Texas Twilight (32 page)

She hurried down the green and pink carpet
runner in the hall, past the room in which Uncle Winston and Aunt
Winnie slept, then past the room they’d gotten for Dustin. Reaching
the stairway, she glanced down, thankful there was no one in
sight.

At least five minutes had elapsed. By now
Brandon could be anywhere. Charity ran down the boardwalk past the
saloon, wondering where he’d been heading. At the corner she looked
over at John’s office, but his horse was nowhere in sight.

She looked up the street in the direction
toward the bank and the church. She’d go that way first, then if
she didn’t find him, she’d come back to this block. She ran across
the street avoiding the puddles, then hugged the side of the
buildings as she went, passing the barber shop and the tannery. A
chicken darted out from an alcove and, in a multitude of feathers
and frightened clucking, tripped her up. With a cry, she landed
hard on her side, knocking the air from her lungs. Charity lay in
the alley, dazed.

“What was that?”

Norman Shellston’s voice was easy to
recognize. A door opened. Through the haze of her pain, Charity
slowly rolled as close to the side of the bank wall as she
could.

“Nada, Señor. Sounds of the night.”

Whoever was with the banker had a chilling
voice. It flowed over Charity like something evil, threatening
harm. The door that had opened now closed, leaving her to catch her
breath. She crawled to her knees and then a crouching position.
What was going on in the bank in the wee hours of the morning?
Whatever it was, she felt sure, was meant to remain hidden.

She wished she had her Colt 45. She felt
naked without it. She glanced down at her legs, feeling the
breeze.

“Si!” A voice boomed. Whoever it was, he was
exceedingly angry.

“Keep your voice down.”

Did they have Brandon against his will?
Surely not. He wasn’t one to get waylaid unawares. But, what if
they did? There was no way she could leave now without knowing for
sure.

With her back pressed against the white
bat-and-board siding, Charity inched along carefully, feeling her
way with the palms of her hands. She stopped next to the window. It
was chin height and, if she was careful, she might be able to see
inside. The rumble of an argument taunted her, a little easier to
hear, but she still couldn’t make out what was actually being said.
Curiosity burned, and more—fear for Brandon drove her on.

She gripped the sill, peeking through the
window, trying to stay low and out of sight. The room was dark,
with only one small candle burning. Mr. Shellston was arguing, his
hands waving in front of a man with a Mexican blanket slung over
his shoulder. He looked like an outlaw. When the he turned, two
bandoleers and a large knife were partially visible underneath the
mantle.

Charity pulled back. She hadn’t noticed the
dog coming up the alley until it let out a bark. In her surprise,
she banged her head against the wall, then turned to him
pleadingly.

“Shhhh, boy. It’s okay,” she squeaked in a
panicked whisper. She held her hand out to him in invitation.

The dog growled. He lowered his head, taking
a step closer.

Charity let out a yelp as rough hands gripped
her from behind. She was swung around and slammed up against the
wall of the bank. Stars danced before her eyes. Blinking to clear
her sight, she was face to face with the Mexican. He took her arm
and pulled her inside. Norman Shellston closed the door.

“What is going on?” she demanded, summoning
the sternest voice she could from her fear-fogged brain. “I will
have you know that my uncle is not going to like this one little
bit.”

“Sit down, Miss McCutcheon. And be
quiet.”

Charity
gasped, pretending outrage. She snugged the coat around her and
drew herself up until she was eye to chin with the rough-looking
character. She shoved her panic aside, sneering right back into his
face. She
knew
the
predicament she was in was far more precarious then she’d first
thought. “I will do
no such thing
,
Mr. Shellston. I
demand
you
release me this instant.”

The Mexican laughed. He pushed her into a
chair, causing her hip-length coat to hike up, giving the men ample
view of her legs. He ran the toe of his boot up her pantaloons, and
the sharp, spike-like spur glimmered dangerously in the
candlelight. She sprang to her feet and bolted for the door. As
quick as a snake, the bandito gripped her wrist and wrenched her
arm behind her back, almost bending Charity to the ground. She
hated sounding weak, but stopping the cry that tore from her throat
was impossible.

“
Now, you
will listen to me, Señor Shellston,” the Mexican hissed, turning
back to Shellston. “
You owe me
. Time
is
past
. We stopped
that stage. My men died. You pay, or she will be next. Then, your
son. And you.” He jerked Charity’s arm viciously. “And, I assure
you this, it will be slow and painful. Si?”

“B-b-but,” Shellston stammered. “You didn’t
get me the letter. Without it, the deal is void.” His voice was
weak, pleading. “I could lose everything.” His face was red with
anger or fright, Charity couldn’t tell which.

“
Screw
the
letter! You have one day. Then—” he made a slashing motion across
Charity’s neck.

Shellston was shaken. “All right. I’ll get
you the money. Look for it in the planned spot. Just make sure she
never makes it back to town.”

Charity gasped.

The
Mexican shoved her roughly toward the door. “
Vamos
.”

Tucker rounded the corner of Main Street at a
dead run, he stumbled, caught himself with his good hand, and
sprinted on. He crashed into the doctor’s office, banging the door
against the wall so hard it rattled the picture, almost sending it
crashing to the floor. John and Dr. Bixby jumped up from their seat
at the table, alarmed.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy,” Dr.
Bixby whispered loudly as he stared at him in disbelief. “We have a
patient in there.”

“Char—”

Tucker gripped his side as he struggled to
talk and breathe at the same time. “Charity…”

John pulled out a chair. “Sit down until you
catch your breath.”

Tucker
shook his head. “
No
. We have to
help her…”

John put his hands on the young man’s
shoulders, giving him a little shake. “What are you talking about?
What’s happened to Charity?”

Tucker’s
face was still bright red, his breathing labored. “She was taken by
a man I’ve never seen. A
Comanchero
.” He spat the last word out as if it was something
dirty.

“When? Which way did they go?” John was
already halfway up the stairs to get his gun and hat.

“Few minutes ago. East on Church Street.
Riding double.”

John took the stairs three at a time. In
moments he loaded his Colt 45 and strapped his holster to his leg,
all the while remembering the killing lust he’d seen from the top
of the stage. He grabbed extra ammunition, shoved it into his
saddlebag and crammed his Stetson on his head. Hurrying down, he
was surprised to see Sheriff Dane waiting for him at the bottom of
the staircase. Just as he was about to tell the sheriff about
Charity, something struck painfully against his skull and sent him
crashing to the floor. He broke his fall with his hands and his gun
slid across the floor.

“G
oing
somewhere, McCutcheon?” Boone asked as he stepped over John’s body
from behind the staircase. He bent and picked up John’s gun,
stuffing it in his belt.

John fought the blackness that threatened to
take him down. When Tucker ran to his side to help, Boone lashed
out with his boot and sent Tucker to the ground, smashing up
against the door.

Bixby, stunned into silence until this point,
stepped forward. “Sheriff, do something.”

Boone hefted John up by the arm and pressed
the barrel of his gun against the side of John’s chest. “The heat
getting a little too much for you, Doc? Leaving town?”

John struggled to stand on his own. “What’s
this about?” he asked groggily. The sheriff looked about
helplessly.

“Mr. Boone, uh, has some questions for you,
John.” The sheriff’s voice wobbled and he took a step back. “I
suggest you answer ‘em.”

Boone shoved John into the other room. “Open
up your safe.”

John felt queasy as the image of Boone
wavered before his eyes. Once he opened the safe and saw the jewel,
the sheriff would take him into custody and lock him up. He needed
to get to Charity. Before something horrible happened to her. He
pushed back the panic he was feeling and turned to the safe, trying
to focus on what to do next.

Wiping the moisture from his fingers, he spun
the dial to the right several fast turns, clearing it out.
Squeezing his eyes, he tried to focus on the small numbers.
Carefully, he stopped on the number ten. He turned the dial to the
left, stopping on ten again. Then to the right a second time,
passing thirteen once, then completing the action on the number
thirteen. Jerking the handle down, the door swung open. He
turned.

As best he could, John blocked anyone from
seeing inside.

Boone stepped forward and pressed the muzzle
of his gun firmly to John’s forehead.

“Just a minute, Boone,” the sheriff tried to
reason, “there ain’t no reason—”

“
Shut up
.” Boone
shouted. He swung around and smashed the sheriff’s head with his
gun. The sheriff crumpled to the ground.

White-faced and shaking, Dr. Bixby bent down
and checked for a pulse. “He’s dead.”

“Move aside, McCutcheon.”

John did. With gritted teeth and a blinding
anger, he watched Boone scatter his things, as his gut kept
screaming his need to go after Charity. The packages of morphine,
two clean vials, and several slides fell to the floor in a
clatter.

Boone turned around. “Where is it?”

“
Where’s
what?” John shot back, regaining a little of his strength. Boone
had
missed
it?
Somehow, the bounty hunter hadn’t found the jewel? John’s mind was
racing. “You never told me what you’re after.”

“You’re full of it, McCutcheon. You know
exactly what I want. The blue sapphire. A full carat.” In a fit of
rage, Boone’s face flamed red and John saw his hand tighten on the
gun. “Get it.”

John went to the safe and shuffled the few
remaining things around, looking. Finally, he turned around in
astonishment. The jewel was nowhere to be found. “I don’t have it.
You’ve seen for yourself. Now, I’m walking out of here so stand
aside.”

“I don’t think I’m going to let you do that.”
The man backed away a few feet as if he didn’t like the thought of
getting splattered with blood. “Harland Shellston saw it.” Again,
the gun was pointing at John, but this time it was shaking from
Boone’s uncontrollable rage, then he smiled. “Let’s go ask your
girl. The one who stole it in the first place.” He took his eyes
off John only long enough to look at Tucker and Bixby. “You’re
coming, too.”

At gun-point Boone marched the three of them
over to Lily’s shop. “Knock on the door, McCutcheon.”

John didn’t want to let this dangerous animal
anywhere near Lily. He stood his ground. “She doesn’t have the
jewel. I’ll get it for—”

Boone pulled Tucker to his side, placing the
barrel of his gun on the boy’s temple. “One, two…”

John knocked. Footsteps sounded from within.
He searched his mind, trying to think of a way to overpower the man
before Lily was put at risk. The door opened. “John?” Her eyes went
wide as she took in the scene.

Boone shoved them all into her shop. “Where’s
the jewel?”

Stunned, Lily looked from Boone’s face back
to John’s. He could see she was deciding what to do.

“Once he has it, we’re all dead,” John said,
guessing that she’d come in at some time and taken the jewel from
his safe. “He won’t want any witnesses.”

“Shut up,” Boone screamed, spittle flying
from his lips.

“He killed the sheriff,” Tucker said under
his breath.

Boone went to the cutting table and began
pulling things from under the shelf. He dumped out the button box
on top and spread the contents out with the palm of his hand, all
the while keeping his gun trained on the group. “I know it’s here.”
He swung around, pulled the dressing room drapes from their rod,
tossing them to the side.

John could hear Lily’s breathing, rugged and
strong behind him, as she huddled with Tucker.

Boone struck a match. “You’ll talk.” He held
the tiny flame to the curtain in the kitchen window. “Or the old
granny upstairs will cook like a turkey at Thanksgiving.” The
muslin ignited slowly, the flame licking up the fabric.

John gathered himself and launched, taking
Boone by surprise and shoving him to the floor. The two men rolled
in the kitchen and John smashed Boone’s face several times with his
fist, driven by a violent rush of anger. Fury fed by fear for his
loved ones surged up, powering his strength. Bumping next to the
iron stove, Boone smacked John’s head with his own, momentarily
knocking John off the fight. Ducking when Boone tried again, John
felt the bulge of his Colt 45 wedged between their bodies, stuck in
Boone’s belt. Instantly and instinctively he reached for it,
squeezing the trigger even before pulling it clear.

Boone screamed in pain, then yanked his
pistol from its holster as the two men rolled over again. John
grabbed his arm and hammered it on the floor, trying to knock the
six shooter from his hand.