At the Crossroads (Buckhorn, Montana #3)(13)

Alexis knew he was talking to her but pretended otherwise. She heard the man take a step toward her. She could smell the sweat on him and something else: desperation. It set her pulse pounding. In a couple more feet, he would grab her roughly, and she would pull her gun. Once he did, she’d have to shoot Eric and the other one leaning against his booth before he could shoot her.

She was wondering how long it would take the man outside to come running in and if she could depend on Culhane to stop him.

The bell over the door dinged, and she felt a gust of fall Montana air rush in.

“Bessie Walker makes the best cinnamon rolls in the county—heck, the entire state,” the man she’d heard called Earl Ray said as he came in. He looked right at her as if seeing what Eric was up to.

Eric turned away from her as his boss followed Earl Ray inside. But Alexis had felt Eric’s eyes on her, felt the meanness and the need pouring out of his pores. He’d be back.

THE SMELL OF Bessie’s cinnamon rolls turned Earl Ray’s stomach as he pushed open the café’s front door. Gene prodded him from behind with the barrel end of his gun, a reminder of how on edge the man was becoming.

He took a whiff of the cinnamon and yeast and wondered if he would ever love that amazing scent again or if it would always remind him of this day—a day he feared a lot of innocent people were about to die. He had been anxious before in his life, but nothing like he was right now.

He’d learned over the years that bad luck came in threes. When Bessie told him this morning that she was leaving, he’d felt the bottom fall out of his world. Leave Buckhorn forever? She couldn’t have meant it, and yet, he knew she had. Just as he knew why. He had only himself to blame. She was leaving because of him, because he couldn’t love her the way she needed and deserved, because he still felt married to his first and only wife, Tory, dead or not.

Then these men had walked into the café. Now he worried what the third bad thing would be and felt sick at the thought as he headed for the men’s restroom to wash the blood off his hands, Gene close behind him. All of their lives were in terrible danger. They’d be lucky to live through this, and yet, he couldn’t help the pain in his chest at the thought of Bessie. She was his sunshine, his oxygen, his reason for getting out of bed in the morning. He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing her smiling face each morning. He knew that if they survived this, he would shrivel up and die without her in Buckhorn.

Earl Ray stared at the blood whirling down the drain. He’d done his best to wipe off his hands while out in the van. He hadn’t wanted to scare the people inside the café any more than they already were.

He took his time washing and avoided looking up in the mirror at Gene. He feared his eyes might give his thoughts away: Gus, the man wounded in the van, was going to die. Not even if Gene raced to the nearest hospital would it do any good at this point. When Gus died, all hell would break loose.

“This is my kid brother,” Gene had told him when they’d reached the van. “Don’t let him die.” The threat was followed by a hard jab of the gun barrel to his back.

The pain had been excruciating, but he wasn’t about to let Gene see how much. He’d known when he’d seen the men come in, all armed, and imprinted with a look he recognized, that they were bad. He just hadn’t known how bad. Right now, his only thought was saving the people in the café.

That he might not be able to save himself was something he’d accepted. One look at Gus and he’d known the man might have a few hours left in him. Probably less. He could see that Gene knew it as well. But that wouldn’t keep him from blaming Earl Ray and maybe all the patrons for it. The man was angry, upset and just looking for someone to take his grief and regret out on.

Earl Ray feared it wouldn’t be enough for Gene to simply take it out on him, which meant a lot of people could die today if he didn’t find a way to change this situation. But quite frankly, he was at a loss. Gus was going to die. When that happened, Earl Ray had no way to protect anyone. He hadn’t come armed for breakfast. It had never crossed his mind that he needed to be. Even if he made some excuse to go to the house for medical supplies, Gene would be right behind him—just as he was now.

“You need to get him to a hospital,” Earl Ray had said when they were outside. “There’s one in the next town.”

Gene had made a disgusted sound. “Patch him up. He’ll be fine.”

They’d both known that wasn’t the case.

He finished washing his hands, rinsed them, turned off the faucet and pulled down several paper towels. Gene had moved to the door, propping it open with his foot, his attention divided between him and what might be going on in the café. Earl Ray realized that Gene didn’t trust his two young associates.

“Come on,” Gene said anxiously. “How long does it take you to wash your hands, old man?”

Ouch. Earl Ray didn’t feel old. Sure, his dark hair was more salt than pepper now, but he kept in good shape—despite Bessie’s baked goods—and he believed he hadn’t lost his agility, or at least not much of it. Gene wasn’t that many years behind him. Given the man’s lifestyle, this man would be lucky to see sixty-five.

He smiled back at him in the mirror. Best to let Gene think he was a doddering old man and not a threat, he thought as he ambled slowly back to his booth and Bessie.