Robin Lee Hatcher (23 page)

Remington took Bevins to a storage room in the barn. Once there, he bound his prisoner’s ankles and wrists with more rope.

“You can wait here for the sheriff.” Remington forced Bevins to sit on the dusty board floor. “Consider yourself lucky that I don’t hang you myself.”

With one eye on Bevins, he cleared the storage room of tack, tools, hoes, and shovels. He left nothing that could be used to cut the ropes, nothing the man could use as a weapon if he got loose. Then, taking the lamp with him, Remington closed and secured the door.

He was impatient to return to Libby, but first he had to find out what happened to Fred Miller. He awakened Jimmy Collins and sent him to the barn to guard Bevins. A few minutes later, Remington located Fred on the edge of the old grove. The ranch hand was just regaining consciousness as Remington knelt beside him.

Fred tenderly touched the back of his head as he sat up. “I’d like t’get my hands on whoever done this.”

“He’s trussed up in the barn now.” Remington told Fred what had happened, then offered to help him back to the bunkhouse.

“I’m okay, boss. I can make it to there on my own. You go see about Miss Blue.”

Remington was only too happy to comply.

He found Libby seated where he’d left her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with lingering fear. Even from the doorway, he saw her body shaking.

Reaching Libby, he drew her up from the chair and into his arms. She seemed to melt against him.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, stroking her back.

“He was going to burn down the house.”

“He can’t do anything now. He’s tied up and locked in the storeroom in the barn.”

She shook her head, her forehead touching his chest. “He was going to kill me.”

“He won’t be killing anybody. We’ll send for the sheriff tomorrow.”

She looked up at him. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“I know.” He turned, still holding her with one arm. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” He took up the lamp with his other hand.

She leaned on him, letting him guide her down the hall and into her bedroom. When they reached the bed, she grabbed hold of his hand, gripping him as if her life depended on it. “Don’t leave me alone, Remington.” Quiet desperation filled each word, each syllable. “Please.”

“I won’t.” He set the lamp on the nearby stand, then gently urged her to sit on the edge of the bed. “Lie down, Libby,” he said softly.

“Don’t go.”

“I won’t.” He pressed her shoulders back until her head touched her pillow. “I’m going to sit in that chair by the window and keep watch all night.”

“I was so afraid.”

“I’m here, Libby. No one can hurt you now. You mean too much to me to let anyone harm you. I promise.”

Twenty-Four

AS DAWN SPILLED THROUGH THE window, Libby sat up in bed and stared across the room. As promised, Remington was still in the nearby chair, but sleep had overtaken him some time during his watch.

Libby tossed aside the blankets and sat up. She had slept in her clothes and felt rumpled and unkempt. A bath, some tooth powder, and a change of clothes would make her feel better.

A floorboard creaked under her weight. Remington shot to his feet.

“It’s just me,” she said as he looked around the room with sleep-filled eyes.

He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s not a very comfortable chair.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

He gave her a wry smile. “You couldn’t have made me leave.” Two long strides brought him to her. He cradled her face between his hands. “Good morning.”

Libby blushed. It was silly, she supposed. She had tended his gunshot wounds when he couldn’t tend to himself. They’d been together in the mornings when they
were on the trail. He’d even seen her in her dressing gown and slippers the night the shed burned down. But for some reason, this was different. Perhaps because they were in her bedroom together, just the two of them, at this early hour.

Remington kissed her forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

She nodded, surprised that it was true.

He drew her closer, resting his chin atop her head. “I never would’ve forgiven myself if something had happened to you.”

Awash with love, Libby let herself soak up the safety and warmth of his embrace.

“I love you, Libby. More than you may ever know. I hope . . . I hope you’ll always believe that.”

“I will,” she whispered.

They stayed like that for a long while, holding one another as the glow of morning light filled the room, neither of them moving, neither speaking.

But at last Remington broke the tender spell. “I’d better go check on our prisoner and send Fred for the sheriff. The sooner that’s taken care of, the better.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She shuddered.

“There’re some things we need to talk about before I leave for New York. Things I should’ve told you before now.”

Libby didn’t want to think about him leaving. Not now. Not yet.

He kissed her cheek. “Wait for me in the kitchen. We’ll talk as soon as I’m done outside.”

Northrop studied the passing terrain. He hadn’t seen another buggy or horseback rider or even a farmhouse since they’d left Weiser at daybreak. He couldn’t fathom his daughter living in such a remote area, without even the simplest necessities to make life enjoyable.

Harder still was absorbing the additional information O’Reilly had gleaned while waiting for Northrop’s arrival in Idaho. According to some woman at a place called Pine Station, Remington Walker and Olivia—or rather, Libby Blue, as she called herself—were engaged to be married.

He frowned. Walker was no fool. He couldn’t possibly hope to inherit the Vanderhoff fortunes by marriage. The only plausible explanation, then, was that Walker had fallen in love with Northrop’s daughter.

Love. A highly overrated emotion. Northrop had seen intelligent men do many foolish things in the name of love.

His mouth curved in a knowing smile. He hadn’t built the Vanderhoff fortunes without understanding how to use basic human nature to his own advantage. If his instincts proved correct, Olivia would be more than willing to return with him to New York before this day was over.

He looked at O’Reilly. “How much longer before we reach that ranch?”

“Not long, sir. We’re nearly there.”

Libby whipped up a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, pork sausage, and fried eggs and set out a pitcher of chilled milk, brought up from the springs, in the center of the table. When all was ready, she rang the bell outside the back door.

Moments later, Remington and Fred entered the kitchen. Libby listened as Fred apologized for letting Bevins sneak up on him, then she made a fuss over the lump and scab on the back of his head. After the two men sat down to eat, she dished up another plate and took it out to Jimmy, who was on his second turn at guard duty.

“What about him?” Jimmy jerked his head toward the closed door of the temporary jail.

A cold chill seeped into her. “Remington will bring out food when he’s through with his own breakfast.” She left quickly, eager to be in the warming rays of the morning sunlight.

She had nearly reached the kitchen door when she saw a buggy approaching, her view of the road unimpeded now that many of the trees had been cleared. She raised a hand to her brows, shading her eyes as she tried to make out the visitors, but the black top of the surrey cast deep shadows over the two people on the carriage seat.

Misty ran to the edge of the yard and barked a quick warning. In a higher, sharper pitch, Ringer mimicked his mother, and the rest of the puppies followed suit. Misty looked back at her mistress, waiting for a command.

Libby stepped away from the house as the buggy drew closer, the horse traveling at a brisk trot. The driver didn’t slow the animal to a walk until the carriage passed through the break in the trees.

Libby felt wary as she waited. She couldn’t take her eyes off the passenger in the fine black surrey with its red carriage stripe and green cloth trimmings, watching as sunlight climbed from his chest . . . to his neck . . . to his face.

Her throat went dry. Her body stiffened and refused to move.

Not now.

The buggy drew to a halt in front of her, and her father descended. His steely gaze studied her for what seemed an eternity.

Not now . . . not now . . . not now.

“Well, Olivia, I am here at last.” He lifted an iron-gray eyebrow. “Have you no greeting for me after so many years?”

Not now.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. She remembered the dream she’d had two nights ago, heard her father saying,
“You can’t escape me
,
”
felt her own helplessness choking her.

Then she heard the door open. Her father’s gaze shifted to a place over her shoulder.

Remington’s here. It will be okay.

Those simple words gave her courage. Remington was with her. She could face her father with him at her side. She could face anything as long as Remington was near. Her father had no more power over her. Not now. Not ever again.

She turned, watched Remington’s approach, saw the flinty expression in his eyes, the hard set of his mouth.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Walker,” her father said.

Libby’s breathing became shallow, difficult.

Remington glanced at her, tried to hold her gaze, but she turned away. She had to look at her father once again.

“I’m glad your search was successful.” Northrop continued to speak to Remington. “I’m certain you are too, considering the tidy sum you’ve made for less than a year’s work.”

Father can’t possibly know him. It’s not true.

“Libby,” Remington said softly.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to reply to your telegram to inform you of my arrival, but I felt it would be better to surprise Olivia.” He pulled a bank draft from his breast pocket. “This is the bonus we agreed upon. As you can see, I’m a man of my word. You found Olivia before your year was over.” He held the draft at arm’s length. “When you return to Manhattan, send round an invoice for your expenses and the remainder of your agency fee. I’ll have my man at the bank issue the payment at once.”

Libby took the draft from her father’s hand before Remington could move. She stared at it, but the numbers blurred together. She blinked to clear her vision, then blinked again.

It was made out to Remington Walker. She read his name over and over.

Her father had known Remington was here. He’d brought the bank draft with him. He knew Remington. He knew him. He—

Remington’s hand alighted on her shoulder. “Libby, listen to me.”

Her eyes refocused on the amount of the draft. She read it aloud. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” She shook her head, disbelieving. “A quarter of a million dollars.” She glanced up. “Is that what
I’m worth, Father? So very much? I didn’t know. I never imagined how much you valued me.”

“Libby,” Remington tried again.

She turned and stared at Remington, wanting—
needing
—to see something in his expression that wasn’t there. “Tell me it isn’t true, Remington. Tell me Father didn’t hire you to find me. Tell me.”

But he didn’t deny it. She saw the truth in eyes.

“I can explain, Libby.”

“Explain what, young man?” Northrop interrupted in a loud, cheerful voice. He stepped forward to take hold of Libby’s arm, drawing her away from Remington. “You’ve confirmed your reputation as the best detective in Manhattan. You’ve done what no one else could do, and believe me, there are plenty who’ve tried.” Northrop turned Libby to face him, taking the bank draft from her fingers as he spoke to her again. “I can’t imagine there’s anything you want to take with you from this wretched place, Olivia, but if there is, get it now. We’ve a train to catch.”

“You mean too much to me to let anyone harm you.”
Remington’s words, only last night thought to be a declaration of love, now took on a different meaning. He’d kept her safe from Bevins so he could collect his reward from her father. It wasn’t love that had motivated him. It was greed. She’d been bought and sold once again.

“Libby, I can explain.”