© 2015 by Lori Copeland
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-037-7
eBook Editions:
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com.
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
The Peacemaker
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Drifter
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Maverick
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author
Cole Claxton reined up and sat for a moment looking out over the soggy landscape. New Orleans lay before him, the place where he and the other riders planned to split up, each man going his own way. The men had fought for their own states, but the weeks following the war had thrown them together and forged an indelible bond.
The war was over. Cole had begun to think this day would never come. Since he’d left his home in the Ozarks four years earlier, the days had merged into weeks, and then into years, blurring into an endless repetition of fighting and regrouping, killing and dying.
Trey McAllister—tall, handsome, with curly red hair—voiced the thoughts of all the men. “Well, boys, it’s finally over and we came out alive.”
The dark half-breed, Dallas Ewing, said little, but his friends knew he was a man of few words. Dallas would be heading home to Oklahoma.
Bill Trotter, short, blond, and a lot thinner than he had been when he joined up, spat a stream of tobacco juice. “I’m heading back to Ohio. Gonna put my boots ‘neath the welcome table.”
The others laughed, throwing friendly gibes in jovial Bill’s direction.
“Me?” Elmer Cox put in. “I’m heading straight for Fort Knox, Kentucky, brothers. Gonna get me a kiss and a batch of fried chicken—in that order.”
“Amen, brother. Me, too.” This came from Elmer’s brother, George.
“Home sounds mighty good,” Cole agreed, looking at his brother, Beau. He’d miss these men. But it was time to go home. He held out his hand. “Fellows?”
One by one the men shook hands and turned their horses in the various directions they called home.
As Cole and Beau moved away from the others, Bill Trotter called over his shoulder. “If you ever need anything…” He didn’t need to finish the thought. If any one man ever needed anything…
Cole reined up to watch the men ride off, disappearing into the mist and fog. Then, with a word to his horse, he hurried on to where his brother waited. Together they would make the final leg of the journey home. Home.
July 1865
Wynne Elliot coughed and daintily lifted a handkerchief to her nose as clouds of choking dust swept through the open stagecoach window. She flashed a weak smile for what seemed like the hundredth time at the gentlemen who sat across from her, and fervently wished the tiresome trip were over. She’d never dreamed it would take so long to travel from Georgia to Missouri.
Turning back to the scenery, she compared the harsh countryside to her own beloved Georgia. July, a time when flowers were blooming, when breezes were moist and balmy and moss draped through the trees like a bride’s spidery veil.
Here the ground was hard, the grass dry from lack of moisture. While there was little evidence of the death and destruction her dear South had endured, there were still visible scars. Burned homesteads. Barren fields. The war had taken its toll here, too, but not with the terrible devastation she had witnessed farther south.
The farther the coach traveled, the more rugged the contour of the land. Ozark mountain country, she’d been told, was a place where people either survived or didn’t, and given the landscape, she could well imagine why.
Low mountains with virtually untouched forests dotted the landscape, and the road they traveled twisted and snaked through gaps and valleys with endless walls of shale and limestone. On at least two occasions the coach had stopped and the driver and guard had removed fallen rocks from the way. Wynne had taken to watching the hillsides looking for rolling boulders, although if she saw any moving in their direction, it would already be too late to avoid impact.
She feared that at any turn in the road a band of outlaws would gallop from behind those massive boulders to waylay the coach. During the last rest stop, she’d heard mention of Alf Bolin and his men, an unsavory faction that waylaid unsuspecting travelers. And there was talk about Ozark vigilantes meting out their own bloody brand of justice. The men’s casual conversation had given Wynne the willies.
It wasn’t the first time she’d heard such shocking tales. Stage hands at the way stations delighted in relating such stories to shock and distress lady passengers.
But she had to admit that nothing she had been told had prepared her for Missouri’s rugged beauty. And the land was beautiful. Great oaks and maples. By the size of the trees alone she guessed them to be hundreds of years old. Colonies of ferns spread a lacy carpet across the forest floor. Branches as big around as her waist reached out to form a canopy over the trail. Sturdy tree trunks sank deep roots into soil that was alternately black loam and rich red clay, but so stony that no plant could hope to survive. Still, natives of the area appeared to eke out an adequate living, and apparently in Springfield—a regular metropolis, she’d heard—businesses were thriving. Just yesterday she’d overheard that the railroad and more stores and hotels would locate there soon. If this was true, then Missouri would come out of the Great Conflict in better shape than her own beloved Georgia.
She sighed as the stagecoach tossed its passengers about. How much farther to River Run? Traveling by coach had not been easy—the jostling about, the dust, and the insufferable heat. How she longed for a bath—a long, hot bath with scented soap and shampoo. She sighed longingly. Revenge could indeed be tedious at times.
Absently, she rubbed the smooth, odd-colored stone she’d carried for over a year. He had given the token to her. Strange that she hadn’t rid herself of this last painful reminder of him. She didn’t need anything to remind her of Cass Claxton. His image was burned into her mind.
That man.
The worthless trinket worn smooth by the continual wash of river water had become her worry stone. Her thumb fit perfectly in the tiny hollow, which looked as though it could have been formed for such a purpose—but then, Wynne knew worrying was not of God. Nor was revenge, for that matter. She couldn’t expect the Almighty to look with approval on the purpose of her journey, but her blood ran too hot, her anger too deep, to forgive and forget.
Her fingers endlessly smoothed the rock in silent litany:
I’ll get him…. I’ll get him if it’s the last thing I do…. I’ll get that man.
The journey to Missouri had been long and tiresome, and it wasn’t over yet. She tried to bolster her wilting spirits by reminding herself that it wouldn’t be much longer. As soon as she caught that deceiver… she would go home. Home to baths and warm food, a comfortable bed and people who loved her. Home to Moss Oak, the plantation where she had been born and raised. The only home she’d ever known.
Wynne wiped ineffectually at the small trickle of perspiration that escaped from beneath her hairline, and then adjusted her hat. It was hard to stay presentable, but she wanted to look her best. When she finally ran Cass to the ground, she wanted him to see what he had walked away from.
Her attention settled on the flamboyant young woman dressed in red sitting next to her. Now here was a fascinating example of womanhood. One that she had never expected to find in her circle of acquaintances.
Miss Penelope Pettibone was on her way to a new job at Hattie’s Place. According to Penelope, Hattie’s Place was a drinking establishment where a man could go for a hand of cards and “other gentlemanly pursuits.” At the mention of “other gentlemanly pursuits,” Wynne’s eyes had widened knowingly, and she had felt her cheeks burn. She had never met one of “those” women before, and she found she had a certain adverse fascination with Miss Pettibone. Penelope smiled and winked at the man sitting opposite her, and Wynne fanned herself quickly and turned back to the Missouri countryside. A lady never winked, or if she did, she should have something in her eye.
Only that scoundrel, that disgraceful, deplorable, unforgivable Cass Claxton, occupied her thoughts now. The mere thought of that rogue left her breathless with anger. Not only had he left her standing at the altar in complete disgrace, but he’d also managed to walk away with every penny she had except the small pittance she kept in a tin box under her mattress for extreme emergencies.
True, she’d been foolish to fall in love with a man she knew so little about, and even more imprudent to offer financial assistance to a business venture he was about to embark upon, but she had always been one to put her whole heart into everything—especially in matters of love. Of course, she’d not had all that much experience with matters of love, but after studying at Miss Marelda Fielding’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, she considered herself a sophisticated woman of the world. That’s why it hurt so much that she had let Cass Claxton take advantage of her.
If it hadn’t been for the war and her suspicion that Cass had enlisted the day they were meant to marry, she would have tracked him down like a rabid skunk and put a hunk of lead straight through his thieving heart for sullying her trust—not to mention her character. But surely it would have been considered treason to shoot a Confederate soldier, a defender of the homeland, no matter how much he had it coming. However, the fighting had ended, and now she felt free to wreak her vengeance on the lout who had taken advantage of her in such a shameful way.
Her temper still boiled when she thought how gullible she’d been. Well, she was no longer gullible. Quite by chance she’d been told by a close acquaintance of Cass that he had indeed enlisted, survived, and had been seen in Kansas City a few weeks ago. The friend had said Cass was en route to his home in River Run and should arrive any day now. She intended to be there to meet him.
Wynne clenched her fan in her hand; her eyes narrowed pensively. It had been a long time coming, but Mr. Cass Claxton would soon pay for his sins. She smiled in satisfaction. Very soon Cass would rue the day he’d ever heard of Wynne Elliot.
She’d learned a valuable lesson: no man could be trusted. She wasn’t necessarily permanently soured on men—Papa had been a man of sterling reputation, but Papa had been an exception. She would never allow herself to be fooled by a man again. Not even one as good-looking as Cass Claxton.
The coach lurched along. Wynne studied the two male passengers dozing in the seat across from her. Undoubtedly they were scoundrels, she speculated. After all, they were men. She could rest her case. Argument closed.
She had to admit she liked to watch the way stuffy Mr. Rutcliff’s fat little jowls jiggled every time the stage hit a rut in the road, but when it came to females, she’d bet he was just as fickle as all men, even if he was nearly seventy years old. She guessed age didn’t make much difference where men were concerned.
Covering her mouth with her handkerchief, she’d managed to keep from laughing out loud a couple of times when a bump had nearly unseated the small man. He’d snorted himself awake and angrily glanced around as if to ask who the culprit had been that had dared interrupt his napping. After a moment his eyes had closed, and soon he could be heard snoring again. Fat little jowls ajiggle.
Henry McPherson, the second gentleman traveler, was younger than Mr. Rutcliff and boringly polite. He constantly tipped his hat and said, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” in response to any comment either she or Penelope ventured.
Wynne had the impression the two men had been scared to death of Penelope since they’d overheard her discussing her destination with Wynne. She doubted they’d be dropping into Hattie’s Place for any “gentlemanly pursuits.” But then, who could tell? They were, after all, men, and therefore could not be trusted. Miss Marelda had definitely been correct on that score.
Miss Marelda had never married, claiming the natural cupidity of men as the reason, but Wynne wondered if maybe the biggest reason was that she’d never been asked. Wynne’s conscience smote her. She needed to ask God to forgive her for such unkind thoughts, although to tell the truth, since she’d set out to bring Cass Claxton to justice, she hadn’t been on comfortable terms with God. How could she ask Him to bless her plans when she knew He would want no part of them?
The coach picked up speed, and Wynne glanced out the window at the scenery now rushing by. “Does it seem to you we’re going faster?” she asked of no one in particular. A frown creased her forehead. Surely such excessive speed on this rough road couldn’t be safe.
“We can’t go fast enough for me,” Penelope said with an exasperated sigh. “I can’t wait for this trip to be over.” She made a useless effort to knock the layer of dust off her dress and grimaced in distaste when it only settled back on the light material. “I really expected the journey to be more genteel.” She flashed a glance from under her eyelids at Mr. McPherson, who blushed and looked away.
Puzzled by the increasing momentum of the coach, Wynne peered out the window. Her mouth dropped open, and she immediately jerked her head back in. “My stars! I think we’re about to be robbed!” she blurted in disbelief.
Both men’s eyes flew open. Mr. Rutcliff craned his neck out the window to verify her statement. “Oh my! I do believe you’re right!”
Penelope sent up an instant wail, fluttering her fan and looking like she was about to break out in tears. “I knew it! I knew it! We’ll all be killed!”
Wynne shot the young woman an impatient glance. Over the past few days she’d noticed that optimism did not seem to be the girl’s strong point. “Penelope, really! I’m sure we are well protected.” The guard, the driver, and two male passengers: there was no cause for immediate alarm. The team could probably outrun the outlaws without the slightest problem. At least she hoped her assessment of the situation was accurate.
A few minutes later her optimism sagged. Her heart beat wildly as gunshots filled the air. Another glance out the window showed the riders drawing steadily closer.
Wynne cast a worried glance at the gentlemen seated across from her, noticing that neither man looked overly confident. She doubted either one would be much help in case of a holdup. They didn’t even appear to be armed.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” she asked, clutching the worry stone in her fist. The two men peered out the coach window apprehensively. Neither one seemed to be inclined to action. Penelope looked like she might faint at any moment. Wynne dismissed them all as useless in the present situation.
“There’s nothing to do but pray,” Mr. Rutcliff murmured in a barely audible voice.
Pray? Wynne blinked back hot tears. When was the last time she’d prayed—asked God for anything other than bodily harm toward Cass? What was the use of continuing to try to fool herself? She couldn’t ask God for anything except forgiveness for what she had planned, and in order to do that, she’d have to change those plans. She wasn’t ready to consider doing that. But she sure hoped God would be patient enough with her to spare them injury or worse at the hands of these outlaws. She’d heard Missouri was filled with violent men who weren’t afraid to break the law. Apparently those rumors were correct. She dropped to the floor when the masked riders slowly but surely gained ground on the wildly swaying coach.
Wynne tried to pray, but the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t even think clearly. It looked like she was on her own this time.
The noonday sun bore down on the two dusty riders like a flatiron on a hot stove. Cole and Beau Claxton rested their horses on a small rise overlooking a field of withered corn. A faint, teasing wisp of a breeze grazed the horses’ manes. The heat was so intense it was hard to catch a deep breath. July in the Ozarks. You could stand still and sweat.
“Look at it, Beau. Home.” Cole, the older of the two brothers, spoke first, his deep baritone husky with emotion. He’d dreamed about this view: thought of it at night around the campfires and on waking in the morning. Nothing he’d seen in the time he’d been gone could rival the Ozarks for pure natural beauty. It was God’s country, and he was so glad to be back he could shout for the pure pleasure of hearing the surrounding hills throw back an echo.
He sat leaning forward, resting his elbow on the saddle horn and looking out over the rolling hills of their southwest Missouri home, just savoring the moment, which had been a long time coming. “Looks good, doesn’t it?” Cole asked.
“It sure does,” Beau answered.
Cole let his reins go slack as he slumped wearily in the saddle, his eyes hungrily drinking in the familiar sight spread before him. There had been times he hadn’t expected to see it again. A lot of good men wouldn’t be coming home from the war. He had much to be thankful for.
The gently sloping terrain was no longer the lush, fertile green that would have met their eyes if it had been spring. The blazing summer sun had taken its toll on the land and crops, burning them to dry cinder. But it was still a long-awaited, welcome sight to one who had seen nothing but death and destruction for the last few years.
Four years. Four years of not knowing if he would ever see home again. Four years of watching men die by the thousands and wondering if he would be next, living with the unspeakable horrors of war day after day after day. Through it all, he’d grown closer to God. War had that effect on a man. Every day you didn’t die was like a personal gift. He didn’t know why he and Beau had been spared when so many others hadn’t. Seemed like God might have had a purpose for letting them live, but he didn’t know what it could be—unless it was Ma’s and Willa’s prayers. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. Mighty grateful.
Home. The word held a new and more sacred meaning. He breathed silent thanks to his Maker for bringing him intact through the carnage and destruction.
“There were times when I thought I’d never see this again,” Beau confessed.
“I had those times, too.”
Beau echoed his thoughts. “We were lucky, you know. There are so many who won’t come home—”
“Hope Ma and Willa have some of that chicken ‘n’ dumplings waiting for us,” Cole interrupted. He’d had enough dying and sorrow to last him a lifetime. He wanted to forget the past four years, not relive them. Wanted to shuck them off like worn dirty clothes, like this uniform, and get back to being a civilian with nothing more to worry about except getting in a crop and looking into that marshal’s job.
He thought about his ma and their Indian housekeeper’s cooking. Willa had been with the family since he was a baby and had been as much of a mother to the three Claxton boys as their own ma had been. When the family had moved from Georgia to Missouri back in the late forties, they’d established a homestead and built a new life. Samuel Claxton died five years into the adventure, leaving behind a wife with three young sons to rear. No one could argue that Willa had been nothing short of a godsend to Lilly Claxton.
“I can eat six pans of corn bread and three dozen fried-apple pies before I even hit the front door,” Beau said. “Makes my mouth fairly water to think of it.”
“If I were you, I’d eat that pie and corn bread even before I went over to see Betsy.” Cole teased him with a knowing wink.
“You’re right,” Beau said solemnly. “Only sensible thing to do.”
The brothers broke out in laughter. Cole knew the first place Beau would head would be Old Man Collins’s place. Beau and Betsy had been about to be married when the war intervened. Now the wedding would take place as soon as possible.
“Who wants ol’ Betsy when they can have Willa’s cooking?” Beau grinned mischievously, his eyes twinkling. “You know, now that the war’s over, you ought to think about settling down, too, Cole.”
Cole chuckled softly, letting his gaze return to the valley below them. “Betsy’s the prettiest girl in the county, and you’re claiming her. Who would I marry?”
“Aw, come on,” Beau chided. “You know you wouldn’t marry Betsy if you could. I’m beginning to worry about you, Cole!”
Cole laughed. “Well, don’t. When the right woman comes along, I might give marrying some serious thought.”
“It’ll never happen,” Beau said. “You’re never going to find a woman who’ll suit you because you’re too everlasting picky.”
“I’ll run across her someday. Happen to favor a woman with a little spirit.” Cole’s gaze drank in the familiar surroundings. This was a familiar argument, one his whole family had utilized. Cole’s mother and Willa were fond of questioning when he, the eldest, was going to marry and produce offspring.
“Spirit, huh? What about Priscilla, Betsy’s sister? There’s a fine figure of a woman if I ever saw one.” Beau grinned. “Strong as a bull moose, healthy as a horse, and sturdy as an oak fence post. Why, I’ve seen her and her father cut a rick of wood in a couple of hours and never raise a sweat. She’d make some man a fine wife. Got a lot of spirit, too,” he added. “Saw her hand-wrestle an Indian brave once, and she didn’t do badly.”
Cole’s mouth curved with an indulgent smile. “She didn’t win, did she?”
“She didn’t win, but she didn’t do all that bad,” Beau insisted.
Cole chuckled at the younger man’s sincerity. “Somehow, little brother, the thought of a woman hand-wrestling a brave, cutting a rick of wood in a couple of hours, and never raising a sweat doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Well, what does? I’ve seen you go through more women than I can count, and not one of them suits you. You’re just too picky!”
Cole shifted in his saddle. His bones ached, and he was dead tired. “Don’t start with me, Beau.” Little brother could nag as long and hard as any granny when he set his mind to it, and Cole was in no mood for a lecture on women. “When I find a woman who can wrestle the Indian brave and win, then turn around and be soft as cotton and smell as pretty as a lilac bush in May, that’s the day you’ll see me heading for the altar.”
Beau shook his head. “I’ve never known a woman to wrestle an Indian brave and then smell like a lilac bush in May,” he complained.
Cole took off his hat and wiped away rolling sweat. His eyes scanned the valley below then narrowed and lingered on the cloud of dust being kicked up in the far distance.
“Stage coming in,” he noted.
Beau leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes centered on the road below. “Driver’s sure got the horses whipped up—will you look at that!”
Leather creaked as Cole’s horse shifted restlessly beneath his weight. His eyes followed the path of the coach barreling along the dusty road. The driver whipped the horses to greater speed. The coach careened crazily as the team tried to outrun the small band of riders galloping after it.
Beau whistled under his breath. “Looks like trouble.”
Cole set his hat back on his head and took up his reins, his eyes focused on the frantic race. “Better see what we can do to help.” The brothers spurred their mounts, and the powerful steeds sprang forward, covering the ground with lightning speed, steadily gaining on the swaying coach.
Six masked riders had brought the stage to a halt, and the passengers were filing out with their hands held high above their heads. Penelope sobbed quietly, while Wynne tried to master her fear. She wasn’t about to let these ruffians see her true emotions.
The leader of the grizzly pack vaulted out of his saddle. While he held a gun on the driver and guard, others began pulling luggage off the top of the coach.
“Don’t anybody make a move and you won’t get hurt,” the second rider warned in a gravelly voice. “Driver! You and Shotgun throw down your guns and the gold box.”
The driver and guard looked at each other. Don’t do it, Wynne thought, and wondered if she had spoken the words out loud. The driver reached for his pistol as the guard lifted his rifle. Before they could bring them into firing position, two shots rang out. The driver and the man who rode shotgun sagged against the seat, weapons falling from their limp hands. Penelope screamed and covered her eyes as the bodies tumbled from their high perch. Even as inexperienced as she was, Wynne realized that the men were dead by the time they hit the ground. She closed her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach. Those men never had a chance. They had been gunned down in cold blood.
Three of the bandits returned to dragging valises off the top of the coach, ripping through the contents in search of valuables.
The passengers stood by in dismay, watching as their personal items were strewn about in the frenzied search. Wynne stood in shock. Her undergarments were being handled by rough, dirty hands, the lace pieces thrown into the dust with no regard to the fragility of the material.
In a vain attempt to stop the robbery, Penelope edged forward and batted her eyes coyly at the leader. Wynne watched, fascinated. So this was the way a woman like that charmed the men. “Really, sir, we have nothing of any value,” Penelope said. “Won’t you please let us pass—?”
The man angrily pushed her aside. “Out of my way, woman.” His hand caught the large emerald brooch pinned to the front of her dress and ripped it free of the fabric. Penelope stumbled and almost fell.
Wynne gasped at the outlaw’s audacity. For a moment she forgot her own paralyzing fear and marched to stand protectively in front of the sobbing girl. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you inconsiderate brute!”
Her heart beat like a tom-tom when the robber’s eyes narrowed in rage. He reached out with a huge hand and caught the front of her dress. Her heart nearly stopped beating altogether when the bandit jerked her up close to him and made a thorough search of her body with his beady eyes. He held her that way for a moment before releasing her. She pressed her lips together, staring back at him. He grabbed her fist and quickly relieved her of the pearl ring on her left hand, scraping her knuckle painfully in the process. Before she could stop him, he jerked her purse from her arm and rummaged around in it, removing all the cash. He focused his attention on her. “This all you got, lady?”
Her eyes met his in what she hoped was a cold stare. “I am not a fool. Of course, you have it all… and please get out of my face.” She tilted her head to avoid his offensive odor. Thank goodness he had a mask over his face to dull the stench of his odious breath.
“Ah, am I offending Her Majesty?” He chuckled and jerked her closer, lifting his mask above his mouth. The sight of yellow, tobacco-stained teeth made her stomach lurch.
Slowly his greedy gaze lowered to the décolletage of her emerald-colored dress, lingering there. “What’s the matter, honey? Ain’t I pleasing ‘nough for you?” He laughed when she continued to avert her nose from his rancid smell. “Yore a pretty little filly.” He breathed against her ear. “How’s about giving ol’ Jake a little kiss?”
“See here! Rob us if you will, but I must insist on your treating the ladies with respect!” Henry McPherson stepped forward in Wynne’s defense. One of the masked men lifted a gun butt and promptly knocked the young man unconscious.
His body slumped to the ground, and the assailant waved his pistol in a menacing manner. “Don’t anyone else try anything foolish if you don’t want to get hurt.”
“Come on, Jake! Quit fooling around and get on with it!” Another bandit shot an apprehensive glance at two riders fast approaching from the west. “We got company coming.”
Jake laughed once more and shoved Wynne aside. “Sorry, honey. We’ll have to take this up another time.”
“In a pig’s eye we will.” Wynne retained enough sense about her to speak under her breath.
The bandit paused, and his evil eyes narrowed angrily. “What’d you say?”
She grinned weakly. “I said, yes… some other time… surely.”
“Come on, Jake! Would you quit socializing and come on?”
After another degrading sweep of her body with cold, dark eyes, Jake brutally ripped the fragile gold chain from around Wynne’s neck.
“You give that back!” she screeched, snatching for the keepsake. He stuffed the necklace into the bag he was carrying.
“Sorry, Red, but I just got a sudden hankering for little gold chains.” He chuckled again and strode in a rolling gait to his waiting horse.
“That necklace isn’t worth anything,” she protested angrily, “except for sentimental value to me! My father gave that to me minutes before he died—”
Her words fell on deaf ears. The man tipped his hat in a mocking salute. Then the six riders spun their mounts and galloped off.
“Well, all right then! Take the necklace, but I won’t forget this!” Wynne shouted into the cloud of dust their horses kicked up. She grabbed her tilting hat and stared at the robbers’ retreating backs. Seconds later the other two riders neared and quickly took off in hot pursuit of the culprits.
The dazed passengers just stood around looking stunned. Wynne rushed to kneel beside the injured Henry, who was beginning to come around. He moaned and opened his eyes to look about in bewilderment. “What happened?”
“Lie still, Mr. McPherson.” Wynne reached for one of the pieces of scattered clothing to place under his head. “You were knocked out by one of the ruffians, but they’re gone now.” Glancing around, she saw the others hadn’t moved.
Mr. Rutcliff snapped out of his stupor and immediately knelt between the driver and shotgun rider. Shaking his head, he glanced back to meet Wynne’s questioning gaze. “Dead as a doornail. Shot ’em both clean through the heart.”
Penelope collapsed in tears.
Wynne got to her feet and absently reached over and patted the young woman’s shoulder. “It’s all right. They’re gone now. Why don’t you go sit under that tree until you get yourself under control?”
“But we all could have been killed,” Penelope wailed. “I tried to stop them, but you saw what happened—”
“But we weren’t killed,” Wynne said, asking the good Lord to give her patience. “Mr. Rutcliff, are you all right?”
The elderly man looked pale and mopped at the perspiration trickling down inside his collar. “Why, yes, I believe so. Quite a disturbing chain of events, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I would say that.” Wynne blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “Quite disturbing.” He called that right enough. If only she’d had sense enough to carry a gun. After all, she was out on a mission of vengeance. She should have had enough forethought to provide herself with a weapon.
Cole and Beau pushed their horses to the limit, but the gang of robbers was already disappearing into the distance. As Cole watched the outlaws fade from view, he realized they were long gone. About all he and Beau were accomplishing was eating their dust. He’d suspected from the beginning they couldn’t do anything about the robbery, but a man couldn’t stand by and watch when others were in a bind. He pulled his mount to a halt.
“What do you think?” Beau shouted as he reined up beside Cole, his shirt flapping in the stiff breeze.
“They’re too far gone. We’ll only wind the horses more.”
Beau’s eyes followed the cloud of dust. “You’re right—but I’d like to have caught them. Let’s go see what we can do to help the passengers.”
Cole shook his head. Beau never gave up. That good-hearted streak of his was going to get them both in trouble one of these days. It evidently didn’t bother him that they had been outnumbered six to two and this wasn’t their fight.
He pulled his mare around and followed his brother back to the stage.
When the two riders came into view, Wynne paused in picking up her scattered clothing. She watched warily as they approached. One of the guns was still lying on the ground, and she lunged for it, leveling the muzzle at the approaching pair. One robbery a day was all she was going to put up with, thank you. If these two ruffians had come for the same purpose, she would take care of this personally.
Penelope, huddled under a nearby tree, crying and fanning herself, was useless in a situation like this. Mr. Rutcliff was trying in vain to comfort the injured Henry McPherson. That left only Wynne to defend what was left of their meager possessions. She shot a disgusted glance in their direction. A lot of help they were. Leaving a woman to protect them.
The two men cautiously reined in their horses, wearing incredulous expressions as they looked down the barrels of the twelve-gauge shotgun Wynne pointed at them.
“Throw your guns down, gentlemen,” she commanded in a firm voice.
“Now, ma’am,” the younger one said, “we don’t make a habit of parting with our guns—”
“Now!” She hefted the shotgun an inch higher on her shoulder. As if she cared about their habits. She had a few more important things to worry about.
Both men slowly unbuckled their gun belts and let them drop to the ground.
“Now your rifles.”
“Ma’am…” the young one protested. “I’m not about to let my Springfield be taken away by anyone.” He looked like he wanted to laugh.
Wynne knew she probably didn’t look very frightening with her torn collar and dust smudges on her face. And this hat! Whatever had possessed her to purchase the wide-brimmed straw hat topped by a bird in a nest? The silly thing kept tipping forward, so she had to keep nudging it back, causing the gun to sway in a most disconcerting manner.
The young man smiled. “Judging from your charming Southern drawl, I’d guess you’re from Georgia. I’ve heard that speech pattern before.”
I’ll just bet you have, she thought. Yankees. They’d overrun her beloved state. She’d heard their nasal twang before, too. Way too many times.
“Never you mind where I’m from. I said throw down your rifles.” She waved the gun in their general direction.
Moving slowly, the man carefully slid his rifle to the ground. Only then did she lower her weapon a fraction. “Now, if you don’t have anything more to say, I think you two best be moving on.”
The young man swung his hat off and flashed what he evidently hoped was a winning smile. She’d seen better.
“The name’s Beau, and me and my brother, Cole, was wondering if everyone was all right here. We thought we might be of service. Looks like you had a run-in with a gang of thieves.”
In Wynne’s opinion, this newest set of strangers didn’t look a whole lot better than the last one. The men were rumpled and dirty, both in need of a shave and a haircut and wearing the wrong kind of uniform. The only difference she could discern between these two and the band of unsavory hoodlums who had fled was that they didn’t smell as bad—at least not from this distance.
She studied the two carefully. Both men were large in stature and impressively muscular, if one liked that sort of man. But they were the exact opposites in coloring. Beau, the one who had been doing all the talking, had hair streaked whitish blond by the sun and dancing blue eyes. He sat in his saddle with a rakish air. Cole, the second one, was older, his skin toasted to a deep nut-brown, his hair jet-black with a trace of unruly curls softening his rugged features.
They were wearing the ragged blue uniforms of the North. She prayed that on top of everything else this rotten day had brought her she hadn’t had the misfortune to meet up with a pair of renegade Union men. She’d heard what their sort was capable of.
Wynne swallowed hard and steadied her hold on the shotgun. My stars, the thing was unbelievably heavy! “Don’t come any closer,” she warned as the men’s horses shifted.
“Ma’am, why don’t you put the gun down?” Beau coaxed. “Someone might get hurt.”
Wynne took a firm step forward to show them she was not in the least intimidated by their presence. She focused the length of the gun barrel on Beau, figuring he was trying to wheedle her into relaxing her guard. “It’s quite possible someone might—namely, you. I’m warning you, mister, you’d better not rile me. You’d best state your business and move on, or I’ll have to use this.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Beau turned slightly in his saddle to face the other man. Wynne let her eyes follow his. She had a hunch he would be the most dangerous. Right now he was keeping a fixed eye on her trigger finger.
Beau shifted. “I’d better state our business, Cole.”
He started to dismount and stopped short as Wynne’s voice rang out. “Stop right there!” she demanded.
Deciding she’d better let them know in no uncertain terms who had the upper hand, she marched forward, determined to settle this once and for all. Unfortunately, she stumbled over a discarded valise in her path, giving her shin a painful crack and pitching her forward. Still clutching the gun, she twisted to the side, falling to one knee.
Cole and Beau ducked as the gun went off, spraying buckshot over their heads. Confusion reigned. Wynne fought to regain control of the gun and her destroyed composure. She grabbed her hat when it tilted over her face, blocking her view. Beau and Cole rolled out of their saddles onto their knees, still hanging on to their horses, which were prancing and shying away.
Wynne staggered to her feet, kicking the valise aside, the gun firmly back on her targets. “Gentlemen, don’t be misled,” she cautioned. “I assure you, I do know how to use this gun and shall not hesitate to do so if the need arises. I suggest you move on. My fellow passengers and I have nothing left but the clothes scattered in the road, so you’re wasting your time if you’ve come to rob us.”
Wynne glanced uneasily at the dark-complexioned rider slowly getting to his feet. His face was grim, and his eyes narrowed. She didn’t like the set of his mouth. In fact, she didn’t like anything about him. Probably a ruthless desperado preying on innocent victims.
She knew she looked like an utter fool, but then she had the gun and he didn’t.
Cole’s electrifying blue eyes centered directly on her. He studied the scene before he remounted his horse. His face looked like it had been carved from a slab of oak, hard and unyielding. The glance he shot her was contemptuous enough to shrivel a weaker woman. Wynne tilted her chin. Who did he think he was, looking at her like that? She was merely defending what was hers along with protecting her fellow passengers.
“Ma’am,” Beau protested with a weak grin, “I think you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re here to help, not rob you.”
“Oh, really?” Wynne’s eyebrows lifted with skeptism. He did have a point, though. They had chased the gang off, but it could have very well been for their own evil purposes. After all, she had decided not to trust any men, and these two were quite definitely men. Rather attractive ones, too, under all of that travel dust.
“Honest,” Beau declared. “We’re sorry we weren’t in time to prevent this unfortunate mishap.” He swept his hat off and bowed gallantly. She was once more the recipient of a most charming smile.
“That may be so, but you’re still a Yankee!” She spit the words out as if they left a vile taste in her mouth. “And I wouldn’t believe a thing a Yankee said!”
“Ma’am, the war’s over. Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”
She took aim at his heart. “Easy for you to say. You won. Now you listen to me. I’m in no mood for argument. I’m sweating like a mule, I’m hungry, and this has been the worst day of my life.”
Sweating like a mule. Miss Marelda would frown on that choice of words, but truth was truth.
Beau shrugged. “I had help with the war.”
Wynne shot him a dirty look. He wasn’t taking the situation seriously.
He slowly eased his way over to her. “Why don’t you calm down and let me and my brother take you and the other passengers into town?”
Wynne glanced at the lifeless bodies of the driver and guard and realized she was at this man’s mercy even though she was holding the gun. It was obvious that neither she nor Penelope could drive the stage, and the two male passengers were in no condition to attempt such a feat.
“Well… maybe that would be a good idea, but bear in mind, I’ll have this gun pointed at you all the way in case you try something underhanded.” She shot the other brother a warning look. “And that goes double for you.”
Cole kept silent. Wynne tilted her chin and stared back at him. His expression seemed to say that if it had been up to him, he’d have taken the gun away from her ten minutes ago and turned her across his knee. She’d like to see him try.
“What’s the matter with him? Can’t the pompous fool talk?” Wynne whispered crossly, motioning to Cole. All the man had done since he arrived was stare at her as if she were a raving maniac!
Beau glanced over his shoulder. “Who, Cole? Sure he talks, when he wants to.” His gaze switched back to her, studying the hat, which was tilting again. “You don’t have to be afraid of us. Do we look like the type of men who would take advantage of a lady?”
Wynne studied him for a moment before her gaze drifted involuntarily to Cole. His posture remained aloof as she looked up and met his direct gaze.
Beau didn’t seem the type to take advantage of a woman, but his brother certainly looked questionable. Wynne gave a fleeting thought to what it would be like to have a man like him take advantage… She pulled her wandering thoughts back into line. What had come over her? Miss Marelda Fielding would be horrified to think of one of her students being so… so unseemly. Wynne had best be attending to business.
“Nevertheless, you’ve been warned,” she stated then turned toward the stage. Somehow she got her feet tangled in one of Penelope’s stray petticoats lying on the ground. In the scuffle to retain her balance, her own skirt wrapped itself around her legs, pitching her forward. She threw out her hands to keep from falling, and the gun spun out of her grip to land in the dirt at Beau’s feet. Dust puffed up around her, filling her nostrils as she hit the ground. She sneezed and barely halted the automatic move to wipe her nose. How had she ended up flat on her back staring up at the sky? She looked up directly into the brilliant blue eyes of silent brother Cole, who was watching her as if she were the main attraction in a sideshow. She flushed with embarrassment, realizing she wasn’t coming off too well in this encounter.
Beau reached down a hand and helped Wynne to her feet. She dusted off her seat, twitching her skirt into more orderly folds. He handed the gun back to her with a courtly bow and a polite smile. “Allow me, ma’am.”
“Thank you… sir.” She felt her cheeks flame. She snatched the gun back and reached up to straighten her hat, which as usual had gone askew in the turmoil. “I’ll get the passengers in the stage,” she announced.
“That would be fine, ma’am.” Beau grinned.
He made his way to where Cole sat on his horse watching the fiasco. Wynne strained to hear the men’s brief exchange while trying to look as if she wasn’t paying attention. But she heard—oh, she heard, all right.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Cole asked calmly.
“Getting ready to escort the stage back to town,” Beau answered.
“Why did you give that gun back to her?”
“Oh, that.” He adjusted his hat. “She’s not going to shoot anyone. She’s just scared.”
“I know she’s not going to shoot anyone intentionally,” Cole said, “but I think we’re in serious danger of getting our heads blown off by her stupidity.”
Wynne fumed. She’d like to show Mr. High-and-Mighty how well she could handle a gun. She’d teach him a lesson that would wipe that smirk right off his face. Call her stupid, would he?
“Come on, Cole. Look at them. They’re as helpless as a turtle on its back.” Beau’s gaze shifted to the shaken passengers filing slowly back into the coach. “Let her think she’s running the show. It’s not going to hurt anything.”
Wynne stiffened. Let her think? Of all the arrogant… If she didn’t need them so badly she’d send them packing. Just who had the gun here? She was running this show, and he’d better not forget it.
Cole looked in her direction. “In my opinion, everything is under control, and one of the men can take the stage on into town.”
She waited, holding her breath.
Beau shook his head. “They need help, Cole.”
“You’re a born sucker when it comes to a pretty face.”
Beau reached for his reins. “Might be, but it’s our duty to get them into town safely.”
Cole sighed. “We made it all the way through a war without an injury, and I’ll be blamed if I’m about to have some snip of a woman ruin my perfect record less than ten miles from home. There’s no reason for us to get mixed up in this. We can send Tal out to help them when we ride through town.”
“I don’t want to do that,” Beau argued. “We can’t just ride off and leave the ladies out here unprotected. It won’t take fifteen minutes to escort them to town, and then we’ll be on our way.”
Cole’s unshaven jaw firmed. “I say we stay out of it.”
“If you don’t want to help, then I’ll do it myself.”
“You’ve got a cross-eyed mule beat when it comes to stubborn. All right, all right, I’ll help. But I’m warning you, she’s going to be trouble.”
“Don’t have to like her,” Beau grumbled. “All you got to do is help. Wouldn’t be right leaving them alone.” The last passenger clambered aboard the coach. “You drive the stage; I’ll load the driver and guard onto our horses and be right behind you.”
Cole, still grumbling, dismounted and strode over to the coach, leaving Beau to take care of the dead bodies.
Wynne breathed easier. They may look like outlaws, but apparently they were going to escort the stage back to town. She had no illusions as to what a mess they’d be in if left to their own devices. An injured man and one who might as well be hurt, no more help than he’d been so far, and a flighty woman who wasn’t any better. They’d be sitting pigeons for the next band of outlaws who might happen along.
Cole had planted his foot on the wheel of the stage and started to climb aboard when Wynne tapped the barrel of the gun on his shoulder. He slowly turned around to meet her calculating eyes.
“Don’t forget. I’ll be watching you, mister.”
He bit out his words impatiently. “Ma’am, I’m quivering in my boots.” His drawl was a mixture of Georgia softness and Missouri twang.
Wynne narrowed her eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about this man, though she was certain she had never met him before. Something about his eyes…
In spite of herself, she found herself admiring Cole’s very even and white teeth, and though he had obviously been riding for some time, he was not nearly as dirty and offensive as the bandits had been. The humidity had curled his dark hair around his tanned face, and his eyes—well, she’d seen blue eyes in her time, but she’d never seen that particular shade before.
For a brief moment she tried to imagine what he would look like with a shave, a haircut, and clean clothes. The image was disturbing. She shook the thought away. There wasn’t the chance of a snowball in July she’d ever see him again, yet as she turned away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he reminded her of someone.
Wynne primly tucked herself and the gun into the coach and slammed the door. “Like I said, I’m watching you. Drive directly into town. No detours, no unnecessary stops.”