“I don’t know exactly but as Lilibet and I were coming down the street, a hammer came flying through the window!” Paul smoothed his hand over his face as if worried. “I didn’t go into the store. I just looked in through the broken window. A man was holding your wife. She wasn’t happy about it either. Kept struggling to get free.”
“Anyone else in the store?”
“A woman. Dark haired. Thin. Stylish. Agitated. She was pacing back and forth. I can’t be certain, but I think she was holding a gun.”
Frances. He’d thought she’d left town. Apparently, she had not and just waited for the right time to…do whatever she was going to do. He reached for the Colt revolver in his gun belt. He flicked open the cylinder. It was fully loaded. He put it back and reached for the other. It, too, was fully loaded. He might just need every one of those bullets. “Thank you, Paul. Go on home.”
The man shook his head. “I want to help. Tresia has always been kind to me.”
He studied the man for a moment, just long enough to make a decision. “All right, but you have to listen to everything I say.” He glanced at Sherm, who had joined him and said, “You’re with me.”
The three of them took off, Devlin in the lead. He stopped them on the edge of the square and turned to Sherm. “I want you to go around back and let yourself into the store through the storeroom. Quietly.” The young man started walking away but Devlin stopped him. “And for God’s sake, don’t shoot anyone if you can help it.”
“Yes, sir.” Sherm crossed the street, heading toward the back of the building at a run, his long legs eating up the distance until he turned the corner and disappeared.
Devlin glanced at Paul then at the people starting to gather on the sidewalk outside Sullivan’s. Obviously, they had either seen or heard the hammer breaking glass. It was the last thing he needed—an innocent bystander getting hurt. “Try not to let anyone come close. And try not to be seen.”
The man gave him a sharp salute and went to do his bidding, pushing people further down the sidewalk, away from harm.
Devlin crossed the street at an angle, staying out of sight from the windows lest anyone inside Sullivan’s saw him. He edged up to the broken window and looked through, his heart thundering in his chest, fear making his mouth dry.
Tresia was tied to one of the chairs, rope wound tightly around her. Humbolt stood beside her, smirking. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and a red splotch marred her cheek.
The bastard had hit her! Rage surged through him, so much so that he shook. He forced himself to remain calm and assess the situation.
How to get into Sullivan’s without being seen or heard? Noise. He needed a distraction.
Focus turning on him rather than Tresia.
He glanced at the people gathering in the street, though Paul was doing his best to keep everyone back.
He drew his gun and barged into the store, just as Humbolt drew back his fist to hit Tresia again. He pulled back the hammer of his revolver—the click loud in the silence—and settled his finger on the trigger. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
The look in Tresia’s eyes was one of pure confidence. Her body seemed to sag with relief, pulling the ropes a little tighter.
Aiming for Humbolt’s arm, he pulled the trigger.
Humbolt cried out and clamped his hand over the bullet hole to staunch the bleeding, his face a mixture of rage, pain, and incredulity. He took a step away from Tresia, but not far enough.
Frances turned toward him immediately, the little derringer pointing at him. Her hand shook just a bit. “Good. You’re here.”
“What are you doing, Frances?” He kept his voice calm, though it was an effort.
“I want my granddaughter.”
“You can’t have her.”
Frances laughed, though the sound was without humor. “I’ll make a fair trade. Avery for your wife.”
“I’m not willing to lose either one of them.” From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Sherm. He kept his focus on his former mother-in-law. “Drop the gun, Frances. You won’t win this.” He took a step closer to her then stopped. She could just as easily shoot him. He was standing not less than three feet from her, but he didn’t think she would. No, Frances wanted him to suffer, more than he already had.
“Then I’m going to take from you what you took from me.” She said the words calmly, then turned slowly, as if makingsure he saw her every move, and aimed the derringer directly at Tresia.
He moved quickly, grabbing Frances around the waist, reaching for the derringer in her hand, just as she fired. His heart stopped for a brief moment as he forced the gun from her hand then risked a quick glance toward Tresia. Blood blossomed on her shoulder, staining her white blouse. He saw Humbolt move, whether to reach for the pistol he carried or to get to Tresia, he didn’t know, but he never had the chance as Sherm raised his own gun and shoved it against the man’s head.
“I wouldn’t,” his deputy warned, his voice low and threatening. Humbolt froze. Sherm brought the butt of his pistol down on the man’s head in the next instant and Frances’ henchman crumpled to the ground.
Frances screamed, a guttural cry that sounded half human, half cornered animal. She renewed her struggle against him, driven by madness or revenge or whatever emotion a woman like Frances could feel. She punched and kicked at him, twisting in his arms. He squeezed a little tighter then nodded toward Sherm.
