A Cowboy Unmatched (12 page)

Nicole gnawed on her lip as she pressed her back against the wall that sheltered the staircase from view. She had to find a way to get to her parents. They'd started sleeping in the room off the parlor when the stairs became too taxing for Papa, so they were directly in the path of the intruders.

John slept at the coach house. Unless the thieves had made a noise during their approach that awakened him, he'd still be sleeping soundly. Best not to expect any help from that quarter. Margie, the cook, was the only other servant who lived on the premises, and while she was handy with a knife when it came to butchering meat, live quarry was a bit beyond her experience. Besides, the woman's sense of self-preservation was far too strong to put her anywhere other than behind a solidly locked door. They'd not see her until the trouble passed.

That left Nicole.

The knife and garter sheath her father had given her for her fifteenth birthday lay at the bottom of her trunk. Going back for it would waste precious time. Better to assess the situation first, then decide whether or not to retrieve it.

Nicole eased down the stairs, holding her breath when the wall shielding her gave way to open space, exposing her feet and the white of her sleeping gown. No shouts of discovery sounded, so she continued downward, praying the boards wouldn't creak beneath her weight.

“Where is it, old man?” one of the intruders demanded. “Tell me, or I'll start snapping the bones in your fingers and work my way up your arm.”

“Go ahead. I ain't good for much these days anyhow.”

Papa!
Stubborn, defiant man. He'd never give in to their threats. His body might be weak, but his will was as strong as ever. That's what scared her.

“Oh yeah?” a second voice sneered. “What if we break your lovely wife's fingers instead? Still want to play the hero? It'd be a shame if she couldn't play the spinet for you anymore, don't you think?”

“No!” Her father's shout echoed Nicole's mental cry. “Lay a hand on my wife, and I'll kill you. I swear it.”

“Big words from a man who can barely stand. Now, where's the dagger?”

The dagger? No.
The situation was worse than she'd thought. Her father might swallow his pride enough to hand over money or other valuables to spare her mother, but the Lafitte Dagger? It was the Renard family legacy. He'd die before giving it up. She had to do something.

Glancing both ways down the hall to be sure a third man wasn't lying in wait somewhere, Nicole left the stairs and padded toward her parents. Flattening herself against the wall, she darted a quick glance inside the room before yanking her head back out of view.

One of the men had a gun on her father in the back left corner. The other man stood near her mother. A lamp had fallen from the bedside table and the curtains were half pulled down, as if her father had put up a struggle. Unfortunately, in his weakened condition, he'd been no match for the much younger men.

Nicole gritted her teeth. A year ago, no one would have dared accost Anton Renard in his own home. Even six months ago her father would have bested them. The thieves had waited for his illness to do their work for them. Cowards.

Nicole scanned the hall for anything she could use as a weapon. She reached for a decorative porcelain vase perched on the small Chippendale pedestal table between her parents' bedroom and the parlor. Seizing it against her chest, she drew in several fortifying breaths before inching back to the doorway.

“So, Renard,” the man taunted, “what's it gonna be? The dagger or your wife's hand?”

“Let her go!” Papa demanded at the same time her mother's soft grunting announced her struggle to free herself.

Visions of her
maman
's elegant fingers mangled and crooked spurred Nicole into action. Lifting the heavy vase above her head, she ran into the room and slammed it down on her mother's captor's skull.

Porcelain shattered. The man groaned, then crumpled to the floor. His companion shouted.

“He has a pistol in the waistband of his trousers.” Her mother pointed as she scrambled from beneath the fallen man.

Nicole dropped to her knees and grabbed the weapon just as the second man lunged forward, his gun targeting Nicole.

“You killed him!”

Nicole extended her arm, pointing her newly acquired pistol directly at Will Jenkins's chest. His brother, Fletcher, must be the man on the floor. Which was a good thing. He'd always been the meaner of the two. The smarter one, as well. If she had to pick a Jenkins to face, she'd choose Will every time. “He's still breathing,” she snapped. All those days of playing pirate with Tommy Ackerman were finally paying off. She'd managed to inject just the right amount of disdain into that statement, and her hand wasn't even shaking. “Now, collect your brother and leave our house.”

His gaze moved from her face to the gun, then back to her face, an annoyingly smug expression creeping across his features. “I don't think so. You ain't got the first notion how to shoot that thing. Can't even find the trigger, can you.” He took a menacing step toward her.

Nicole raised her left brow. “You mean
this
trigger?” She cocked the hammer of the Colt Paterson revolver and released the folding trigger mechanism. Will stopped. “You forget, Will Jenkins—I'm a Renard. Daughter of Anton Renard and granddaughter to Henri Renard, privateer and compatriot of Jean Lafitte himself. I know a thing or two about weapons.”

Will swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as his attention locked on the gun once again. His own pistol wavered.

Nicole stepped closer to her mother, clearing a path for Will to get to Fletcher and the door without having to go through her. Now if he'd just take the hint. . . .

Fletcher moaned. Will glanced down at his brother. At the same time Nicole's father, all but forgotten in the background, slid his hand around a cane that stood propped against the back wall and leapt forward. He brought the cane down on Will's arm.

Will cried out. His pistol clattered to the floor. Papa kicked it under the bed.

“My daughter told you to leave. I suggest you do so. Now!” He roared the last. Will jumped to obey.

Latching on to his brother's wrist, Will drew Fletcher's arm over his shoulders while shoring him up on the other side with an arm about the waist. The still-reeling Fletcher offered little in the way of assistance. Nevertheless, Will managed to get him up and out the front door. Nicole followed them, the Colt aimed at their backs until they mounted and rode away.

Lowering the weapon, Nicole rubbed her upper arm, suddenly aware of the vicious ache in her muscles. It was amazing how heavy such a small revolver became when one found it necessary to hold it aloft for several minutes at a time. Being in Boston for most of the last two years hadn't done her any favors in that regard. Not much opportunity for target practice in a fancy girls' school. She'd gone soft.

But not so soft that she couldn't run off Will and Fletcher Jenkins. Nicole's mouth curved in a self-satisfied grin as she strolled back into the house and latched the door. All in all, not a bad night's work.

Nicole paused to arrange her dressing gown in a less haphazard manner and to properly tie her sash before reentering her parents' room.

“Do you think they'll be back?” Her mother's voice drifted out to the hall.

“Of course they'll be back. Now that they've seen for themselves how pitifully weak this cursed illness has left me, they'll not stop until they have the dagger.”

“But Nicole is here now, surely they wouldn't—”

“Nicole caught them by surprise. It was sheer luck that saved us this night. No matter how well-versed in weaponry she is, no slip of a girl will keep Carson Jenkins at bay. He has two strapping boys who've just proven they'll do anything to help him secure their family's future. What do I have? A daughter.”

The disdain-filled word crashed through Nicole's chest and bludgeoned her heart like a carelessly flung carpenter's mallet.

“Anton! That's not fair.”

A heavy sigh echoed through the bedroom. “You're right. Forgive me. I just wish . . . Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

But it does matter,
Nicole thought. It always had. All her life she'd striven to please her father. To earn his praise, his respect. Yet the one thing he wanted above all else, she couldn't be—a son.

“Nicole is the joy of my life—you know that,” her father said. “She's twice as clever as either of Carson Jenkins's boys and has more courage in that tiny body of hers than any man I've ever known. But that doesn't change the fact that she's female. She poses no serious threat to Jenkins or his plans. If anything, her being here simply gives Jenkins one more weapon to use against me.”

“Then perhaps I should return to Boston.” Nicole stepped through the doorway and tossed the Colt onto the end of the bed, a few inches to the right of where her father sat.

“Nicki!” The color his anger had stirred in his cheeks drained away the instant his gaze met hers.

She gained no satisfaction from his distress. Despite everything, she loved her Papa and knew he loved her, too. He might have always wished he'd had a son, but he'd never once made her believe he regretted having her as a daughter.

“It's all right, Papa.” Well, not completely. The words still hurt. But he didn't need to know that. There were bigger issues to deal with than a little girl's hurt feelings. Time to grow up and be the woman her parents raised her to be. “What we need to do now,” she said, lowering herself onto the padded divan just inside the doorway, “is formulate a plan to keep Jenkins from creating any more mischief.”

Her mother passed by the divan and patted Nicole's shoulder, favoring her with one of those “speaking” smiles of hers. Pride. Approval. Compassion. Then she moved to her husband's side, took his hand, and settled onto the edge of the bed next to him.

“Should we report this to Sheriff Sparks? I know he's got ties to the Jenkins family, but surely when he hears of the threats the boys made—”

Papa shook his head. “Sparks made it clear when he took office that he would not become entangled in our
feud
, as he calls it.”

Nicole bit back a groan. A feud? That was stating it mildly. Jenkins had been her father's fiercest rival for years and blamed him for every financial setback he'd ever incurred. Said it was all because the dagger was stolen from his family. Which was ridiculous. Lafitte had bestowed the dagger on Nicole's grandfather after Henri Renard saved the pirate's life.

“When that scuffle broke out between our two crews last year, the sheriff wouldn't even break it up. Remember?” Her father shot her mother a telling look. “All he did was send for the captains and
have them sort things out. He staunchly refuses to hear petty charges from either side.”

Maman stiffened. “I'd hardly call what happened tonight
petty
.”

“No one was hurt, nothing was stolen. For a man like Sparks, who spends his nights keeping the lawless element from killing and maiming each other down at the docks, that's the definition of petty.”

“We could hire guards,” her mother suggested.

“Guards?” Papa reared back as if his wife had slapped him across the face. “And admit to the world that Anton Renard cannot protect his own family? Bah!”

“There's no shame in accepting help from people you know and trust, Anton. I'm sure there are men from your crews who would appreciate earning a little extra money for their families when they're in port by taking on additional responsibilities.”

His shoulders curled inward as he expelled a sigh, his chest—once robust and barreled—caving in on itself. “I suppose we must.” His gaze lowered to the floor, his pride stripped away. “I won't risk any harm coming to either of you.”

“What if the dagger wasn't here?” Nicole quietly inserted into the conversation. “What if I took it back to Boston? That would ensure there'd be no more attacks on Renard House.” Her main concern. “Therefore, there'd be no need for guards.” Which would save her father's pride and reputation among his men.

Her mother shot to her feet. “Absolutely not! Why, anything could happen to you between here and there. Jenkins wouldn't hesitate to send his boys after you. You'd be defenseless.” She spun toward her husband, hands on hips. “Tell her, Anton.”

“Your mother's right, scamp. It's too dangerous.”

Nicole lunged forward. “It's not too dangerous, Papa. I know how to take care of myself. Haven't I proven that to you, tonight?”

His head snapped up at the challenge in her voice, his eyes hardening. “You got lucky tonight. Taking a man by surprise is an entirely different matter than inviting him to a fight. That's exactly what you'd be doing by taking that dagger.”

Did he really have so little faith in her? Nicole folded her arms over her chest. “I can do this, Papa. Just give me a ch—”

“No!” The word stung as if it had been his hand slapping her face. “That's my final word.”

Nicole lifted her chin. “If I were a man, you'd let me go.” She met his stare, daring him to contradict her.

“But you're not a man, are you, Nicki? You're a girl. And until you have a husband to protect you . . .” His words died away, and with them died her hope of ever being enough.

So wrapped up in her outrage over the injustice of being judged by her gender instead of her merit, Nicole almost missed the odd glimmer in her father's eyes, a glimmer that burned steadily brighter until he finally exploded.

“That's it!”

“Anton,” her mother gasped. “You startled me.”

“Sorry, my love.” Papa patted her hand as she returned to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “But I've just had the most astounding idea.”