Charlene Sands (19 page)

Emma’s deepest fears were realized then. She, too, believed Bodine had gone into the night unaware that Rusty Metcalf had lured him in. There would be no surprise. Metcalf would be waiting for him. “We need to help him.”

Her father nodded, and together they headed straight to the marshal’s office. Because of the late hour, the door was locked and no lamps were lit.

“He’s not here!” Emma said, her heart racing. Confused, she didn’t know where to turn.

“I’ll find him,” her father said. “I’ll check the saloon and go to his home. One way or another I’ll get the marshal’s help.”

“We don’t have time,” she pleaded, knowing how ruthless Metcalf was. He wouldn’t give Bodine a chance. He’d shoot him in cold blood the same way he’d killed his brother, Josh. Without compunction or regret. “We have to find Bodine! We have to warn him.”

Her father looked at her with measured concern, his expression thoughtful. “Bodine means that much to you?”

Emma said, “He means everything to me.” She had no time for pretense. She spoke honestly and noted quick acceptance in her father’s eyes. He understood.

“I’ll convince the marshal to head out tonight.”

“Promise?”

“I’ll do my best. I’ve failed you in the past, Emma. I’ll try not to fail you now. Let’s get you home so I can find help.”

On the way to the hotel, Emma told her father about Rusty Metcalf and his sister’s homestead where he might be hiding. Searching her mind, she left nothing out, reciting almost word for word the information she had pressed from Bodine earlier.

Once they reached the Hillside Hotel, her father bent to place a kiss on her forehead. “Get some rest, Emma. I’ll take care of this.”

“You’ll tell me once you’ve found the marshal?”

“If it’ll ease your mind, I’ll come back once I find him.”

“Thank you,” she said, her whole body trembling in fear. “Please,” she pleaded desperately, “save Bodine.”

But after thirty minutes of pacing in her hotel room, waiting for word from her father, Emma went over and over it in her head. She couldn’t live with herself if anything happened to Bodine. She loved him powerfully, even if he’d pledged himself to another woman. She knew him. She knew Lola. She knew their habits. She’d ridden with them for weeks. The more she thought on it, the more it made sense.

And in that moment, she knew exactly what she had to do.

B
odine crouched down behind a cluster of rocks on the hill leading to Theresa Metcalf’s homestead, keeping his eyes trained on the dark road below. He’d stopped about three miles back tying Lola to a tree branch well off the path, then zigzagged the rest of the way on foot, keeping his eyes out for Metcalf, his weapons loaded and ready. Only slight breezes blew and he hoped the weather would hold. The night had been mild so far. Rain or heavy winds would hinder his pursuit.

Gut instincts told him something was amiss. All the time he’d been in search of Metcalf, he hadn’t received one hint or clue to his whereabouts. Then all of a sudden a man who surely hadn’t had an ounce of theater experience, fumbling with the curtains, had volunteered the very information he’d needed.

Things hadn’t added up.

That kind of evidence was overwhelming. Bodine knew Metcalf was luring him in. But he’d have the last laugh when the outlaw swung by the gallows until dead. Then and only then would Bodine be able go on with his life.

Bodine surveyed the area, the quarter moon slightly illuminating the shadowed road below. He watched and waited and when two riders approached, coming from the direction of town, Bodine lifted his shotgun. He took aim, hoping it was Metcalf.

He recognized the rider as one of Metcalf’s men, but the other rider atop a mount a few steps behind put fear in his heart.

Emmy.

Bodine lowered his weapon. He watched as the man pulled at the reins of her horse. Bodine clenched his jaw. Emmy’s hands were tied, her fingers clasping the saddlehorn. Her mouth was bound and her cape flowed over her pretty gown.

Son of a bitch.

She’d come after him. Had to be, he figured. Metcalf wouldn’t chance going into town. He wouldn’t have thought to kidnap her. He didn’t work that way. No, Emmy had come snooping and now she’d been caught.

Damn it! He shouldn’t have repeated what he’d been told about the Metcalf homestead. Because he had let Emmy coax the information from him, her life was in danger.

Once they were out of eyesight, Bodine sank back against the rock. He winced at the thought of Emmy at Metcalf’s mercy. The man had no culpability, no decency and no morals.

Emmy had become important to Bodine. And he could finally admit that it wasn’t just because of the pledge he’d made to Eloisa Rourke. Bodine always took his responsibilities seriously, but he knew this was more. He had powerful feelings for Emmy. Her beautiful angelic voice lulled him into peace, while her devilish determination kept him from sleep more nights than not.

She’d gotten under his skin.

He didn’t want to see her hurt and since they’d met that’s all he seemed to accomplish with her. Now Metcalf held her hostage. He had the upper hand.

Bodine had to alter his plans.

He had to get her out of there.

No matter the cost.

“Thanks to you, the boys and me won’t be having to search your man out. Soon as he realizes you’re here, he’ll come running.”

Emma stared at Rusty Metcalf, her mouth gagged with a kerchief and her arms tied to the back of the slotted chair she’d been dumped into. She’d been tracking Bodine hoping to find him before Metcalf did and had been startled by a man named Bobby Joe. He’d grabbed her, tied her up and taken her to this homestead. Three men watched her in the front room of the house. They were waiting for Bodine like vultures. She trembled with dread, her heart thumping hard against her chest.

There was no doubt Bodine would come for her.

He’d risk his life to save hers.

He’d be outnumbered and outsmarted.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she banked them quickly. No sense in crying. She had to think fast. She had to find a way to help.

She studied Metcalf. He wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. He had soft blue eyes and light hair from what she could see from under his filthy hat. His face seemed refined with polished features, a full mouth and strong jaw.

“Theresa, what’s keeping you? You got that coffee ready yet?”

Theresa, the woman with reddish hair and the same soft blues eyes as Metcalf came to stand next to her. Emma glanced at her and she returned a reassuring look.

“It’s ready, Rusty.”

He put his arms up, gesturing with impatience. “Well, where is it?”

“I’m not serving you. Get it yourself.”

Metcalf glanced at his men, who both tried hiding grins. He grimaced then walked up to his sister and slapped her face, the sharp sound reverberating in the quiet room. “Don’t back talk me.”

Theresa held her cheek where she’d been struck. She stood firm and held her chin up defiantly. “You’re not a guest in my home, Rusty.”

Metcalf scowled. “The home I built for you.”

“That’s when you were a decent brother, a decent man!”

Metcalf raised his hand again to strike her but decided against it. “Bobby Joe, go get us that coffee. Kenny, you go on outside, watch the house. I’ll stay here with the women.”

Once his men had scattered, Rusty turned mean eyes on his sister. “I told you we’d be outta here in a few days. I gotta tend to business first.”

Theresa looked him squarely in the eyes. “You mean you’re going to kill the bounty hunter.”

“That’s right. He’s after me. I’m damned tired of it. Seems to me, you’d be more concerned about that.”

“You’ve got blood on your hands,” she said quietly. “Don’t add more.”

“I did what I had to do, you know that.”

“I know only one thing. You’re as bad as our father. You struck me, Rusty. Remember all those times when we were kids and Father would—”

“Shut up! Just shut your mouth. I don’t think about those times anymore.”

Theresa glanced at Emma with a tremulous smile. “Let her go, Rusty. She’s not the one you want.”

“She’s bait. She stays.”

“At least, let me untie her hands.”

“No.”

“Then let me take off her gag. It’s got to be hurting her.”

Metcalf cast her a warning look. “Go ahead. But don’t try anything, Theresa. I swear, you’ll be sorry.”

Theresa walked to Emma and began untying the knot at the back of her head. “I’ll get you out of here,” she whispered. She stood in front of her. “Be brave. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Emma nodded and thanked her the only way she could—with a grateful look. She worked her lips, relishing the feel of freedom, at least for her mouth.

Emma averted her face from the outlaw. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. When his man came out of the kitchen, he handed Metcalf a steaming mug.

“Go outside, Bobby Joe. Guard the road.”

Bobby Joe left immediately, slamming the door when he walked out. Emma felt Metcalf’s eyes on her and she would have been doubly frightened if Theresa wasn’t standing beside her. After he sipped his coffee several times, he sat on a big tufted chair across from her, near the front window. Every so often, he’d part the curtains to look out impatiently.

“You’re that singer, Miss Emma Marie, right?”

Emma nodded.

“Kenny says you sing like an angel.”

Kenny fit Bodine’s description of Curly, the bald, mustached man who’d tipped him off that Metcalf was staying here.

He smirked. “What? Bodine’s whore’s lost her tongue?”

Emma swallowed. “No, I haven’t lost my tongue. And I’m not—”

“Save it,” he barked. “I’m tired of waiting for your lover to rescue you. Maybe he needs to hear your voice. Let him know you’re here, pining for him.”

Theresa spoke up. “That’s not necessary.”

He turned to his sister with a scowl. “I’ve been holed up in this place long enough. I could use some entertainment.” Then he focused on Emma again. “I want to hear this angel voice. Go on. Sing to me.”

Sing to me.

Emma’s stomach rolled. Her throat constricted. His command reminded her of all the sweet times with Bodine when he’d asked her to sing for him. She didn’t want to give Metcalf the satisfaction or be part of luring Bodine here. With a refusal on her lips, Metcalf drew his gun and pointed it straight at her. “Sing,” he demanded.

Emma summoned her courage. She looked him straight in the eyes and spoke firmly. “I can’t sing with my hands tied.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Why not?”

“It’s hard enough sitting down and singing, but with my arms all trussed up behind me, my lungs won’t work right.”

Her fib seemed to convince him. He gestured to Theresa. “Untie her and no funny business.”

“You’ve got your gun aimed at two unarmed women,” Theresa said, working the ropes and releasing her. “What do you suppose we’ll do?”

“Nothing and I’m keeping it that way.”

Emma sighed with relief once her arms were free. She massaged them and stretched out her fingers, bringing circulation back.

“Okay, now,” Metcalf said. “Sing.”

Emma shut her eyes. She began to sing quietly, her voice just above a whisper. A plan formulated in her head and she hoped it was enough. But she had to wait for the right moment.

“Louder!”

Emma shot him a cold look and hesitated.

“I said louder!”

The ballad poured out of her then as if she were on a true stage. She sang with fear for Bodine, but with love in her heart as well. The lyrics flowed out of her now, her message only for Bodine. She prayed for him and hoped he’d find a way to rescue them all, but the song sadly was one of farewell.

Emma put as much emotion into her song as she knew to do and, when she finished singing, she met with eyes filled with astonishment. Metcalf stood and walked over to her. He lifted her chin, his fingers tender on her skin. She hated that tenderness as much as she hated witnessing the admiration on his face. But it was necessary. She needed his guard down.

“My God,” he said in awe. “You strip a man bare with your voice. I didn’t understand Bodine’s interest in you before this, but now I know.”

Emma swallowed. She glanced at Theresa, who had terror in her eyes. “Bodine doesn’t want me anymore. If he’s coming here, it’s for you.”

“That so?” His eyes narrowed on her.

“Yes, it’s the truth,” she said in her most earnest voice, trying to convince him.

“Stand up,” he said.

Emma rose on shaky legs.

“Theresa, go to bed. I’m not asking, I’m telling.” He pointed his gun at her.

“What about Emma?”

“She stays with me.”

Theresa set her feet firmly, her stance immovable. “I won’t leave her alone with you.”

Metcalf’s face reddened with fury. He took a step toward his sister, then another. “I said go!”

“It’s okay,” Emma said quickly. “Go on, please.” From behind Metcalf’s back, she cast Theresa a reassuring look. “I’m not afraid to be alone with him.”

Emma raised her brows and nodded, hoping Theresa would understand her silent message. In truth, Emma was petrified, but she had to try to escape.

“There, you see. The lady wants to be alone with me.”

Though wariness never left her face, Theresa relented and walked slowly into her bedroom. Once the door closed, Metcalf turned back to Emma.

“You stripped me bare. Now it’s my turn,” Metcalf said, wrapping his arms around Emma’s waist and dragging her to him, the cold metal of his revolver cutting into her back. He forced a kiss on her lips and Emma hid her disgust. When he pulled at her gown, Emma thanked Carlotta Dubois for making it so formfitting. The material only moved a tiny bit down her shoulders.

Metcalf cursed.

This was Emma’s chance. She smiled coyly at him and shoved at his chest, pulling away as much as he would allow. “It’s tricky. Bodine always undid the buttons in the back.” She took the few remaining pins from her hair and let the tresses fall. Shaking out her hair, the curls settled on her shoulders.

Pure lust entered his eyes.

She turned her back on him.

“This better be worth it,” he growled.

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Emma said softly.

She heard him curse and holster his gun. That’s what she’d hoped. She dipped down quickly and grasped her derringer from her calf-high boot and, within a second, she whirled on him, pointing the small pearl-handled gun she’d bought from the stage coach driver, Mr. Crockett.

“Don’t move! Don’t go for your gun! I’ll shoot you, I swear I will.” Emma’s fear for Bodine’s life gave her the courage she needed. She’d caught Metcalf unawares.

His face twisted with scorn. “You whoring bitch.”

Then a shot rang from outside the house. Emma froze and glanced out the window, praying for Bodine’s safety. Metcalf reacted to her distraction. He knocked the derringer from her hand and grabbed her. Holding her in front of him, his gun drawn and pointed at her head, he pushed her toward the front door. “Move,” he commanded, then called out by the window, “Kenny, Bobby Joe, you out there?”