As if in slow motion, the dude curled in on himself, his groan low and deep.
She had just a moment to admire Crosby’s skill, seeing him finish off the third man with a punch that sent him collapsing back into a display of chips.
Three men, now all wounded, two with gunshot wounds and one with a broken arm. Crosby grabbed the one she’d shot in the shoulder, stopping him from scurrying away.
He used that effective one-punch power she so often admired in her brothers and put the guy to sleep.
“Well done,” Madison said, smiling at how seamlessly they’d worked as a team. Leaning over the counter, she said to the clerk, “Could you call 911, please? In this weather, it might take them a bit to respond. They’ll need as much notice as possible.”
Rigid, Crosby stood there glowering at her among the fallen bodies, spilled beer and scattered chips. Rage still permeated his entire being.
Those clenched fists of his? Impressive.
The rock-solid line of his shoulders under his coat? Very stirring.
“You,” he whispered, the sound raw-edged with anger, “are not in charge here.”
Smiling, Madison held up her hands. Unlike her brothers, she didn’t mind stepping back—just a little.
He then proceeded to secure the men, rolling them one by one to their stomachs and fastening their wrists together with nylon cuffs. Had he carried those along? Obviously he’d known there would be trouble.
She kept watching him, but not once did he look at her.
Okay, the robbers hadn’t unsettled her, but Crosby’s attitude made her a little uneasy.
Pretending it didn’t, she moved to the boy, who continued to cower behind a shelf. He looked fifteen or so, in that awkward stage of long limbs, acne and sparse facial hair on his upper lip, which he wore like a trophy.
She crouched down in front of him. “You okay, bud?”
“They were going to hurt us this time,” he whispered, his face still ghostly pale.
This time? “Did they say so?” she asked, wondering what in the world she’d walked into. Maybe it hadn’t been a simple robbery after all.
“They didn’t have to,” the boy agonized. “It was their attitudes. If Crosby hadn’t showed up—”
A long arm reached past Madison, offering a Coke to the kid. She glanced up to see Crosby’s set face.
With his tone sounding mild, Crosby said, “Drink up, Owen.” When the boy took the can, Crosby rested his hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Why don’t you join your dad behind the counter? I’ve put up the closed sign and locked the door so you can both have a few minutes.”
Nodding, Owen shot to his feet, then skirted around the downed men and the beer that now crawled across the uneven floor. When he reached his father, Madison heard the low murmur of their voices, both of them sounding shaken.
Now that Crosby said it, the two did have a similar look. “So father and son were here working together and you—”
His finger pressed against her lips, shocking her silent. When had he removed his gloves, and why hadn’t she noticed? She rarely missed a single detail.
“Give me a minute,” Crosby rasped, still looking somewhat savage. “Do you think you can do that?”
Madison nodded. She wouldn’t mind giving him a week. Maybe a month.
Resisting the urge to lick his finger required more concentration than keeping quiet.
Crosby moved away again.
Freed from that strange and overwhelming effect he had on her, she dragged off her hat and unzipped her coat, suddenly far too warm.
Letting Crosby do his thing, she moved to stand before the counter and held out her hand. Keeping her voice very low, she said, “Hi. I’m Madison.”
The older man took her hand in both of his. “Winton Maclean. Thank you for helping us.”
Proving he had excellent hearing, Crosby said, “I had it in hand.”
Winton smiled at him, his look almost paternal. “I’m sure you did, but a little help didn’t hurt.”
“Depends on the help,” Crosby shot back.
Well, she liked that! Had she, or had she not, taken out one of them and helped with a second? She had. So...
Leaning in, Winton confided, “He’s angrier when he worries.”
Oh, she liked Winton. “Have you known Crosby long?”
Rubbing his forehead, Winton cast a quick glance at Crosby. “Most of his life.”
Now on his phone, Crosby pinned her with a warning gaze that pretty much stated, Don’t ask questions about me.
Fine, she’d save her questions for later. “Mop?” she asked Winton.
He was shaking his head to deny her help, but Owen said, “Through those swinging doors,” then caught his dad’s exasperated huff. “But you don’t need to—”
“Thanks, but I’m not good with idle time.” Smiling to reassure them both, she went for the mop and found it with a big bucket. Used to cleaning the sparring mats at her family’s home gym, she quickly added water and cleaner, then rolled it out. Using the mop, she stopped the beer from spreading farther across the store, but she was careful not to interfere with the “scene.” Cops could be prickly about things like that.
Good thing one of the robbers helped stem the flow, too; the beer was currently soaking into his side, all along his waist, hip and thigh. He tried to squirrel away, but one glare from Crosby and he went still again.
Suddenly police sirens echoed over the snowy streets. Blast, she’d run out of time. Abandoning the mop bucket, she sidled into the back room and quickly called her father. Crosby would be busy for a few minutes at least. Hopefully, everything would be wrapped up before her brothers could barge in. They tended to be overprotective where she was concerned.
Hearing the front door opening and the voices of officers, she quietly explained the situation to her father, giving him the address of the shop and assuring him it was all under control.
Never one to get ruffled, Parrish said, “So you’re okay?”
“Of course.”
“Are you positive you don’t need any help?”
“Absolutely certain.”
Her father hesitated a moment, then said, “Try not to get too involved, but if you get dragged in, let me know and I’ll start covering our bases.”
Yes, given their family enterprise, it was never wise to make the law too curious. Except for Crosby. Since they’d come to an understanding of sorts with him, he could be as curious as he wanted—about her.