Justice Burning (Hellfire #2) (12 page)

“You don’t have to tell me anything about Phoebe, I have my sources.” Audrey crossed both arms over her chest. “You’d never guess she was the daughter of the Dallas billionaire Jonathon Sinclair.” Her smile faded, and she laid a hand on Nash’s arm. “I also know someone is after her, and that someone fired on you two earlier today. I’m glad neither of you were hurt.”

Nash shot a glance down at Audrey. “She almost didn’t come to work tonight, because she was afraid she’d bring trouble to the saloon.”

“I’m glad she came. I can’t get around easily to help out. Enough people are in the place that I doubt the shooter would try to get to her here.”

“Come on, darlin’,” Jackson said. “Let’s get you off your feet. The doctor won’t be happy if he finds out you came to work.”

Audrey frowned and rubbed the sides of her jeans. “I guess you’re right. My stitches are rubbing against the denim.”

Jackson winked. “Let’s get you home and naked where you can heal properly.”

Her eyes lit, and she turned into her husband’s arms. “Or we could get naked in the storeroom and count whiskey bottles or whatever else you had in mind.”

The pair was notorious for getting it on in the storeroom. After being together for a couple years and having a baby, they still acted like newlyweds who couldn’t get enough of each other.

Nash fought the grin threatening to spread across his face as Audrey led Jackson to the storeroom.

Shaking his head, Jackson protested, “We need to take this home where you don’t have to get dressed afterward.”

“Come on, big guy. I can’t wait that long.” Audrey didn’t look back, tugging him by the hand to the back of the building.

Nash’s attention returned to Phoebe who was waving from the bar. A stool had opened, and she sat in it to keep someone else from taking over. Hurrying across the floor, he arrived in time to kiss her soundly for saving him a spot.

Then she was back on the floor with a tray full of mugs and whiskey shooters.

“Hey.”

A commotion at the entrance made Nash rise from his seat, his hand on the gun tucked beneath his jacket. Two men in dark suits lifted Greta Sue by her arms and physically moved her out of the way.

Then a loud, booming voice called out over the music and laughter, “Phoebe Sinclair!”

The band stopped playing, and every gaze turned toward the man bellowing like a bull in a field full of heifers.

“Phoebe Sinclair, I will have words with you, young lady.”

Nash shot a glance toward Phoebe as the tray she’d been carrying tilted sideways and the empty mugs and bottles slipped off, landing with a crash on the floor.

She stood still, her face losing all its color, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. “Daddy?”

P
hoebe heard
her father’s voice, and her knees wobbled and the tray she’d been carrying tilted. Before she could do anything to stop gravity from taking its due, everything she’d been carrying crashed to the floor. She spun to face the angry face of her father, the well-known entrepreneur and multi-millionaire, Jonathon Sinclair. “Daddy?”

“Phoebe Rochelle Sinclair, what the hell do you mean by running out on your wedding with a church packed full of people?”

Every face turned from her father toward her.

If she could have, she would have sunk through the floor. But she couldn’t, and she’d never have her independence if she didn’t stand up to her father and make her own wishes known. Stiffening her spine, she tilted her chin high. “I can’t marry Ryan.”

“After all the money I spent on the ceremony and all the people we invited to watch my only daughter marry, why the hell not?” His words shook the timbers holding up the metal roof over their heads.

“For one…I never loved him.” Her gaze turned of its own accord to the tall man standing at the bar, his hand inside his jacket, ready to take on anyone who threatened her. Including her father.

Nash’s jaw was set in a tight line and his brows dipped low over narrowed eyes.

Just his being there gave Phoebe the strength she needed to confront her overbearing father. She faced the man who’d raised her. “And for the second reason, Ryan’s dead.” For the first time in her life, Phoebe saw surprise on her father’s face.

“Dead? What do you mean dead?”

“As in no longer breathing.”

“You killed your fiancé?” Her father ran a hand through his hair, a frown pressing his bushy brows together. Then he straightened to his full, intimidating height of six feet four inches. “I’ll hire the best defense team the world has seen since the O.J. Simpson trials. It had to be self-defense. What did that man do to you?”

Surely he didn’t believe she’d kill a man. Her father really didn’t know his own daughter. Phoebe held up her hands. “No, Daddy, I didn’t kill Ryan, but someone did. I just happened to leave the wedding in his car. Unbeknownst to me, he was already dead and in the trunk.”

Her father looked around the barroom at all the faces of silent patrons staring from him to his daughter and back. “What are you all looking at? Can’t a man have a private conversation with his daughter without people gawking? Go back to what you were doing, for Pete’s sake.” To Phoebe, he said, “Come on, girl. Let’s go home and figure this out.”

This was it—the confrontation. Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and stood with her feet slightly parted, ready to take on anyone who tried to force her to leave. “I’m not going with you, Daddy.”

One cowboy turned to Phoebe. “That’s right, Phoebe, don’t let him push you around. We’ve got your back. You’re one of us now.” The man stood and planted himself in front of her father.

Jonathon Sinclair was a man used to getting his way. He glared at the cowboy but waved to his bodyguards. “Get her.”

Several cowboys stood, blocking the bodyguards from advancing toward Phoebe.

Nash crossed to where she stood and slipped an arm around her waist. “Mr. Sinclair, your daughter has made her home in Hellfire. She won’t be leaving with you.”

“Get your hands off my daughter,” her father demanded. “She’s coming home.”

“Not if she doesn’t want to.” He moved to stand slightly in front of Phoebe.

“Watch it, boy, or I’ll have you up on kidnapping charges.”

“He didn’t kidnap me, Daddy,” Phoebe said. “No one forced me to leave the church or to stay in Hellfire. I left because I want to live my own life, make my own decisions and choose the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You belong in Dallas, not this backwater small town with nothing but a bunch of hicks who have nothing better to do with their lives than drink beer.”

Every cowboy and all of the women in the saloon stood and faced Phoebe’s father.

Anger surged through Phoebe at her father’s rude words. These people had been good to her. They’d taken her in when she didn’t have a place to stay, made sure she had clothes to wear and a place to work. “Daddy, if you ever want to see me again, you’ll apologize to the men and women in this saloon.”

“I will not.”

Phoebe tapped her toe on the wooden floor. “Then please leave. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

Glancing around, he drew in a long breath and huffed it out. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“Then don’t expect me to pay for your lawyers when you’re arrested for murder.”

Her stomach sank, but she refused to let her father push her around ever again. “I’ll manage on my own.”

“You’ll be trading in your Gucci for prison orange, I tell you.”

She swept a hand down her torso and the second-hand clothes. “Does this outfit look like Gucci?”

His gaze raked her from head to toe. “No, but what you’re wearing really isn’t the point. Without my lawyers, you don’t stand a chance.”

Phoebe shrugged. “So be it.”

“Damn it, Phoebe, don’t be stubborn!” her father shouted, his hands fisted at his sides.

She raised her brows, her lips quirking on the corners. “I come by it honestly.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed to a squint. For a long moment, he stared across the room full of cowboys. “Fine. Have it your way.” He turned to the men in the room. “I’m sorry.”

Phoebe’s fists tightened. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Isn’t it enough I apologized?” he implored. “I never apologize.”

“Yes, you apologized, but you didn’t sound at all sincere.” She softened her voice. “Daddy, it’s never too late to be kind.”

Jonathon Sinclair stared again at the sea of faces. Finally, his shoulders relaxed and he chuckled. “She’s a lot more like me than I gave her credit.” He tipped his head toward the crowd and spoke in a sincere voice. “Please, accept my most sincere apology. You are all fine men and women, and it was arrogant of me not to recognize and appreciate you for who you are.” He held their attention for another long moment, and then turned to Phoebe. “Now, will you come with me?”

“First of all, I shouldn’t have had to tell you that you were being rude. Second, I’m still not leaving. I have a job, and you’re in the way of these hardworking, thirsty men.” Phoebe winked at the patrons.

The occupants of the saloon raised their voices in loud yee-haws and resumed their seats.

Phoebe fought the grin threatening to spread across her face and waved over her father. “If you’re staying, you have to order something. What can I get you?”

Her father glanced around, a smile curling his lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar as rustic as this. How about a Budweiser?”

“I’ll bring you a Light.” Phoebe patted her father’s protruding belly. “You’re supposed to be on a diet.”

He stood taller. “Are you a waitress or a daughter?”

“Both.” She faced the bodyguards. “Diet soda for you, Frank? Ginger ale for Smitty?”

They nodded and stood on either side of her father.

Phoebe shook her head. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit.”

All three men grabbed a chair and sat.

Empowered by having her commands followed, Phoebe turned toward the mess on the floor.

Nash squatted beside the broken mugs and bottles, loading them onto the tray. “I’ve got this.” He looked up at her and smiled. “By the way, you’re amazing.”

Phoebe nodded and grinned. “Damn right, I am.” And Nash was equally amazing and supportive of her attempt to start a new life. With starch in her spine and hope filling her heart, she marched toward the bar and ordered the drinks.

“Uh, Phoebe?” a voice called out behind her.

Audrey stood in the shadow of the hallway leading to the back of the building. The light bulb must have burned out because the corridor was darker than usual. Audrey’s usual happy face was pale and tense. She held her arm behind her back at an awkward angle.

“Audrey?” Phoebe hurried toward her boss. “Are you all right?”

The strawberry-blonde shook her head. “Not really.” Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.

As Phoebe neared the saloon owner, she could see why. Her breath hitched and a lead weight settled in the pit of her stomach.

A man stood behind her, a ski mask covering his face. “Keep quiet, and do as I say, or I hurt the woman.”

He eased his hand from behind Audrey enough for Phoebe to see the gun in his grip. A taller man stood behind the first. With both of them dressed in black, they could barely be seen in the darkened hallway.

“They hit Jackson in the head. He’s lying on the floor in the storeroom.”

The man holding her jerked her arm back farther.

Audrey winced. “I don’t care about me, but Jackson…”

The man holding Audrey tipped his head. “Come with us.”

Blood pounding in her ears, Phoebe glanced over her shoulder.

Nash straightened, his gaze going to the bar.

“Now,” the man said. “Or I hurt the pretty lady.”

Phoebe stepped into the dark hallway, praying Nash saw her as she did. As her bodyguard, he would follow her, even if she was only talking to Audrey.

The men didn’t stop until they pushed through the back exit.

Once the door closed behind Phoebe, she planted her feet on the ground and demanded, “What do you want?”

The taller man pointed a gun at Phoebe. “We want what Bratton gave you.”

Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The code,” said the man holding Audrey. “We want the code to the account where he moved the money.”

Her heart hammering, Phoebe glanced from one of the men to the other. Audrey was clearly in distress, Jackson lay injured in the storeroom, and these men wanted something she knew nothing about. Eager to do whatever it took to get these men to leave, she asked, “What code? What money?”

“Don’t play dumb, little rich bitch. We know he gave it to you. It wasn’t in the car, and he didn’t have it on his body when we stiffed him,” said the man holding the gun on her.

The one holding Audrey continued, “We searched your suitcases back at the church and it wasn’t in either one.”

“So he had to have given it to you. He planned to take it on your honeymoon to the Cayman Islands, withdraw the money from the bank and disappear.”

Phoebe’s heart hardened. Ryan, the bastard, really did deserve to die. But she refused to be collateral damage to his dirty deal. “That’s news to me. He didn’t clue me in on his plan.”

“He had to have. Otherwise, why did you leave?”

Audrey caught Phoebe’s attention, mouthing the word “one.”

Phoebe tensed when Audrey mouthed the word “two.”

On “three,” Audrey slammed her elbow into the midsection of the man holding her and dove out of range of his gun then scrambled to her feet.

Phoebe put her self-defense lessons to use and threw a sidekick into the other man’s hand, knocking the gun from his grip. She shoved the man who’d held Audrey into the man behind him and ran.

Limping, Audrey made it around the corner, but Phoebe had only gone a couple yards when someone hit her from behind and sent her sprawling face-first into the dirt. A hand grabbed her long hair and yanked so hard, she thought for sure a hank would come loose. The man who’d tackled her leaned close to her ear and breathed fetid breath into the side of her face.

“Move another muscle, and I’ll kill you, like I killed your fiancé.”

N
ash straightened
with the tray full of broken glass, satisfied he’d gotten all of the pieces so no one would be cut by the jagged shards. Immediately, his gaze sought Phoebe. She wasn’t at the table with her father and his bodyguards.

Turning toward the bar, he didn’t see her with Libby, the bartender, filling drink orders. His pulse kicked up a notch, but he wasn’t too concerned. She could be behind the counter, helping unload a box of whiskey, or she could have gone to the storeroom for a case of beer.

Nash carried the tray to the bar. “Have you seen Phoebe?”

Libby pulled the tap, filling a mug with beer. “Audrey called her to the storeroom, I think. Want me to go look? I could use a case of whiskey.”

“No. I’ll go check.” Nash hurried to the hallway leading to the storeroom. He couldn’t remember it being as dark as it was. He flipped the switch on the wall. The lights came on, and he entered the storeroom. “Phoebe?” he called out. Rows of boxes were stacked high enough he couldn’t see around them.

A moan rose from behind the stack.

Nash’s heartbeat thundered against his ribs as he ducked around the boxes to find Jackson Gray Wolf laying with his face on the ground, a bloody lump forming at his temple. “Jackson?” Nash knelt beside the man.

Jackson rolled onto his back and stared up at Nash. “Where’s Audrey?”

“I was going to ask you the same. What happened?”

“Don’t know.” He pushed to a sitting position and held onto his head. “I was kissing my wife when someone hit me.” He looked into Nash’s face and his eyes widened. “Audrey.” Jackson staggered to his feet.

Nash steadied him.

“Don’t worry about me, find Audrey. Whoever hit me might have taken her.”

She wasn’t in the bar. Not in the storeroom. She had to have gone out the back door.

Nash sprinted for the door.

Hands on hips, Greta Sue stood in the hallway. “You’re in a restricted area.”

“Greta Sue.” Jackson leaned in the doorway behind Nash. “Audrey’s in trouble.”

The big woman’s eyes grew round. “Where is she?”

“We don’t know,” Nash said. “Get Phoebe’s father and his bodyguards and head out the front. Jackson and I are headed out the back.” He darted for the back exit. “And have Libby call 911,” he called out over his shoulder.

Without waiting for Jackson, Greta Sue or Phoebe’s father and his bodyguards, Nash hit the back door and leaped off the landing onto the ground.

A man wearing a ski mask ran toward the side of the building.

“Hey!” Nash shouted.

The man turned, and a shot whizzed past Nash’s head.

Nash dove and rolled to his feet, pulling his Glock from the holster beneath his jacket as he came up.