moving too fast. But the English won’t be back if that’s what’s worrying you. Although, I’d suggest you get out soon. I’m burning the place down.”

The cold ruthlessness in Flynn’s pronouncement brought Frank to a standstill, all the stories he’d heard about Flynn Ito suddenly brutally clear.

Jo plucked at Flynn’s shoulder, her mind somehow distilling what was important from the brief conversation, Frank’s pitiful expression jarring her senses. “His wife can’t ride. She’s too old. Flynn! She can’t ride!”

Scowling, he came to a stop. “You trust him?”

She shook her head, as though clearing her thoughts. “Yes, yes ... he helped me.”

Flynn half-turned so he could see Frank. “Take the carriage!” he shouted. “The English won’t be needing it! And head north—it’s safer!”

“Thank you, sir!” A sudden smile wreathed Frank’s face. “Thank you very much!”

But Flynn was already on the move, running.

The sound of battle had cleared the ranch of the few gun hands left behind and Flynn and his men rode away unmolested. Holding Jo across his lap, Flynn gave a wide berth to the hostilities, asking her the few questions he required answered, although cautious in his interrogation. He didn’t wish to remind her unduly of her ordeal. When the small party was well past the breaks, he brought his horse to a halt. “Can you ride?” he asked her, finding the question repugnant but necessary.

She nodded, understanding what answer was needed to wipe the scowl from his face.

Without comment, he slid backward, deposited Jo in the saddle and dropped to the ground.

“My men will see that you get back to my ranch.” He wanted to say,
I wish I had proper clothes for you,
but couldn’t bring himself to refer to the circumstances of her near-nakedness. “It won’t take long,” he said instead.

She nodded, any attempt at framing thoughts into words difficult.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Be careful,” she blurted out and childlike, she reached out to him.

He patted her hand and set it back on her reins. He wasn’t in the mood to be careful. He wanted to kill the English an inch at a time. Lifting his carbine from its scabbard, he smiled at her. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

Then he slapped his paint on the rump and ran in the direction of the gunfire.

W
hen Flynn joined the battle, the Empire crew had been significantly reduced, their exposed position at the bottom of the ravine lethal to anyone who lifted his head above whatever hasty barricade they’d been able to throw up. There wasn’t a man in Flynn’s or Hazard’s crew who wasn’t a marksmen, their weapons first class. It was just a matter of time before the hired guns were picked off one by one.

The Empire had been harassing them for so many years, Flynn’s crew harbored a real sense of personal vengeance. And this opportunity to shoot their paid mercenaries like fish in a bowl was gratifying.

Most of the Empire’s local cowboys had managed to slip away, or perhaps the Sun River Ranch boys let them slip away. But the hired guns weren’t faring as well, and of course, the English were being saved.

With fewer and fewer men left alive, the shooting eventually became sporadic, allowing Flynn the opportunity to find Hazard and assure him of Jo’s safety.

Coming up on Hazard’s makeshift redoubt, Flynn squatted down behind the fallen timber. “Jo’s on her way to my ranch with six of my men. She needs rest.”

“How badly was she hurt?” Hazard’s voice was guarded; he knew about Hugh Mortimer—who didn’t.

“Not too badly.”

Flynn had taken a moment too long to reply. Hazard looked at him squarely. “Meaning what.”

“She was tied up like they said.” Flynn’s expression turned grim. “I don’t know the details, but she seemed reasonably calm, considering.”

“We’ll have to see if they’re as calm when we deal with them,” Hazard said, his voice chill. “You want Mortimer, I suppose.”

Flynn nodded.

“And the others?”

Flynn shrugged. “It’s up to you. I asked her”—he blew out a breath—“she talked some about what happened,” he went on, tersely—“and I saw”—he grimaced—“you don’t want to know. But the one called Nigel opted out, she said.”

“One for you and one for me, then,” Hazard declared. He didn’t need any further details.

“I’m burning down the Empire tonight, so whatever that fellow Nigel wants to do . . . he’d better make up his mind fast.”

“I’ll see that he leaves Montana.” Hazard’s dark gaze was implacable.

“Good.” The single word was softly uttered but infused with a brute finality. Flynn glanced toward the breaks. “I’m going down there. I’ll see you when this is over.”

Hazard quickly checked the rounds in his Colts. “I’ll go with you.”

❧

By the time Flynn reached the boundary of the brush line, he and Hazard were no longer alone. Their men rimmed the alder-brush perimeter, weapons poised.

“Everyone but the English,” Flynn ordered, the murmured command going down the line from man to man. Shortly after, he raised his hand, moved it forward in a swift arc and took off in a running zigzag. Launching himself over the rim of the ravine in seconds, he leaped and slid and plunged down the side of the dry gully, his Colts blazing, his men at his back.

The hired guns who tried to run were cut down. Those who stayed buried in their makeshift bunkers were ferreted out and killed. The rattle of small arms, the smell of gunpowder, the yells and screams of slaughter and command, the violent movement and milling free-for-all battle suddenly coming to a stop as abruptly as it had begun—every mercenary dead.

“We got ’im here, boss,” McFee shouted. Pulled from their horses as they tried to flee, the English stood huddled together, guarded by a dozen men.

As Flynn walked up, he wondered if he was capable of killing a man in cold blood. The English looked desperately out of place, overdressed and flaccid, their silk shirts an incongruous note in the rugged landscape.

“Which one’s Nigel?” Flynn’s powerful nude torso glistened with sweat, his long hair swirled across his shoulders, his swords and Colts gleamed in the sunlight as he stood waiting, not completely sure it mattered who was who after what they’d done to Jo.

“Me ... I am.”

The voice trembled, as did the man and Flynn almost sighed in exasperation at the necessity of dealing with such useless creatures. But this man, Nigel, had been, if not kind, of service to Jo by his own cowardice. “Go,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

Nigel’s head swiveled from side to side as though his timidity would find some answer in the faces of the men surrounding him.

“I’d get the look out if I were you,” Me Fee said, holding up his thumb and swinging it to one side.

“Get him a horse,” Flynn murmured. This was becoming more distasteful by the minute; the man was petrified. “Look, you didn’t personally take a hand in tormenting Miss Attenborough. That’s the only reason I’m letting you go. Now, get out; the time limit on this offer isn’t indefinite.”

Nigel finally seemed to understand or his paralysis lessened. In any event, he bolted for a horse, managed to get up into the saddle and surrounded by Hazard’s men, galloped away.

“Now then,” Flynn murmured, his mouth twisted in cheerless contemplation. “What are we going to do with you two?” “You have no authority over us!” Hugh challenged, bellicose and defiant. “I demand you release us immediately!” “I understand you were going to hang me.”

Hugh’s plump face was red with indignation, the pompous conceit of twenty generations of Mortimers bred into his blood and bone. “You’re a renegade scoundrel! You deserve to hang!”

His overweening presumption was staggering considering his current status, Flynn thought. “Did Miss Attenborough deserve her fate at your hands as well?” he asked with an icy calm.

“I didn’t hear her complaining.” Hugh’s smile was malicious.

“I beg to differ with you, there.” Fucking reptile; he was making killing him easier by the second.

“I’ll have you thrown in jail for what you’ve done today!” Hugh’s threats were pronounced with loud and lordly hauteur. “My father will have you hung!”

“Hugh, for God’s sake,” Langley muttered, terror having effectively sobered him. “Watch your tongue.”

Turning his attention on Langley, Flynn softly inquired, “Did you think Miss Attenborough was enjoying herself, Mr. Phellps?”

Langley quailed under Flynn’s harsh gaze. “I don’t know. Was damned drunk, you see—couldn’t rightly say.”

“I understand you were interested in Miss Attenborough’s feelings?”

“I—I. . . can’t remember.”

“She told me you were.”

“Stop your cowering, Langley,” Hugh ordered, churlishly. “Good God, this man is scum.”

“While your family’s title makes you what—stronger. . . richer . .. smarter?”

“It makes me a gentleman. Something you know nothing about,” Hugh returned with a sneer.

“And gentlemen torture ladies. Is that right?”

“She was no lady.”

Flynn struck Hugh with the flat of his hand in a blur of movement, the blow knocking him down.

“Now what do you milords say in circumstances like this?” Flynn drawled, watching Hugh struggle to come to his feet. “I demand satisfaction?”

Hugh’s large nostrils flared, the rising red welt on his face striking against the whiteness of his skin. “Nobles don’t duel with common rabble,” he spat. “They horsewhip them!” Flynn gazed at him, a merciless glint in his eyes. “You’re a very stupid man.”

“And you need to learn who your betters are,” Hugh contemptuously retorted. Hugh Mortimer had never been able to control his temper, which accounted for the numerous public schools he’d been asked to leave and for the incident in the London brothel as well. That unfortunate quarrelsome pugnacity currently induced him to let slip the hidden derringer in his sleeve into his palm, sweep his arm upward and fire the twin barrels point blank at Flynn’s face.

A collective gasp escaped the onlookers as Flynn ducked, seized his short sword and flung it hard.

Hugh staggered back, gagging, the ten-inch blade buried in his throat.

Flynn swung up from his crouch, a Colt in each hand.

And Langley slowly crumbled to the ground in a faint.

“The remittance men lack a certain honor,” Hazard murmured, drily, sliding his revolver back in his holster. “But at least there’s one less of them. What the hell are we going to do with this last one?” he added, nudging Langley’s purple-shirted arm with his mocassin. “He’s too pathetic to shoot.”

“He’ll probably drink himself to death soon enough anyway,” Trey offered.

“Send him back. I don’t care.” Leaning over, Flynn retrieved his sword, wiped it clean on his trouser leg and slid it back into his belt. “I have a ranch to burn down.”