safely.”
But that didn’t mean he was going to let those bastards get away with what they had done, he thought. They had to pay for taking Edwin Sinclair’s life, and for the ordeal they were putting Rebel through.
Conrad wouldn’t let himself think about what might be happening to her. Rebel was strong and smart. She would do whatever she needed to do in order to live through this. For the moment, her survival was all that mattered.
Vengeance would come later.
Even though he was willing to wait, Conrad had taken the first step toward settling the score with the kidnappers. He had written out a wire and prevailed on one of the police officers to take it to the Western Union office. The urgent message was addressed to Claudius Turnbuckle in San Francisco, a partner in one of the law firms that represented the Browning interests. The last time Conrad had seen his father, Frank Morgan had been on his way to Los Angeles to lend a hand to Turnbuckle’s partner, John J. Stafford. Conrad didn’t know if that affair had already been settled, but Turnbuckle would. The lawyer might have at least an idea of how to get in touch with Frank.
Because Conrad didn’t mind admitting that he needed his father’s help again.
“We’ll do everything we can to help,” the chief was saying now, “but our job is really keeping the peace here in town. You might want to give some thought to hiring the Pinkertons, or some outfit like that, if you want to track down the men who did this.”
“I know someone who can find them,” Conrad said, thinking of Frank.
The chief must have understood what he meant, because he nodded and said, “Oh. Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”
The problem was that it might take days to locate Frank, and even longer for him to get here. Conrad didn’t think the kidnappers would wait that long to make their demands. They would move quickly, in hopes of getting their hands on the ransom and making their getaway before anyone had a chance to corral them. He would probably have to handle that part himself, without Frank’s help.
The chief put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “If there’s anything I can do for you, Mr. Browning, don’t hesitate to let me know,” he said. “In the meantime, I don’t reckon there’s much any of us can do except wait. Maybe you should try to get some rest.”
“Yes, of course,” Conrad said, even though he had no intention of resting again until Rebel was at his side once more. He shook hands with the chief of police and thanked him. Then, the chief left, and he was alone.
He had never been alone in this house, he realized. Rebel had always been with him. He felt a sharp pang of loss as that sunk in on him.
Staying busy would help, he thought. A cabinet on one side of the room held several Winchesters, a double-barreled shotgun, a long-range European sporting rifle, and half a dozen Colt revolvers. Checking and cleaning all those weapons would take time. Conrad wanted to be sure he had plenty of ammunition on hand for all of them, too.
There was no telling how many guns he might need before this was over.
By morning, Conrad still hadn’t slept. The ache in his head had faded some but was still there. He went into the kitchen to make some coffee, but stopped short when he saw the large, dark stain on the floor. The undertaker’s men had cleaned up the blood as best they could when they came to collect Edwin Sinclair’s body, but nothing would get rid of that stain. The floor would have to be replaced. Once Rebel was back, the two of them could go on that trip to the high country, Conrad thought, and while they were gone, someone could come in here and do the work on the house that needed to be done to cleanse it of every reminder of what had happened.
A knock on the front door as he stood there contemplating the bloodstain made him jerk around. His long legs carried him quickly to the door. He had to force himself not to
But that didn’t mean he was going to let those bastards get away with what they had done, he thought. They had to pay for taking Edwin Sinclair’s life, and for the ordeal they were putting Rebel through.
Conrad wouldn’t let himself think about what might be happening to her. Rebel was strong and smart. She would do whatever she needed to do in order to live through this. For the moment, her survival was all that mattered.
Vengeance would come later.
Even though he was willing to wait, Conrad had taken the first step toward settling the score with the kidnappers. He had written out a wire and prevailed on one of the police officers to take it to the Western Union office. The urgent message was addressed to Claudius Turnbuckle in San Francisco, a partner in one of the law firms that represented the Browning interests. The last time Conrad had seen his father, Frank Morgan had been on his way to Los Angeles to lend a hand to Turnbuckle’s partner, John J. Stafford. Conrad didn’t know if that affair had already been settled, but Turnbuckle would. The lawyer might have at least an idea of how to get in touch with Frank.
Because Conrad didn’t mind admitting that he needed his father’s help again.
“We’ll do everything we can to help,” the chief was saying now, “but our job is really keeping the peace here in town. You might want to give some thought to hiring the Pinkertons, or some outfit like that, if you want to track down the men who did this.”
“I know someone who can find them,” Conrad said, thinking of Frank.
The chief must have understood what he meant, because he nodded and said, “Oh. Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”
The problem was that it might take days to locate Frank, and even longer for him to get here. Conrad didn’t think the kidnappers would wait that long to make their demands. They would move quickly, in hopes of getting their hands on the ransom and making their getaway before anyone had a chance to corral them. He would probably have to handle that part himself, without Frank’s help.
The chief put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “If there’s anything I can do for you, Mr. Browning, don’t hesitate to let me know,” he said. “In the meantime, I don’t reckon there’s much any of us can do except wait. Maybe you should try to get some rest.”
“Yes, of course,” Conrad said, even though he had no intention of resting again until Rebel was at his side once more. He shook hands with the chief of police and thanked him. Then, the chief left, and he was alone.
He had never been alone in this house, he realized. Rebel had always been with him. He felt a sharp pang of loss as that sunk in on him.
Staying busy would help, he thought. A cabinet on one side of the room held several Winchesters, a double-barreled shotgun, a long-range European sporting rifle, and half a dozen Colt revolvers. Checking and cleaning all those weapons would take time. Conrad wanted to be sure he had plenty of ammunition on hand for all of them, too.
There was no telling how many guns he might need before this was over.
By morning, Conrad still hadn’t slept. The ache in his head had faded some but was still there. He went into the kitchen to make some coffee, but stopped short when he saw the large, dark stain on the floor. The undertaker’s men had cleaned up the blood as best they could when they came to collect Edwin Sinclair’s body, but nothing would get rid of that stain. The floor would have to be replaced. Once Rebel was back, the two of them could go on that trip to the high country, Conrad thought, and while they were gone, someone could come in here and do the work on the house that needed to be done to cleanse it of every reminder of what had happened.
A knock on the front door as he stood there contemplating the bloodstain made him jerk around. His long legs carried him quickly to the door. He had to force himself not to
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