My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2) (5 page)

“What is your Indian name?”

His eyes fixed straight ahead. She’d met stubborn men, but this one took the prize.

“Did you hear me?”

“Has anyone ever mentioned that you talk too much?”

“No. Never.”

“Consider yourself informed.”

“You look like an Indian, but you don’t sound like one,” she said. He was just a man. A rather striking and dangerous one, it would seem, but still a man.

Stretching his full length on the bunk, he closed his eyes. “Let’s assume I’ve not been living among my people for many years.”

“Why did you pretend not to understand me when I talked to you?”

“Because it suited my purposes.”

“Well, Mr. Walker, does it suit your purpose to get us out of here?”

His brows drew together autocratically and he sat up. “What can I do? In case you haven’t noticed, those are steel bars I’m looking at.”

“We have to do something. We can’t sit here and let them hang us.”

He looked at her, shaking his head with disbelief. “Hasn’t it sunk in yet? We’re not getting out of here. The jail is too tight, the sheriff is too crooked. We are going to hang.”

“Pooh. Something will happen—it always does.” After all, yesterday when her circumstances looked bleak, God had rescued her. He still looked out for her, didn’t He? If only Abigail were here—she’d figure a way out of this.

They glanced up as the front door opened again. An unkempt man entered this time, followed by a black man. He was wearing the fanciest duds Anne-Marie had ever seen. He must be a gambler. From the top of his black derby to the equally black patent-leather shoes, he reeked of success. The dark broadcloth suit fit his physique like a second skin. There was a slight bulge beneath the red satin vest, and Anne-Marie surmised that the man was heavily armed. A brown cravat that matched the color of his eyes accentuated his flawless white shirt.

The man grinned as he spotted Anne-Marie and the Indian huddled together on the dirty bunk.

“Yes sir, that’s her all right. She’s the woman who stole Grandma Edna’s brooch and then took off like a scalded cat. She’s the one.”

Striding over to the cell, the stranger pointed his bejeweled finger at Anne-Marie. “Thought you’d get away with it, did you, Sister? Well, I can promise you this, I’m not going to let you, you hear me? Now hand it over.”

Wide-eyed, Anne-Marie backed deeper into the cell. She’d never seen this man before in her life, much less swindled him out of a brooch. “I… don’t have Edna’s… brooch—”

“She’s lying. Sir, I insist you open that cell door and search this thieving wench. She stole my grandmammy’s brooch, and she’s not going to get away with it. I have my papers; I’m a free man and I refuse to be treated this way.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “I am Cortes, and I will decide how you are to be treated. Now,
Señor
—what did you say your name was?”

“John Quincy Adams, sir.”

Cortes studied the dandified man. “John Quincy Adams?”

“That is correct. My mother named me after the president. Now, here I was, showing the nice sister my dear ol’ grandmammy’s brooch—she’s dead now, God rest her sainted soul—the very brooch her dear sainted mammy had given her, when the sister, she says, ‘Oh, it’s so lovely, may I share its unusual beauty with Sister Louise, who is this minute buying flour and molasses in the mercantile?’ Well, like the fool I can be, I handed it to her and I says, ‘You and Sister take your time looking at the fine piece of jewelry while I go over and sit down under a tree and wait.’ And I wait and I wait for her to get back, but she never gets back. She up and disappears. Gone, vamoosed!”

“I don’t know what this man is talking about. I haven’t stolen any brooch!” Anne-Marie’s fists balled into tight knots and the blood vessels in her temple throbbed. What was he babbling about? She hadn’t taken a brooch!

Apparently John Quincy Adams had said all he intended to say on the subject. “Open the cell door, Cortes, and we’ll see who’s telling the truth.”

“I do not know. Sheriff Goodman is across the street—”

“Won’t take a minute to clear up the matter. All I want is my brooch back and I’ll be on my way.”

“Well.” Cortes glanced out the window. “I will search her, but you’ll have to stand back and let me do it.”

Adams nodded. “Fine with me. All I want is my brooch back.”

“I don’t have his brooch!” Anne-Marie protested when the deputy slipped the key in the lock and opened the cell door.

She gasped when she heard a sound thump. Cortes slumped to the floor, unconscious.

“Now, you have youself a nice little snooze, Mr. Cortes,” the man said calmly.

“What took you so long, Quincy?” Creed snapped when Adams handed him a pearl-handled pistol.

“What took me so long? I’ve been trailing you from the minute you got involved with this woman—which, I might point out, was pretty reckless—and then when I saw you were in this fine mess, I had to go rustle up some clothes and come up with a plan to break you out.”

“We don’t have time to discuss the merits of my decision,” Creed interrupted. Striding to the window, he said, “Ferris and Goodman are busy hammering nails into the scaffolding. Get us out of here.”

Anne-Marie listened to the men’s exchange, her bewilderment growing. “Do you two know each other?”

The men ignored her.

“We’ll have to make a break for it,” Quincy said in a low tone, and it suddenly occurred to Anne-Marie that his speech was as educated as the Indian’s.

Why, those low-down, conniving—these men topped her when it came to deceit.

“If we’re quick, the sheriff won’t notice a thing,” Quincy predicted. “With all that banging and sawing, we should be able to get out of here without causing a stir. Let’s go.”

Creed stepped out of the cell and the two men headed for the door.

Anne-Marie watched, dumbfounded. They were going to leave her.

“Wait a minute! Aren’t you going to take me with you?”

When they didn’t answer, she scrambled to her feet. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not going to hang!”

Racing out of the cell, she pressed against Creed’s back when he opened the front door a crack and peered out.

“There’s a buckboard sitting in front of the bank.”

Quincy rolled his eyes. “Too risky. Let’s separate and make a run for horses.”

Creed studied the nearly deserted street. “Not a chance. We take the buckboard.”

The three shoved through the door at once and raced toward the wagon. Anne-Marie shot a glance toward the men at the gallows. The
sheriff looked up and straightened. “Run faster!” she shouted, panic raising her voice an octave.
“Run!”

Dropping his hammer, Ferris shouted, “Hey! Where do you three think you’re going?”

Anne-Marie held her skirts high and raced toward the wagon, fighting to keep her footing in the rutted street. She didn’t fool herself into thinking Creed would rescue her a second time if she fell.

Scrambling aboard the buckboard, Creed reached out and grabbed Anne-Marie’s hand. With a mighty push, she heaved herself up beside him as Quincy scrambled for a position on the small board seat.

“Hold on!” Creed shouted as he swung the horses into the street. Anne-Marie felt a hard jab in the ribs when Quincy reached for a shotgun lying on the wagon floor.

“Hee-ya!” Creed shouted. The buckboard raced past the newly constructed platform, scattering lumber, nails, and men in its wake.

A burst of gunfire rained over the careening wagon as it rolled out of town.

Clinging to the wooden seat, Anne-Marie clamped her eyes tightly shut. The buckboard bumped and banged along the rutted road as Creed cracked a whip over the horses’ heads, urging them on to even greater speed.

Quincy attempted to hang on to the shotgun as the wagon lurched crazily across the countryside.

Glancing over her shoulder, Anne-Marie felt her heart pounding. There were riders in the distance, hot on their trail.

“Faster, faster, they’re gaining on us!”

Creed swung the whip harder, snapping it smartly over the ears of the team.

The old buckboard wheeled along. A tarp covering two wooden boxes in the wagon bed came loose and began flapping in the wind.
Before Quincy could secure the rope holding the tarp, the canvas ripped free.

Anne-Marie’s eyes widened when she spotted the two strongboxes with
Wells Fargo
emblazoned on the sides.

Quincy glanced over his shoulder and yelled, “Holy moly!”

“What’s wrong?” Creed shouted.

Quincy shook his head, his eyes frozen on the two strongboxes. The buckboard hit a deep rut and bounced awkwardly on its side. Quincy and Anne-Marie held on for dear life.

The wagon struck another rut and the gun flew out of Quincy’s hand.

Anne-Marie made a grab for the firearm and the gun discharged, the explosion propelling the shotgun to the floor of the buckboard.

The Indian yelled, grabbing for his right thigh. The reins fell to the wagon floor. Anne-Marie scrambled to retrieve them as the stench of burning gunpowder filled her nostrils.

Climbing back on the seat, she gasped when she saw the crimson patch of blood soaking above the knee of Creed’s breeches.

“Now what’d you do?” Quincy yelled when he grabbed the leads from Anne-Marie’s hands.

Before she could deny that she’d done anything, the buckboard sprang up again, pitching Creed off the seat and out of the wagon.

When she whirled to look back her heart sank at the sight of the Crow’s lifeless form sprawled in the middle of the road.

Brother, this was
not
her day.

Four

Q
uincy scrambled over Anne-Marie while the buckboard bumped and crashed its way through the heavy underbrush. Half standing, he hauled on the reins and pulled back.

Gripping the sides of the wagon, Anne-Marie held on as Quincy gained control of the team. Gradually he angled the buckboard around until he had the horses on the road again.

Creed was lying on his side groaning when Quincy brought the cart to a halt beside him. Jumping down from the seat, Anne-Marie ran to assist the injured man.

“Are you hurt?” How inane she sounded; of course he was hurt. Blood seeped from his wounds. His features contorted into a pained mask.

“Yes, I’m hurt! You’ve nearly blown my leg off!” He lay back, agony and fury fighting for dominance on his usually stoic features.

“Oh, my goodness.” She reached toward the gaping wound and then quickly drew back her hand. “What should I do?”

He motioned for her to bend closer. “Take one of the horses and
ride as hard and fast as you can in the opposite direction.” Groaning, he struggled to sit up, wincing when he focused on the gory injury.

“Sir, it would be my pleasure,” she snapped, glancing over her shoulder to see how close the posse was. “But you’ll have to endure me awhile longer, because if we don’t get out of here fast, none of us will live long enough to argue about it.”

Creed collapsed back to the ground, moaning in agony.

“Riders are moving in fast,” Quincy warned. He reached to pull Creed back to his feet. “Come on, brother, we’ve got to get you back into the buckboard.”

“Go on without me.” Creed’s jaw tightened with another spasm of pain.

“I can’t do that,” both Quincy and Anne-Marie said in unison.

After all, the man had saved Anne-Marie from certain death not once but twice in the past twenty-four hours, and if the sheriff and his men caught up with him, he was certain to hang.

Creed gripped his blood-soaked thigh. Anne-Marie stared at the widening crimson pool, knowing he had to have help soon or he would bleed to death. Biting her lower lip, she tried to think. What would Abigail do? She would seize control of the situation.

“Mr. Adams, please help me move him into the wagon. I can stem the flow of blood with my hands if need be until we can properly cleanse and bandage the wound.”

The Crow opened his eyes and glared at her. She glared back. She was only trying to help.