A Shot in the Dark (A Trick of the Light Book 2) Read online

  Posing like a pin up, she gave him a hungry, lust-filled look. “When I made your pie, I might have had just a bit too much whipped cream left over.” He swallowed, watching her move to her knees and beckon him over. “It would be a shame to put it to waste…”

  After the wild night Charlie and Matthew had shared, she woke up with a wonderful lightness of spirit. The way he had pounced for all her teasing had been nothing but fun. Her poor little gown had lasted less than ten minutes before he tore it down the middle, past caution from her fooling with the whipped cream. Needless to say, not a dollop was wasted.

  Charlie marveled at the man. Matthew could be so gruff and distant with folks, completely assertive in his bearing when he interacted with the community. But when they were in bed, he doted on her in the dark. He didn’t need to speak to make it clear all his attention was hers. And he was anything but distant, took an extravagant amount of time seeing to her gratification—curious and attentive.

  Feeling rather spoiled, Charlie sat up.

  One look at the mayhem in the room and her jaw dropped. They had done a number on the bed; had somehow moved it several feet during the first, maybe second… perhaps the third round of lovemaking. Items had been knocked off the dresser. Beyond that, somehow the spindle chair had been broken, and for the life of her, Charlie could not recall how on earth they’d done it. When the man looked up to see what she was frowning at, she blushed scarlet, and Matthew actually chuckled at her embarrassment.

  Unconcerned with the disarray, certain of one way to settle her spirits, he pressed his lips to her throat and rolled her naked body beneath him. By the time breakfast arrived, Charlie was loose limbed and smiling again.

  Devil’s Hollow closed up for the day so the Emersons, with Charlie’s help, could prepare for the Chicago run. The morning and early afternoon were dedicated to filling up jar after jar of moonshine. Once dusk arrived, she was dropped off back at the roadhouse and the men were on their way.

  She found herself soaking in the tub, happy for the quiet. How different it was to be there without the perpetual sounds of customers talking or the hum of the radio.

  Home... this is what having a home felt like.

  Her enjoyment of the peaceful revelation was shot to hell a moment later. There was a sound—the small crack and scrape of the lock being picked downstairs—that set Charlie’s hackles to rise.

  Sopping wet, she moved with the speed of a woman accustomed to adrenaline, pulling on the nightshirt Matthew left hanging on the bathroom door. In less than half a minute, Charlie had her rifle at the ready and the spare shotgun swinging from her shoulder.

  Whoever the fuck was breaking in was going to leave bleeding… if they left at all.

  A flat tire had slowed their way as the Emersons dodged feds and non-friendly sheriffs of other, far less understanding counties. By the time they’d made their goal, they were two hours behind. Irritated, Matthew watched Beau’s men move slow as molasses on a cold day unpacking the truck.

  In time, he got his money, Radcliffe got his liquor and the Emersons were back on the road. When they finally reached the Monroe county line, it was almost seven o’clock in the morning. Daylight shined off the roadside sludge, Matthew squinting as he looked out towards Devil’s Hollow. There should have been a trail of smoke coming off the chimney, Matthew wondering if Charlotte had forgotten to build up the fire before bed.

  When the truck pulled up and the Emersons found a man’s corpse lifeless on the porch steps, Matthew burst out of the vehicle before Eli could hit the brakes. The stiff looked like he’d tried to drag himself away, leaving a red, smeared trail. The door was open, a second man dead on the threshold. Bounding over the body, Matthew found the grill in disarray. Several tables were knocked aside, chairs overturned, and two more corpses… men he recognized as the boys from Roscoe he’d just sold sixty gallons to three nights prior. Breathing hard, he looked for a sign of his golden girl, the Blackbird who never misses, and tore through the room mindless of where he stepped.

  Another corpse lay in the back corridor, torn apart by close range buckshot to the chest, Charlie’s rifle on the ground under it. A horrible feeling clenched his gut at the sight of her abandoned gun, made worse by the nearby smear of rust colored footprints leading out the back door.

  “She’s over here!” Nathaniel shouted from the main room.

  Matthew ran, his brother squatting near the corner where Charlie sat hidden from view by the stove. Her blonde head was hanging down, lying at an unnatural angle on her shoulder, face covered by wild lank hair. One lily-white hand sagged on the shotgun in her lap. Her other arm, tightly bound by a tourniquet, flopped on the ground in a pool of reddish-black blood.

  The awkward sprawl, the stillness of her far too pale body... Matthew stumbled to his knees. “Charlotte!”

  The blonde head lolling at her shoulder was carefully moved by warm, male hands. Matthew found her chest was fluttering like a bird’s, expanding with little puffs of air in small gasps, and knew she held on by a thread.

  In the pallor of her face, eyes, dim and near death, opened to slits. “One got away.”

  She barely croaked the words, black and blue bruises marring the smoothness of her throat, blood dripping down the wall behind her head.

  “You hang on now,” Matthew barked, scooping her up and rushing out the door, leaving Nathaniel and Eli to follow behind. He drove her to the nearest hospital at breakneck speed, certain at any moment, he was going to lose her. When he burst through the doors with the blood-soaked woman, he shoved all others aside and demanded she be tended first. Doctors and nurses rushed to take her from him, had to pry her away to put Charlotte on a gurney—to take her where he could no longer stay at her side.

  Chapter 7

  It was a full day before Charlie opened her eyes. She swallowed and grimaced, trying to sit up only to have large hands come to her shoulders to gently push her back against unfamiliar pillows.

  “Easy now, spitfire.”

  That voice… trying to focus past the hammer pounding at her skull, bloodshot eyes slid in their sockets to find a familiar, rugged face leaning over her. She stopped struggling, her undamaged hand reached weakly towards him. When he took it, held it in his, her heart stopped racing.

  Though Charlie stayed silent, content to look at the man rubbing her fingers, there was nothing wrong with her memory of what had brought her into pain.

  Blowing apart the first two thugs slinking through the roadhouse’s door had been easy. The next two were a bit wiser, but she tagged ‘em as they trundled between the tables.

  All seemed quiet... until the door burst open behind her. Before she could turn, a brute wrapped his hands around her neck. He’d banged her head back against the wall, causing Charlie to fumble and drop her rifle. As the world grew dim, she struggled to angle the shotgun swinging from her shoulder. Once it was near enough the bastard’s belly, she fired, blood spraying everywhere.

  The fresh body took her down, Charlie slipping in the mess. Inelegantly, she shoved the corpse off, seeing another charge inside. As she raised the shotgun, he swung at her with a blade, slicing her forearm as she pulled the trigger. Caught on the knife, her aim had been poor, the buckshot only grazing the man’s thigh. Barrel empty, she staggered, ready to swing the firearm like a club. Cursing, the man ducked, gripped his bleeding leg and stumbled out the back, leaving a trail of blood.

  He just left her there—Charlie bleeding out, pathetically trying to reload.

  She could feel her lifeblood pumping from her arm and the dizzying pain of the mashed-up side of her head. Ripping Matthew’s old nightshirt, Charlie used the scrap as a tourniquet before weaving towards the stove in the corner. Leaning back in the shadows, the shotgun resting on her lap hours passed. All the while she kept her vigil, in case the wounded man came back to finish the job… until her eyes closed in a wave of cold vertigo.

  “One got away.” Voice hoarse, she groaned, “I… I didn’t kill him.
” She swallowed, absolutely disgusted with herself for missing. “Only grazed his thigh.”

  “Do you know the men who hurt you?”

  There was a soft, pained wheeze. Charlie took her time, working around her throat to speak. “No. But I recognized them from a few nights back… the Roscoe boys. The skinny blond with the thin mustache and scar on his left cheek—he’s the one that cut me and ran.”

  Looking down at her left hand, she found it bandaged, a pink line of blood marring the white of the gauze. Lifting it up, the tightness of her skin pulled the stitches. Charlie went to peel back the bandage, wanting to see, only to have Matthew take her feeble fingers and put her back as she was.

  “I want… to go home.”

  Matthew shook his head. “No, darlin’. You are staying here until the doctor says otherwise.”

  “I don’t like hospitals.” Her eyes were growing erratic and heavy. “When… when can I leave?”

  “A few days yet.” Matthew watched her glance away, knowing that look, knowing she was going to be difficult once a modicum of strength returned.

  When the doctor came to poke and prod her, she glared but obeyed, demanding to be released in her pathetic croak of a voice.

  The old physician took a firm tone. “I’m afraid not, Miss Elliot. To compensate for your wound, you received a blood transfusion. The cut on your arm needs to be monitored. Your throat is far too swollen... not to mention your concussion.”

  Trying to hide the pain, she stated in a broken voice, “I feel fine. I won’t stay here.”

  “The dilation of your pupils says otherwise. Until I know you are stable, you will not be leaving that bed.”

  She damn well would be, first time she was alone, Charlie was going to get the fuck out of there.

  As if reading her thoughts, Matthew growled at her—right in front of the doctor. Charlie just growled back.

  The doctor cracked a smirk and left the room.

  When the physician was gone, Charlie narrowed her eyes and demanded, “I want to go home.”

  “No.”

  Her breathy wheeze was full of frustration. “God damn it, Matthew.”

  He leaned closer, gruff and intimidating. “Charlotte, you will stay in that bed and behave yourself, or God help me, I will tie you to the fuckin’ frame.”

  Charlie knew she was being difficult, recognized she was not used to anyone looking after her, and chafing at it. As if to pacify, she squeezed the callused hand holding hers and felt him run his thumb gently over her knuckles. Nevertheless, his eyes didn’t lose their threat; Matthew was not falling for her compliance for a minute. It made her quirk the tiniest of smirks before she lowered her lashes and went back to sleep.

  She was woken at supper, Matthew still at her side.

  A nurse helped her sit, setting a tray of unappetizing, grey, mashed food and a steaming cup of warm tea over her lap. Her hands went to the mug and Charlie sipped the brew, sighing. Looking at Matthew, she found a small dash of pride in his expression and knew he had told them to bring her tea—probably sent someone out to buy the brand she liked best.

  She smiled a little and sipped some more, watching him watch her. When she put the cup back and made no move to touch the mystery mashed food, he grunted and cocked his chin. Reluctantly, she took the spoon and ate exactly seven bites of the foul stuff.

  Setting the spoon down, she pushed the tray away, preparing to settle back for more enforced rest.

  Abrasive, gruff, he demanded, “Eat it.”

  “Take me home,” she countered.

  He picked up the spoon and scooped up a small amount for her, once again moody and belligerent.

  “Try it,” she challenged, “and tell me you would eat that shit.”

  He took the prepared bite and swallowed with no hesitation, then got another scoop for her. When she went to take the spoon from his hand, he pulled it out of her reach before bringing it up to her mouth again. He fed her the whole damn thing, bullying her into behaving.

  The next time she woke, Nathaniel was there dozing. It was the pitch black of night. When she moved to creep out of the covers, he groaned from the shadows, “You put one toe out of that bed, Charlie, and there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I don’t want to be here, Nathaniel. Help me out.”

  Grumbly, he glared. “You’ll stay. Now stop whinin’, I’m tired.”

  Every moment had been twenty-four-hour surveillance by one Emerson or the other. Matthew loitering all day, pestering her with his glares and grunts until she did as he wanted. But at least he brought her food, mashed up things he knew she liked, to save her from the grey sludge. He even brought a slice of his Valentine’s Day chocolate pie… but only fed her the soft chocolate filling, keeping the crust for himself. Eyes devilish, he ate it right in front of her, and refused to share while she tried not to giggle.

  Sheriff Cormac came and questioned her, staring at the woman who had befriended his daughter, knowing what she’d done to those men. Charlie didn’t much care for the look he was leveling on her, and was glad Matthew was there to help her keep from snarling at the lawman. In answer to every question, she lied and told Sheriff Cormac she couldn’t remember a thing, had no idea who saved her, and tried to play the timid female.

  The sheriff wasn’t fooled for a minute. He looked at her differently—he looked at her like she didn’t belong. The longer the sheriff pestered, the sadder she grew, worried he was going to take his daughter’s friendship from her.

  Her eyes began to water.

  The instant Matthew saw she was upset, he barked at the lawman to leave, asserting there would never be any more questions on the subject.

  Cormac obeyed.

  Ruth was allowed to visit the fourth afternoon. The relief on Charlotte’s face when she saw who had come, the only reason Matthew allowed it. Whispering in her ear, Ruth had Charlie hoarsely chuckling for half an hour, but when Matthew saw Charlie grimace from across the room, he ordered the little woman away as politely as the agitated bear could.

  For such a small snip of a girl, Ruth met Matthew’s grumpy scowl with a knowing smile and departed, leaving behind a jar of applesauce and some Jell-O.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day, Charlie was in bed reading the paper when the doctor came in, checked her thoroughly and said she was free to leave so long as she made sure to get plenty of rest. Charlie flew out of bed so quickly her legs wobbled, and Matthew had to catch her. While she found her footing, he threatened that if she did not slow down he would make the doctor keep her until she learned sense.

  Charlotte told him to fuck off, the old doctor chuckling all the way out the door.

  Back at Devil’s Hollow, the floors and walls had been scrubbed clean of the blood, looking just as they always had. The room smelled of tobacco, grilled cheese, and moonshine… no trace of gunpowder. It was like the Emersons were trying to make it all disappear.

  Charlie didn’t operate that way. She didn’t forget. And she sure as hell didn’t forgive.

  Stopping at the door she surveyed the location each man had died. Absently scratching at her bandaged arm, a growl reverberated deep in her chest, drawing a few curious looks from customers.

  A warm hand came to her lower back, distracting her agitation, Matthew leading her towards the rocking chair by the fire. He sat her down, handed her the paper and ordered Eli to make her tea before going to his office. The news was in hand and a few minutes later the tea too, but her eyes were on the wall where she had almost bled to death. It was then she realized she had never thanked him.

  Standing, she crossed the room and knocked on Matthew’s door. He barked, assuming it was Eli, and she pushed it open.

  “I never said thank you,” she mumbled, her voice still raspy from the attack. “I should have said thank you.”

  The look on his face went from shocked to full on guilt.

  Shaking her head, Charlie closed the door behind her and confronted him. “It wasn’t your fault, Matthew.”
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  He grunted and she shushed him. “If I had been thinking, I would have realized the backdoor was right behind me… so you see, it was my fault. And I’m sorry.”

  “Charlotte, you’re a damn fool to think that. They came into my house, harmed my woman. I found you barely alive in a pool of fuckin’ blood.” His voice came low and dangerous. “I am gonna find that man and I am gonna kill him.”

  Not if I find him first.

  Charlie caressed his shoulder. “We both know he’s long gone. Men like that don’t come back. He’s running scared somewhere with a limp.” But new men may be sent… that had been a hired group of thugs if she ever saw one. They’d cased the joint, buying just enough liquor to not draw suspicion, and then tried to break in quietly. They’d had a plan. The only question now was, who did the hiring and why?

  Pulling his lips into a snarl, Matthew surged from his chair, knowing what he saw clear as day in her eyes. “Whatever you are thinkin’, whatever plots are cooking up in your head… stop it now. You ain’t leavin’ over this, Charlotte.”

  “Leaving?” She raised a brow, insulted. “I love you, Matthew Emerson. I’m not leaving you until you tell me to go.”

  It was said simply, effortlessly. Charlie turned to slip out, closing the door behind her, a wide-eyed Matthew sitting in stunned silence.

  Chapter 8

  “Run, Mama.” Charlotte tossed in her sleep, talking nonsense.

  Reluctant to wake her, Matthew held his tongue for the past hour she’d carried on, or he had, until he’d heard those words garbled thick with fear.

  Gently shaking her shoulder, he watched Charlotte fight the covers, a strangled noise leaving her mouth while flared eyes searched the dark like some monster was there, watching her.

  “You all right?” Matthew was at her ear, stroking her spine.