Elizabeth Lane (28 page)

He paused for breath, heart pounding with fear and frustration. If his words had pierced Cherokee’s silent wall, it didn’t show in his face. The dark features were as impassive as stone.

“Look at her,” he pleaded, risking more boldness. “Then look at Spade, lying there with his neck crushed. Dooley let it happen, Cherokee. He watched Spade die without lifting a finger to save him. And he’d do the same for you—”

“Shut up, Cole!” Dooley had picked up the Spencer, and he jammed the barrel hard against Donovan’s spine. “I shoulda killed you first thing! And when I’m through with you, by damn, I will!”

Donovan could see Sarah out of the corner of his eye. She was crouched on the edge of a chair, frozen in midmotion. He remembered the pistol and wondered what she’d done with it.

“Go ahead, then,” he said. “Let the others go and take me with you. The horses and supplies are waiting outside. No one in the street will raise a hand to stop you. They only want the children back.”

“No. I have a better idea.” It was Sarah who spoke. She was on her feet now, trembling like an aspen in a strong wind. “Take me with you instead. A woman hostage would give you more bargaining power against a posse. And you could keep me prisoner. You could hole up somewhere and hold me for ransom until you got word that Donovan had filed the claim transfers.”

Donovan cursed under his breath. He wanted Sarah out of this. He wanted her safe. Why couldn’t the maddening woman have kept still and left things to him?

Dooley scowled, his eyes darting to Cherokee, who had not moved a muscle except to tighten his grip on Katy. Dooley had tried to conceal all mention of the claims from the silent half-breed. But now everything was out in the open.

“For all your fancy talk, I haven’t seen one piece of paperwork on them claims!” Dooley snarled, turning back to Sarah. “Are they real, or have you been bullin’ me all along?”

Sarah’s thin, bare shoulders quivered above the wilted green silk. “They’re real,” she said doggedly. “And I’m sure I can find them, if you’ll just give me a little more time.”

“Time!” Dooley exploded. “Hell, you’ve had most of the night! Time’s runnin’ out!” He glanced at Donovan and spat on the floor. “I’ll give you one hour to come up with them claims! While you look, I’m keepin’ your friend the major right here. Bring me the papers and we’ll talk. Otherwise, Cole’s a dead man, and I promise you it won’t be pretty!”

“T
ie him tight, Lydia, honey. No tricks now, or I shoot the both of you.”

Sarah’s fingers shook as she knotted the rope that bound Donovan to the chair. Neither of them spoke—there was little to be said, with Dooley smirking at them down the barrel of his rifle. But she could feel the tension in the taut cords of Donovan’s wrists. She could feel the helpless rage in every rise and fall of his chest. He was afraid for her, Sarah knew. And she was even more afraid for him. Her offer to produce the claim papers had been pure bluff. Now, if she could not deliver them, Donovan would pay with his life.

Dooley had ordered Donovan to drag Spade’s body to the cool room. That accomplished, Cherokee had been allowed to take Katy upstairs again. The last sight of the little girl’s tear-streaked face had wrenched Sarah’s heart, and she could only imagine what it had done to Donovan.

“Please—” She’d turned on Dooley in desperation. “Just let the children go. We’ve got money—you can have it all!”

He had only scratched his flat nose and grinned at her helplessness. “You make the offer sound right temptin’, honey,” he drawled. “But money can’t hold off a posse. Kids can. Just finish tyin’ up your boyfriend and bring me them minin’ claims. That is, if you really got ‘em.”
“I’ve got them,” she’d lied. “I remember the box where I put them now. It should be in the upstairs storeroom.” She had circled Donovan’s body with the ropes, leaving them as loose as she dared. His eyes looked straight ahead now, betraying nothing.

“Tighter, honey.” Dooley jabbed at her ribs with the rifle’s cold steel muzzle. “Don’t leave him no wigglin’ room. You do, and I’ll know it.”

“Do as he says.” Donovan’s voice was low and taut. Sarah tightened the ropes, weighing the chance she was about to take.

“Just a little more back here.” She edged around behind him, to a position where his body shielded her from Dooley’s sight. As she tested the knot that bound his wrists, one hand darted to her bodice. Praying that Dooley would not notice, she pulled out the small kitchen knife and slipped it into Donovan’s sleeve. A subtle twitch of Donovan’s wrist told her he knew what she had done.

A fine beading of sweat chilled Sarah’s face and arms as she stepped away from him. “I’m finished,” she declared. “Check the knots if you like, Corporal.”

“No need!” Dooley snorted his amusement. “If the major gets loose, I’ll just plug a bullet through him!”

Sarah bit back the urge to tell the man what an evil monster he was. “I’ll be going to look for those claim papers now,” she said. “If you so much as touch him—”

He grinned at her implied threat. “Why, ain’t you the feisty one, Miss Lydia Taggart! You oughta be lickin’ my boots for not killin’ you both right here! Now, get on with you! Either find them claims or quit yappin’ about ‘em!”

Sarah cast him a contemptuous glance and stalked toward the staircase. She could feel Donovan’s gaze on her, but she did not look back. She did not dare. A single meeting of their eyes would be enough to shatter her.

She should have kept still, she thought as she mounted the stairs. She should have left matters to Donovan. Instead,
her blind desperation to save his life had left him in helpless peril.

Smitty’s pistol, which she’d managed to tuck beneath a garter, lay cold against her thigh. The small firearm was her only hope, but how could she use it? If she ambushed Cherokee, Dooley would kill Donovan. And shooting Dooley would unleash Cherokee on the women and children.

Reeling with exhaustion, she reached the landing and paused to collect her thoughts. Find the mining claims—no other step made sense. But she did not even know whether the claims existed. And if they did, her task loomed as hopeless as finding the needle in the proverbial haystack. Smitty’s office, the cellar and the secret room had already been ransacked. She could only guess at where to look next.

The storeroom lay at the far end of the hall. To reach it, she would have to pass the room where Cherokee guarded his prisoners. Squaring her shoulders, she strode down the narrow corridor. In the bloodred light, she could see the outlaw seated with his crossed legs spanning the doorway. His hat brim was tilted over his eyes, and he appeared to be dozing, but Sarah knew better. He would be fully awake and well aware of her approach.

Her footsteps slowed as an idea took root in her mind. It was a wild scheme, born of desperation and not likely to work. But if ever there was a time for risks, it was now.

She came abreast of the door and paused in the opening. Cherokee did not raise his head, but a barely perceptible twitch of his gun hand told Sarah he knew she was there. He was waiting like a coiled snake, waiting for the slightest excuse to strike.

Leaning cautiously past him in the doorway, she peered into the darkened room. All five of the children sprawled sleepily on the bed. Freckle-faced Isaac, Eli, Harold, Molly Sue, who was sucking her thumb, and brave little Katy. Sarah’s gaze lingered lovingly on each small face. She
would save them, she vowed. Whatever the cost, she would save them all.

George, the wounded piano player, stirred restlessly on the rug next to the bed. Greta huddled in a corner, snoring in puffy little breaths. But Faye was wide-awake. She sat upright in her rocker, her fatigue-glazed eyes staring into the darkness.

“Faye!” Sarah stage-whispered across the distance.

Faye’s gaze shifted.

“Faye, I need to talk to you! There’s something I have to find!”

Faye eased out of the chair and crept closer to the doorway where Sarah stood. Cherokee had not moved, but Sarah knew he was listening. She leaned past him, to speak close to Faye’s ear.

“How much do you know about Smitty’s business?”

Faye’s husky shoulders lifted in a shrug.

“I’m looking for the mining claims….” Sarah’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “You know, all those worthless claims he took as payment years ago, when the town was going bust?”

Faye hesitated foggily. “Oh,” she said at last.
“Them
claims.”

“Donovan says the claims are going to be valuable again now that the new smelter’s opened up in Central City.” Sarah paused, then threw caution to the winds. “When we find them, Dooley says he’ll take us on as partners. We can use the robbery loot to set ourselves up in Mexico. Then, when the time’s right, we can sell the claims for cash. We’ll be rich!”

Again Faye hesitated. One eyelid twitched in the red darkness. Had it been a wink, Sarah wondered, or only a nervous tic?

“How ‘bout me?” she asked plaintively. “How ‘bout Greta and Zoe and George?”

“We…can talk about it after we find the claims,” Sarah hedged, still uncertain of how much Faye understood.

“And how ‘bout him?” She glanced down at Cherokee. Sarah saw the cords tense in the gunman’s wrist. Yes, Faye knew and she was playing along. Sarah could have hugged her.

She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not him. Dooley wants to make a fresh start. He figures Cherokee’ll draw too much trouble. I suppose we’ll have to buy him off—that, or get rid of him somehow.”

“How ‘bout cuttin’ me in for sure if I help you find them claims?” Faye’s rough voice exuded an innocence that was almost childlike.

“You know where they are?”

“Maybe. Any way you look at it, two heads is better ‘n one.”

“Shh!” Sarah cautioned. “All right. Come on, then.”

Lifting her skirts, Faye negotiated her way over Cherokee’s pointed Mexican boots. Sarah was afraid the outlaw might try to stop her, but he kept up his own pretense of dozing, hat cocked over his eyes, as the two women crept down the hall. They stopped long enough to borrow a lamp from Greta’s chamber and light a match to the wick. Then they hurried on toward the storeroom.

The room was closed but not locked. They slipped inside and shut the door behind them. The lamplight flickered on a ceiling-high mountain of old furniture, sacks and boxes.

Sarah gazed upward, racked by hopelessness as she faced the truth.

She would never find the mining claims. Even with Faye’s help, it would take hours, maybe days to sift through the contents of this one room. Even if they were to empty every box and scrutinize every paper, the effort would be wasted. The claims did not exist. She had bluffed and lost. Time would run out. Donovan would die, and her heart would die with him.

Sarah ripped open the drawer of a dusty desk, dumped its contents on the floor and began pawing furiously
through them. She could not give up. No matter how black things looked, no matter how hopeless…

Her whole body had begun to shake. With growing despair, she jerked out a second drawer, then a third.

She was reaching for the fourth drawer when she felt Faye’s hand on her shoulder.

The blade lay thin and cold beneath the fabric of Donovan’s sleeve. The small kitchen knife was not particularly sharp, he knew. But if he could position it just right…

“Sit still, Major, you’re makin’ me nervous.” Dooley leered at him from across the table. “You don’t want to make me nervous. I might get jumpy enough to shoot you.” His laughter echoed eerily off the walls. “Your girlfriend’s been gone quite a while, now, eh, Cole? Probably lit out while she had the chance. I coulda told you she’d do it. All that bull about them claim papers—”

“Shut up, Dooley,” Donovan snapped. “It’s bad enough sitting here waiting to get shot. I shouldn’t have to listen to you, too.”

Laughter again, punctuated by an alcoholic hiccup. The big man had been swilling whiskey all night, and the effects were finally beginning to show. His speech was slurred, his eyes glassy as he leaned sideways in his chair. The hope that he might pass out fluttered in Donovan’s heart, then swiftly vanished. Simeon Dooley had the endurance of a grizzly bear.

“Your bottle’s empty,” Donovan said. “Untie me, and I’ll go get you another one.”

“Sure, and then you’ll come back and play me a hand of poker, too. What time is it, Cole? Seems to me your hour should be about up.”

“Twenty minutes to go.” Donovan glanced at the clock and thought of Sarah. He knew she would not return with the papers—there were no papers to find. But she had the pistol. He could only hope she would have the sense to rescue
the hostages and get out while there was still time. His own life would be a small price to pay for nine others.

Willing his shoulders and torso to keep still, he worked the knife lower along his wrist. “So, Dooley, how do you plan to kill me?” he asked mockingly. “Describe it to me. Give me every bloody little detail….”

Sarah stared, transfixed, as Faye worked the rolled sheaf of papers from the depths of her ample bodice.

“I…don’t understand,” she murmured.

“There ain’t many secrets in a place like this, child. Zoe heard you talkin’ about the minin’ claims. She told Greta, and Greta told me, so we all knowed you was lookin’ for ‘em.” Faye unrolled the papers, curving them backward to flatten them. “When Cherokee took that little gal downstairs, I grabbed these out from under the mattress, where they been hid all these years.”

Thunderstruck, Sarah riffled through the yellowed pages. Mining claims. Fifteen or twenty of them at least, all legally witnessed and signed over to Faye Margaret Swenson.

“Smitty never took claims for payment,” Faye explained. “He said they wasn’t worth the paper they was printed on, and we wasn’t to take ‘em, neither. But me, I felt sorry for some o’ them ol’ boys. They was lonesome and down on their luck, and if one of ‘em offered me a claim for a roll in the sack, hell, I took it. ‘Course, I always made sure the signin’s was witnessed so’s they’d be legal….”

Sarah’s knees had gone weak. “Faye, do you have any idea what these claims might be worth?” she whispered.

“Don’t reckon it matters much, since I’m givin’ ‘em to you. If you can use ‘em to buy them poor young’uns out of here, that’s good enough for me. ‘Course, they’ll have to be signed and witnessed again….”

Sarah blinked away tears as she riffled through the papers. “Faye, you’re so…wait! There’s no reason we have to use all of these! Keep a few for yourself. Here—choose the ones you want to take back!”

“Let me see…” Faye scowled at the claims, her frowsy vermilion hair sticking out around her jowled face. “I reckon one’s enough for me. This ‘un came from Jorgen Bertelson. I always did have a special yen for that big, black mustache o’ his an’ the way it tickled.” She separated the paper from the others, rolled it to the diameter of a cheroot and thrust it back into her generous cleavage. “You take the rest. Come on, we better be gettin’ back.”

Sarah followed Faye out of the storage room, her heart pounding frantically as she clutched the papers. Would Dooley keep his word and let Donovan go? What if he’d given up on her? What if she was already too late?

By the time she passed Faye’s room, Sarah was all but running. Her tear-blinded eyes did not even see the shadow that moved in the doorway.

Not until the thin, iron fingers closed around her upper arm, jerking her around like a lash, did she realize what was happening.

She stared into the anthracite slits of Cherokee’s eyes and felt the chilly muzzle of the Colt against her ribs.

At first Sarah did not know what he wanted. Then, as he shoved her along the corridor, she realized he was taking her downstairs with the claim papers. The bit of playacting with Faye must have worked. Too well, perhaps.

She caught a glimpse of Faye, watching in horror from the doorway. “The children!” Sarah gasped. “Faye, get the children out the—”

Her words ended in a little cry as Cherokee’s hand cracked the side of her head. The blow sent her reeling against the wall. He caught her wrist and, with brutal force, whipped her back against him. She could feel his white-hot rage as he jammed the gun into her ribs. He no longer cared
about guarding the hostages—that was clear enough. His silent fury was focused elsewhere now. At Dooley. At Donovan. At her.

If he had his way, Sarah realized, he would kill them all.

Donovan strained desperately against the ropes that bound his arms and wrists. The scuffling noises overhead told him there was trouble, and every instinct screamed that Sarah was involved. Sarah and Cherokee.