The Marshal Takes a Bride. Renee Ryan
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back a bitter retort.
As though hearing his unspoken words, inflexible blue eyes cut through the distance between them.
“The game is over…Marshal,” the woman said.
Although he had at least a hundred pounds on the stormy-eyed sprite, Trey had to stifle the shocking urge to withdraw. He’d stood up against cannons, gross injustice, crooked judges and vicious criminals, but nothing compared to the disapproval of Katherine Taylor—schoolmarm, official custodian of the Charity House trusts and Molly’s overprotective sister.
With that inflexible look on her face, Trey knew he could no longer count on the fact that Miss Taylor would set aside her volatile feelings for him and be reasonable, for Molly’s sake.
So be it.
He had to delay. Procrastinate. Postpone the inevitable.
But how?
The late afternoon heat pulled sweat onto his brow. He’d lost his hat long before the battle had begun. A light breeze lifted the hair off the back of his neck, the comforting sensation mocking his inability to think straight.
He circled his gaze around the perimeter of the yard, taking note of the snowcapped mountains in the distance. Too far away. Growing a little more apprehensive and a lot less confident, he focused on the brick, two-story mansions running shoulder to shoulder for several blocks off to his right. Too many questions. As a last resort, Trey shot a quick glance past the manicured lawn and blooming flowers to the large, fancy home behind him. Too risky.
His only hope was to take the woman by surprise.
As covertly as possible, he inched toward the hedge, but an irreverent growl wafted on a cloud of threat. A quick look to his right and Trey’s gaze connected with two more villains joining the foe’s ranks. Shifting to face these newest threats, he snarled at the man he’d once called friend and the woman who co-owned the Charity House orphanage with him. “Marc and Laney Dupree, this is not your fight.”
A grin slid between the two. “It is now,” Marc said for them both.
As one, they glanced to Katherine, then separated, covering the gaps she’d left when she’d moved in front of the hedge.
Blowing out a hiss, Trey lowered his head to Molly’s. “Don’t worry, kitten. I have everything under control.”
Various snorts and snickers cut through his words as more joined the enemy’s ranks. Katherine spoke for the group. “Just hand her over, and no one will get hurt.”
Wrapping all four feet of trembling little girl in his arms, Trey darted a quick glance to the house in front of him. “Not a chance.”
“This is ridiculous. Surrender the child, now.” Katherine spoke in a flat, no-nonsense tone that made him bristle.
Marc took two steps closer. “Enough, Trey. Hand her over.”
Trey eyed his friend turned traitor. Clean-shaven, dressed in a fancy vest and matching tie, Marc Dupree didn’t look much like the tough, hardened man Trey had once known, a man who had overcome poverty and…worse. In fact, with the sun winking off the dangling watch fob, Marc looked more like a dandy than a threatening opponent.
But Trey knew the man had hidden skills. Came from living with that wily, unpredictable wife of his, the same woman who was now conspiring openly with the enemy in this standoff.
“All right, Molly,” Trey whispered in her ear. “We’re going to make a run for it.”
Another low whimper slipped from her lips. “But, Mr. Trey, I’m not fast.”
He folded her deeper into his embrace. “Don’t worry. I’ll carry you.”
She wrapped her spider-thin arms around his neck, nodding her head against his chest.
Shifting her to a more comfortable position, he studied the biggest threat to the child. Her sister.
Just looking at the woman made his throat ache. Underneath all that prim schoolteacher starch, Katherine Taylor was a lovely, courageous bundle of feminine charm and beauty. Even amidst this contest of wills, Trey found a part of him admiring her moral fortitude and persistence. She’d triumphed over a scandalous childhood and the unspeakable violence committed against her. She was, quite frankly, a woman worthy of his respect.
Then again…
With the wind snapping tendrils of black hair free from that hideously confining hairstyle, she looked a lot like an avenging angel sent to demand his reckoning.
It was always like this between them—volatile, unpredictable, confusing—more so over the past few months.
Alarm spread through him, the physical reaction shocking him. The corresponding ache in his gut warned him that he’d made a mistake challenging Miss Taylor on this matter.
Seeking compassion, Trey pivoted to his right. But another glare of disapproval angled back at him. Carrying thirty or so extra pounds and a rounded belly, Laney O’Connor Dupree was just as relentless as Katherine.
“No way out yet, Molly. The flanks are too formidable for a quick escape.”
“Don’t let them get me,” Molly wailed.
“Don’t you worry. I’m a United States marshal. They wouldn’t dare take me on.”
The scoffing and giggles coming from the crowd behind Katherine didn’t seem to fill the little girl with confidence. “They don’t sound very worried.”
“They are. They just don’t know it yet.”
Balancing on the balls of his feet, Trey tucked Molly firmly in the crook of his arm. Leading with his shoulder, he charged through the front line. With the element of surprise on his side, he knocked his big, overdressed friend back a few yards.
Marc recovered quickly, and while Trey battled with his childhood friend, two pairs of persistent hands worked from behind to wrestle Molly free.
She kicked and squealed. “No, I don’t want to go!”
Trey ground his teeth together and dug his heels into the ground.
“Relent…Marshal,” said Katherine.
Trey pressed Molly tighter against his chest.
“You’ve taken this too far already,” Marc said.
Trey dodged a flying elbow. He spun to his right but slipped, dropping to his knees. Next thing he knew, Molly was wrested out of his grip, and he was lying flat on his back.
The impossible had happened. Trey Scott, defender of justice, protector of women and children, had just suffered defeat. At the hands of a schoolmarm, a dandy and a pregnant woman.
“Attack,” yelled the fancy man.
High-pitched squeals lifted into the air.
“And, this time, finish him off.”
In a blur, seven children jumped on him, fingers jabbing in his ribs and stomach. Trey clamped his teeth together. “I’m not ticklish.”
Undaunted, fourteen miniature hands worked quicker.
Trey finally let out a hoot of laughter. He rose to his knees, just in time to see Molly ushered up the back stairs, caught in the clutches of her relentless big sister. “Mr. Trey,” she yelled, “save me.”
She reached her thin arms out to him.
Trey hopped to his feet and then darted toward the back porch, but he was held back by the Charity House orphans. One by one, he peeled away hands and feet. A particularly persistent little boy rode on his leg, clutching with the grip of a full-grown man. It took considerable maneuvering to release the kid without hurting him. Trey could use such a man on his side. He nearly considered swearing the boy in as a deputy.
Too bad the brute was only eight years old.
“Mr.