Renegade Bride (15 page)

She stared at him agog. He was laughing.
Laughing.
"Well, it was!"

He braced his hands on his knees, hung his head, and crumpled into a fit of helpless laughter. A ghost of a smile crept to her mouth at the sight of him, hee-hawing like a lunatic with that shaving soap all over his face.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered, unable to stop the chuckle that bubbled up inside her.

"It's just..." he gasped, rolling a look up at her and waving a surrendering hand. "It's just... the sight of you up on that... that rock like a treed coon," he said between gasps, "all b-because of a 'p-pa-porcupine'."

Before she knew it they were both laughing like children. She, perched on her rock like an idiot, he, laughing up at her from below.

"You're one to talk," she taunted between giggles. "That creature took one look at your foaming face and ran for his life." He touched his soapy jaw and they both dissolved again. Finally, Creed took a deep breath, then swiped at his face with the towel and walked toward her.

"How did you get up there anyway with all those gee-gaws you wear under your clothes?"

"Quickly, very quickly," she replied with a grin. "Hey, Creed?"

He smiled up at her through a long hank of dark hair that had fallen in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Um, I-I don't think I can get down again."

Shaking his head, he threw the towel around his neck and reached up to her. His hands circled her waist and she braced herself against the steely muscles of his shoulders. Effortlessly, he lifted her down, and set her feet on the ground.

His hands lingered for a moment at her waist. Likewise, it didn't occur to her to move her hands from where they'd slid down his arms. She felt his thumbs tracing absent half-circles across her ribs and a tingle went through her.

Without thinking, she reached up and touched the small trickle of blood on his neck and winced. "You're bleeding."

His smile faded and he set her away from him. Blotting the nick with his towel he said, "I know. Seems to be a hazard being near you."

She forced a smile. "I have some witch hazel in my bag."

"Never mind. It's just a nick. I guess I'd, uh, better go back and—" Frowning, he sniffed, glancing around the campsite.
"Merde.
The food!"

Mariah's eyes rounded with horror at the sight of her carefully chopped vegetables flaming to a charred crisp in the skillet. A plume of black smoke erupted from the ruined breakfast. "Oh, no!"

Creed nudged the pan out of the coals with the toe of his boot. What was left of the camas sizzled and popped mockingly like bits of shiny agate at the bottom of the pan. "Charcoal, anyone?"

Mariah started at the pitiful blackened lumps and pressed her fingertips to the helpless grin creeping to her mouth. "Oh, Creed, it was going to be good. Really it was. I had it all—"

He held up his hand and shook his head with a repressed grin. "You know, jerky is sounding pretty good to me, right now." He turned and headed toward the river. "Damn good at that. But do me a favor, eh?"

She sighed contritely. "Sure, anything."

He tossed a meaningful look over his shoulder. "Don't get near it until I get back."

Chapter 8

Hattie Lochrie settled the plump rhubarb pie onto the shelf of her new Clarion four-lidder oven and closed the door, fanning away the oppressive heat. Her gaze roamed over the simple cast iron stove with its built-in reservoir and she sighed with pleasure. John had sent back East for it. It had cost a pretty penny, she knew, but he'd insisted it was money well spent if it made things easier for her.

Lord love him, she knew he felt guilty about bringing her here to the wilds of Montana away from friends and family. But there was no need. She'd fallen for this place the minute she'd set eyes on it, just as he had. She loved the work they did, meeting people, making them feel at home, and most of all, being with John.

She rotated the sand-timer, fanned herself with the bottom of her apron, and smiled. Rhubarb was her husband's favorite. It would put a smile on his face to smell the aroma when he got back from the river with Amos. Their other wrangler, Mason, had driven the stage and its disappointed passengers back to Fort Benton earlier. Only the driver, Tom Stembridge, remained in the back room. He was sound asleep, recovering from his wounds.

The sound of a horse's whicker drew her gaze to the window. She glanced through the new four-paned glass at the yard. A tall man and his Indian squaw were walking their horses toward the house.

It wasn't unusual for travelers to stop when they were on the main road between Benton and Alder Gulch. Still, John always left her a small handgun in the desk drawer just in case there was any trouble. But she loathed guns and had yet to arm herself against some poor traveling soul who stopped by for water or a friendly word.

Hattie wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and pulled open the front door, ducking out into the sunshine. With the glare of the sun at his back, she couldn't make out his face, but he was dark-skinned and relatively clean. Probably French, she thought, walking toward them. She breathed easier.

The stranger pulled his horse to a stop near the well at the sight of her and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat.
"Bonjour, madame."

"Good day to you," Hattie said with a smile. "I'm Hattie Lochrie. What can I do for you?"

"Eef we could trouble you for a drink from your well."

She returned his friendly smile. "You're more than welcome to help yourself."

"Merci."
The man dismounted, then spoke to the squaw in French. She slid from her mare and took the reins of both horses, keeping her eyes from meeting Hattie's directly.

She was quite beautiful, Hattie thought, with her heavy, dark braids shining in the mid-morning sun. Her doeskin dress was decorated with dewclaws and small shells that rattled when she moved. Her feet were clothed in decorated moccasins that betrayed a fine hand at beadwork.

She reached for the bucket that hung from the winch hook, unlocked the rope, and sent it splashing down into the water.

"Don't bother yourself, madame," the man said with an easy smile, hauling the bucket back toward them. He removed his hat, revealing jet black hair pulled back in a tail and tucked beneath the collar of his fringed buckskin shirt.

A shiver went through her. The man's face was honed finely, with sharp, strong features that gave him a dangerous look. It occurred to her that he was part Indian, too. A half-breed. She sent a furtive look in the direction of the river, hoping to see John and Amos coming home.

"Are you headed to the Gulch?" she asked, hoping to keep the conversation light.

"Could be." He slipped the tin drinking cup from its nail and scooped out a cupful of water. He took his drink first, letting water trickle down his chin. Over the rim of the cup, Hattie saw his eyes scanning the yard.

The squaw stood by silently. Her paint horse stomped a foot, shooing away a bothersome fly that buzzed around its legs.

"Ahh-hh," he sighed, splashing the remainder of his second cup on the ground. He filled it again and handed it to the squaw. Hefting the bucket, he offered it to his mount who sucked noisily at the cool water. The man slid a look at Hattie. "You are alone here, no?"

"No," she lied quickly. "My husband's in the house."

He eyed the house. "Ees a wise man who stays near 'is woman in a place as lonely as thees. I would talk wis him."

Her pulse jerked forward and her eyes darted to the river. "He's, uh, resting. I don't want to disturb him. I can answer any questions you might have."

Over the shoulder of the stranger, Hattie met the Indian girl's eyes for the first time. She wiped the back of her wrist over her mouth and shook her head ever so slightly in silent warning.

Hattie swallowed hard, backing up a step. "If you're headed for the Gulch, you might consider waiting a week or so. The ferry washed out over the Sun."

His eyebrows rose fractionally and he glanced again at the soddy. "When?"

"Day before yesterday, during the storm."

"Ze stages are not running?"

"No. Not for a week or so." She glanced at the house and tugged at the damp neckline of her faded blue dress.

"I am looking for a man 'oo was on a stage from Fort Benton that day," the stranger said. "Tall, dark-haired. 'Ees name ees Devereaux. 'E travels wis a woman."

Hattie's eyes widened, remembering Mariah Parsons and the handsome bounty hunter who'd helped Tom Stembridge. Without a doubt, she knew this man meant them no good.

John. John, where are you?

"I don't recall seeing anyone who would fit that description. I'm very sorry." She glanced at the soddy, then smiled with tremulous bravado. "You know, I almost forgot my pie. It'll be done by now. If you'll, uh, excuse me for just... just one minu—"

Hattie gasped as she was brought up short by the man's steely grip on her arm. His leering smile touched only his mouth. "Your man ees gone, ees 'ee not?"

Her chest rose and fell rapidly and she shot a desperate look at the squaw, who avoided her eyes. "Take your hands off me," she demanded.

"Monsieur Lochrie?"
he shouted at the empty house.

At the silence he looked meaningfully back at Hattie. "So..."

"I told you he was sleep—" The blade of a knife appeared at her throat and she tipped her head back avoiding it, afraid to breathe. Oh, why hadn't she taken the gun?

"'ow rude of me not to introduce myself," he said. "Pierre LaRousse. And thees ees Raven. Say 'ello to ze lady, Raven."

Raven nodded tightly at Hattie, then glanced toward the hill where five more men were angling their horses down the slope, this lot much scruffier-looking than La Rousse. One was a giant and one a full-blooded Indian. The fact that the half-breed didn't bother to look around at the others told her they were together. Her heart sank and her knees gave way.

LaRousse wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her up against him. "No,
ma fille.
You must tell me what you know of Devereaux."

"I—I don't know w-who you mean."

"I can slit your throat. Why do you protect 'im? 'Ee ees nothing to you."

Her heart pounded in her ears. She'd heard of LaRousse before today. He was a ruthless murderer and he meant to kill her whether she told him what he wanted to know or not. Why else would he have told her his name? So she could identify him? But he wouldn't kill her until she told him what he needed to know, she prayed. Once she did, she was dead.
Oh, John, forgive me for being so foolish.

The other riders dismounted beside them.

"Downing," LaRousse ordered, "you and Blevins search inside. Poke and Running Fox, search ze outbuildings. Eef ee's 'ere, bring 'im to me."

The men spread out across her yard like cockroaches scattering in the light. The greasy-haired giant whose clothes smelled like rotting flesh towered over LaRousse, leering toothlessly at her. An old, well-oiled rifle dangled from his meaty fist. He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch obscenely. "Who-hoo! I'm as horny as a ruttin' boar, Pierre, an' it's been too damn long since I had anything but dark meat."

LaRousse smiled. "'Ear zat, Mrs. Lochrie? When Bennett gets thees way, 'ees hard to hold heem back. Now tell me where Devereaux went."

"Please—"

A gunshot exploded from within the house and Hattie let out an involuntary scream.
Tom. Dear God, they've killed him!
The one named Poke appeared grinning at the door and lifted his rifle in one hand. "Found one."

"Bouffon!
What good ees 'e to me dead?" Pierre demanded.

Poke looked wounded. "He aimed a gun in my nose first. 'Sides, he was already carryin' a bullet in him. He weren't no good to us."

"Sacre bleu!"
LaRousse tightened the blade against her throat. "So you see, your 'usband ees dead, madame. Eet would be easier eef you just told us what we need to know."

Hysteria rose in her throat, erupting in a scream. "Joh-hh-h-nn!"

Another shot exploded in the dirt at Bennett's feet and the huge man jumped out of the way. He spun toward the sound of the shot, hitching his rifle up as he went. His gun roared, spitting flame, and Hattie saw Amos drop heavily to the ground. John, who was running beside him, stopped dead, aiming his rifle at LaRousse.