The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (20 page)

“Next time, the little lady goes all the way,” Armitage was saying. “Now go get me that
ledger, Mr. Gambler. When you come back in, hold it up where I can see it. You’ve got five minutes.”

Emma listened as her husband’s footsteps crossed the floor. Logan would give up anything to save her. But it might not be enough. She would have to fight, too, for both of them.

Clenching her teeth against the pain, she twisted her bound wrists with all her strength. The rope dug deeper into her flesh, but the tough hemp strands held firm. Spent, she fell back against a corner of the cage. There had to be some other way. There was always a way; that was what her mother had told her.

Help me, Mama
, she prayed silently.
Show me what to do
.

By now Emma’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. Her gaze roamed over the rough-hewn timbers that framed the cage, searching for a corner, a splintered edge, anything that might be sharp enough to scrape through the fibers of the rope.

Her eyes caught a glint of light. As if some miracle had put it there, she saw the thick nail, hammered in at an off-angle so that the tip protruded a half inch on the underside of the joint. To reach it, she would have to balance on her legs and bend her body into an excruciating
position. But the gleam of that iron point represented her only hope.

Struggling to her feet she leaned against the side rail of the cage, twisted her arms into position and began scraping the rope against the point of the nail.

Logan scooped the ledger out of its hiding place in the bin of oats and turned back toward the shaft house. What he’d told Armitage was true. He didn’t give a damn about any of this mess, including his own worthless life. The only thing that mattered was Emma.

Could he get the jump on Armitage, knock him out of the way before a flick of his hand sent her plunging down the shaft? Or, if the brake was released and she fell, would he be able to crank her up again before she drowned? Either way, the odds were too grim to contemplate.

What about the length of the rope? The old hoist had been set up when the shaft was new and not so deep. If the rope was too short to reach the bottom…

But betting on that, too, would be a terrible risk. The sudden jerk when the cage halted could snap the aged rope or tear it loose.

Armitage was right—he was calling the
shots. And any move on Logan’s part could trigger the end of Emma’s life. For now there was nothing to do but play along with the little maniac and pray for the unexpected—something, anything, to throw him off guard and get him away from that hoist.

With the ledger in hand, Logan trudged back up the hill to the shaft house. The door stood open. He stepped inside to see Armitage still standing next to the shaft. His left hand rested on the hoist brake. His right hand held the short-barreled Colt Peacemaker he’d taken from Logan. It was aimed directly at Logan’s chest.

“You brought the ledger?” the pitch of his voice had risen to a nervous whine.

“It’s right here.” Logan held up the small black book.

“If you’re trying to trick me, you’ll be sorry. Come closer and open it. Show me the pages.”

Logan opened the book to the middle and riffled the pages toward the front. “See, no tricks,” he said. “Let me bring my wife up, and it’s yours.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” Armitage’s knuckles whitened around the pistol grip. His index finger squeezed the trigger.

The only sound was a faint metallic click. Armitage froze, his face a mask of surprise.
Logan chose that instant to hurl himself across the distance that separated them.

The impact of their colliding bodies knocked Armitage away from the hoist apparatus. But the little man was full of fight and stronger than Logan had expected. As the two of them grappled, Armitage managed to shift his grip to the barrel of the useless pistol. Using the butt as a club he cracked it hard against the side of Logan’s head.

Pain exploded in spirals of color. Logan reeled. He was fighting to stay conscious when the pistol struck him a second time. Blackness flooded his senses. He slumped to the floor and lay still.

Emma was rubbing the circulation back into her unbound wrists when she heard the exchange of words, followed by the frantic scuffling overhead. Abruptly it stopped. The sudden silence was terrifying.

Drawing the derringer from her pocket, she crouched in the darkness, her heart pounding. If Logan was all right, surely he’d call out to her and she’d be able to hear him. But there was only stillness above her. Stillness and the unknown.

Agonizing seconds crawled past. Then she
heard slow footsteps—not Logan’s—moving across the floor. Her ears could make out the sound of something being dragged over the planking. A body? Logan’s?

Emma battled a disabling flood of grief. Her hand tightened around the tiny gun. She had never believed herself capable of murder. But, by heaven, if fate granted her the flicker of a chance, she would not hesitate to kill Hector Armitage.

The dragging sound stopped just short of the shaft. Armitage’s voice rang down through the darkness. “Emma, my dear, are you lonesome down there?”

Emma crouched lower, thumbing back the hammer on the derringer.

“Emma, can you hear me?” A puzzled note had crept into his voice. “I’m about to send you down some company. Then you can join him at the bottom. Such a tender little drama, like
Romeo and Juliet.”

Emma didn’t reply.

“Emma?” He was shifting against the floor. She heard the scrape of his belt buckle on the planking. Emma imagined him stretching belly down, so he could slide forward and peer over the lip of the shaft.

“Emma? Answer me, blast it!” His head and
shoulders pushed past the edge, silhouetted against the light. He wouldn’t be able to see her in the dark depths of the shaft. That would make things easier. But, if possible, she needed a bigger target.

Slipping off one of her shoes, she dropped it over the side of the cage. It vanished in the darkness, splashing into the water far below.

“Emma, is that you?” He inched forward in an effort to see, thrusting the upper part of his torso past the lip of the shaft. This was as much of him as she was going to get. Even so, the shot would be a long one for such a small gun. Bracing her arm high, she aimed the derringer for the biggest part of him.

“Answer me, you bitch! Are you down there?”

Emma pulled the trigger.

Logan had been struggling through a fog of pain. He was just coming around when the pop of a gunshot, followed by a wail from Armitage, brought him fully awake.

He opened his eyes. Armitage was lying a few feet away, his legs on the floor, his upper body dangling over the lip of the shaft. He was blubbering like a baby.

“My arm…I’m bleeding like a pig…the bitch shot me!”

“Good for her.” Logan seized the prone legs, holding them down. “Emma!” he called. “Are you all right?”

“Never better!” The sound of her voice almost brought Logan to tears. “I’m fine here for now. Make sure our friend isn’t going anywhere. Then you can crank me up.”

Logan positioned his knees between Armitage’s legs. The reporter was still blubbering. “Let me up, Devereaux,” he whined. “I’m gonna bleed to death!”

Logan slid the man forward, so that most of his body hung down the shaft. “Maybe I should just let you go,” Logan said. “That would make everything simpler. What do you think, Armitage?”

“No! Listen, I can help you. I can give you Clegg’s head on a platter. I’ll tell the law everything…”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Clegg.” Logan pushed him forward another inch and was rewarded with a howl of fear. He had no intention of letting Armitage fall but after what the bastard had done to Emma, he was sorely tempted. “Extortion, kidnapping, attempted murder…Hell, Armitage, you don’t deserve to live. And what about me? If you tell folks about New Orleans,
I’ll have to run again, maybe get caught this time. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shove your sorry carcass down this hole.”

He slid Armitage’s stocky body forward until only the ankles and feet remained weighted to the floor. The reporter writhed in terror. The sour stench of urine rose from his pants. “Please,” he whimpered. “I don’t want to die. Pull me up and I’ll tell you something you’ll want to know…something about New Orleans.”

“You’re not calling the shots, Armitage. Tell me now. If it’s worth hearing, I might not drop you.”

“The man you killed…his brother, Marcel Leclerc, died of a pickled liver last year.” Armitage gasped with pain. “Marcel got religion on his deathbed. He confessed to how he’d shoved his brother into your knife and lied about the duel. You’ve been cleared, Devereaux. Your family…they’ve been trying to find you.”

Logan felt an unearthly giddiness. Armitage could be lying to save his own skin, but how could he have known about Marcel’s connection to the crime unless he was telling the truth? “Can you prove it?” he snapped.

“Give you my source. Name’s in my desk…For the love of God, Devereaux, pull me up!”

Logan dragged him back onto the floor.

Emma gazed up at the rectangle of light, watching it grow as Logan cranked the windlass. The cage rose slowly, inching upward with each turn.

She savored the anticipation, knowing that when she reached the top, she’d be stepping into a changed world.

A world in which Logan was no longer a wanted man.

A world in which Hector Armitage would never threaten them again.

There were no guarantees that she and Logan would have a trouble-free life. Between two such strong-willed, passionate people there were bound to be storms. But their love had survived trials of distrust, sorrow and danger. It would see them through whatever lay ahead.

Now the cage was clearing the shaft, rising into the light. Emma glimpsed Hector Armitage lying a few yards away, his wrists and ankles tied, his arm bound with a bloodied handkerchief. For such an evil man, he looked surprisingly small and helpless. Emma felt no pity, but she was grateful she hadn’t killed him.

The cage shuddered as Logan set the brake. His hand reached out to clasp Emma’s and swing her to the floor. Then she was in his arms.

No words were needed. She held him close, feeling the quiet joy of things as they should be.

Five months later

T
he song drifted after the buggy as it rolled down Main Street, with Doc Kostandis in the driver’s seat. Crowded in the back with Logan and their baggage, Emma blinked away a tear. She would miss the people of Park City. The new verse of the infamous ballad told her they would miss her, too.

Emma’s crusade for safer working conditions
in the mines had endeared her to the town’s working poor. The changes had come slowly, but they were making a difference. These days there were fewer injuries, fewer widows and orphans. And Logan’s mine had been the first to adopt a new drill that hosed water into the rock, cutting down on the deadly dust.

With hard work and a bit of luck, Logan had managed to buy a new pump and make the Constellation profitable again. Now that the mine had been sold for a fair price, Logan and Emma would be boarding the train for New Orleans. Logan’s parents and his ninety-eight-year-old grandmother were waiting with open arms to welcome them home.

Life had moved on for others, as well. Andrew Clegg and Hector Armitage had been convicted of extortion and sent to the territorial prison. Unable to adapt to the disgrace of prison life, Clegg had hanged himself in his cell. Armitage, however, appeared to be thriving. He’d received permission to start a prison newspaper and, according to rumor, was slowly building his own network of power among the convicts. As Logan had put it, some weeds would bloom anywhere.

At the foot of Main Street Doc turned the buggy onto the cemetery road. Before catching
the train, Emma had wanted to pay one last visit to the place where a piece of her heart would be buried forever.

Stopping outside the fence, Doc waited while Logan came around the buggy to help his wife to the ground. With their baby due in a few months, he was very mindful of her safety.

Emma had brought two bouquets with her—a sheaf of white lilies and a small nosegay of pink roses with baby’s breath. Logan stood by the gate, watching as she carried the flowers down the path to the far corner of the graveyard, where a simple granite marker rose above the dry November grass.

Kneeling, Emma kissed the flowers and laid them on the grave. “Rest in peace, my dearest ones,” she murmured. A welling tear spilled down her cheek. The nightmares hadn’t returned since the night she’d walked away from the ghost. She could only pray that Billy John’s spirit had forgiven her and that his soul had found eternal peace.

Logan was waiting for her at the gate. He brushed away the tear and kissed her gently. “I love you, Mrs. Devereaux,” he whispered.

She smiled up at him. “I love you, too. Now it’s time to catch that train.”

He helped her into the buggy, circling her
with his arm as a breath of winter wind blew down the canyons. Her hand crept into his as the whistle of the incoming train echoed across the valley—the train that would carry them to their new home.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II BV/S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

First published in Great Britain 2013
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited.
Harlequin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

© Elizabeth Lane 2013

eISBN: 978-1-472-00408-6