Renegade Bride (3 page)

The half-breed's eye twitched and the first flicker of recognition registered on his face. Before he could reply, however, another man's voice broke the heavy silence that had fallen between them.

"Étienne!" the stranger called. "Yew redskin sumvabitch, Ah got yew now!"

As if it were happening in slow motion, Creed watched LaRousse wrench sideways, leveling his gun toward the sound of the voice. The half-breed's pistol exploded only a fraction of a second before the other man's bullet tore into his shoulder, flinging him two feet backward. Another bullet followed closely behind, plowing into the dirt beside him. LaRousse managed another shot that went wild into the crowd. It hit not his attacker—whom Creed now recognized as a bounty hunter named Lydell Kraylor—but a bystander only partially hidden behind a hogshead of nails.

Swearing loudly, Creed wondered how the situation had slipped out of his control. He was distracted only long enough to miss the swing of LaRousse's gunbarrel in his direction. Creed dove to the ground as he heard the gun's retort.

Reflexively, he raised his own gun and fired. A neat crimson hole appeared between LaRousse's surprised eyes and the man fell limply back to the ground, staring sightlessly into the midday June sun.

"Haw, haw! Yew sumvabitch! Ah tol' yew Ah'd git yew someday," Kraylor laughed, swaggering toward the fallen man, his smoking army Colt dangling from his left hand. The filthy bounty-hunter looked at Creed, still stretched out in the mud. "He's half mine, Devereaux. Half, fair 'n square. He done shot fust, an' Ah got witnesses."

Creed slowly got to his feet, glaring at Kraylor. He raised his pistol again and the confident tobacco-stained grin slipped from the man's face as he took a step back.

"Now... now y'all just wait—" Kraylor licked his lips and ran a hand over a four-year growth of graying beard. "Y-yew ain't got no call to—"

"You stupid bastard, Kraylor." Creed advanced with murder in his eyes. "I had him."

"Heah, now—" Kraylor flung his hands up between them. "Ah been trackin' that slippery little half-breed for two months, just like yew. A man's gotta earn a livin'. Yew ain't got no right to keep 'im all fer yer—"

Creed's fist interrupted Kraylor's little speech, catching him sharply under the jaw and sending him flying backward into the mud. Kraylor landed hard, clutching his bleeding mouth. "Ohhh-hnn... sumva—"

"All right now, none o' that," came a voice from behind Creed as someone grabbed his arm. He whirled to find himself nose-to-nose with Jamie O'Hurlehy, the blue-coated sergeant who just moments ago had been headed to meet his Maeve aboard the ship.

"What in the devil's name is goin' on here?" O'Hurlehy demanded. "Speak up, before I arrest the two of ye an' throw ye in the stockade for murder."

"Nobody's lockin' me up fer shootin' that piece of scum," Kraylor protested, a thin trickle of blood dripping down into his beard. "I got me legal papers sayin'
dead or alive.
Dead suits me jist fine." He got to his feet, still rubbing his jaw, and pulled a rumpled WANTED dodger from his dirty shirt pocket. "He's half mine. Yew remember that." He shot Creed a meaningful look.

Creed barely controlled his impulse to strangle the bastard. Around them, the crowd pressed in and Creed felt like a caged animal in a traveling side-show. For the first time since the gunfight, his eyes were drawn to the girl he'd been sent here to meet.

Mariah Parsons—pale-faced and trembling—was being helped up out of the mud by her lady-friend. But Mariah's horror-stricken gaze was fixed on Creed. Her amber eyes accused him without a word, causing his anger to shift into something more closely resembling regret.

He glanced down at his arm, noticing for the first time the bloodstain spreading across his sleeve.

LaRousse's bullet had torn a furrow across the muscle in his upper arm. Suddenly it burned like hell.

Creed winced and covered it with his hand. Around him, the levee came back to life. People crawled from behind hastily assumed hiding spots and gathered around LaRousse's lifeless body.

"And what have you got to say for yerself?" O'Hurlehy demanded of Creed. "Are you a bounty hunter, as well?"

"Oui,"
he muttered.

"What?"

"Yes," Creed repeated louder. "I am a bounty hunter. This man was wanted for murder in the township of Bannack."

O'Hurlehy frowned at the piece of paper Kraylor had handed him. "You sure this was your man?"

"I'm sure," Creed answered, glancing back at the inert form of Étienne LaRousse.

O'Hurlehy nodded. "Well then, best be seein' to that arm after we get the particulars sorted through here."

Creed shrugged, sliding his gaze toward Mariah Parsons who had turned her back on him.

"Who should we see about the pay?" Kraylor demanded.

"Pay?" O'Hurlehy repeated icily.

"For the hide. Who pays for the hide?"

Creed smoothed a hand irritably over his disheveled hair and fitted his hat back on. "Shut up, Kraylor."

"Well, if them soldiers ain't gonna settle up," Kraylor went on, "I ain't haulin' the redskin back to Bannack with me." He fingered the old Green River knife at his belt. "That red bastard's scalp alone oughta be proof enough."

"Colonel Paullen will be able to take care of this whole affair back at the fort," O'Hurlehy replied grimly. Creed turned away, anxious to leave this business behind him.

"Wait a minute, Devereaux—" Kraylor called to him. "Where're yew goin'? Hey, don't yew want a piece o' this?"

"No," he muttered, then changed his mind seeing the eager disbelief on Kraylor's face. "Yes. O'Hurlehy, send my share to an Eleanor Wilcox in Bannack. LaRousse made her a widow. It's the least he can do for her now."

"Aye, that I will," the sergeant answered.

Creed nodded, then headed resolutely toward Seth Travers's woman.

* * *

At the edge of the levee, some twenty feet away, Mariah Parsons rubbed her aching cheek with the back of her muddy, shaking hand. She'd watched the men with growing revulsion. Bounty hunters. That's what they were. Hunters of men. Mercenaries of the worst ilk. And to think, only moments before, one of them actually tipped his hat to her. Her already shaky stomach had twisted another notch when she'd glanced back at him and found him staring directly at her. The nerve of the man! she thought, her cheeks hot with indignation. If Seth were only here, a man like that wouldn't dare look at her twice in such a way.

Yanking at the black satin ribbon beneath her chin, she tore off her hopelessly damaged hat. Her legs were trembling, forcing her to lock them in place consciously to keep from falling back in the mire.

Beside her, Maeve O'Hurlehy brushed at the mud on Mariah's ruined gown. They had met in Chicago through an ad Maeve had placed in the
Daily Tribune
for a traveling companion. Both were headed toward the same place and both were alone. Though Maeve was older by a good fifteen years, she had become a good friend whom Mariah would sorely miss after she left with Seth for Virginia City.

"I'm afraid it's no use, Maeve. It's ruined," Mariah murmured, trying to hide her disappointment. "What will Seth think when he sees me this way?" She'd spent extra time dressing this morning so that Seth would see her at her best after four long years. Now, she looked like something that had been dragged through a rain gutter.

"Arrah,"
Maeve replied with a shake of her head and a gentle touch to Mariah's cheek. "'Tis not this poor gown that's important. Nothing's broken and for that we can be grateful. Why, that awful brute might have killed ye."

Mariah gingerly massaged her shoulder, recalling with a shiver the awful face of the man who'd collided with her. Another memory came rushing back as well: a male voice crying out her name just before she'd been knocked to the ground. The thought creased her brow. She could have sworn it was that dreadful man. That... that bounty hunter.

Mariah,
he'd called, as if he knew her. But that was impossible. She knew no one here but Seth.

"Where could he be, Maeve?" Mariah's worried gaze swept the sea of men on the levee.

Maeve glanced up at her. "You mean Seth?"

"You read his letter, promising to meet me here. He couldn't have forgotten or gotten the dates confused, could he?"

"Don't ye be worry in'. He'll be along. At any rate, ye'll come along with me an' Jamie and get yerself cleaned up a bit. Why, by the time your Seth see's ye—" Maeve halted abruptly and her eyes widened.

"Miss Parsons?"

Mariah gave a start at the sound of a man's deep voice behind her. When she turned, the tall bounty hunter was standing close, not two feet away. His black felt hat was pulled low over his eyes, without the slightest deference to social politeness. The man's gaze traveled rudely down the muddy length of her then back to the swelling bruise on her cheek. "Are you hurt?"

She felt her world tilt ever so slightly on its axis as he towered over her. His voice was as rough as the growth of beard that darkened his angular jaw. His accent was undeniably French, and despite the fact that she'd just watched him gun down a man in cold blood, it was the most sensual male voice she'd ever heard. Shocked by her own observation and embarrassed by his scrutiny, she averted her gaze.

"I've had better days, if that's what you mean." There was cool dismissal in her voice as she tugged at the ruined cuffs on her sleeves. She hoped her answer would make him leave, but he didn't move.

"I'm sorry you were caught in the middle of all that."

Was that sincere regret in his voice, Mariah wondered. It surprised her that a man like this would worry about such things.

"Perhaps," he went on, finally lifting his hat, "we should have the fort doctor look at that cheek."

We?
With a sickening start, it occurred to her he'd called her by name again. Against her will, she forced her gaze to meet his. "That won't be necesary..." The rest died on her lips and she found herself staring.

His eyes captured her attention first. Not exactly green nor truly blue, they were the depthless hue of the ocean just before a storm—stirred up and infinitely dangerous. The thick fringe of lashes fencing those unfathomable eyes were the same ebony as the long hair curling intractably at his neck and the shadow on his jaw.

An odd-looking choker circled his throat, made of what appeared to be finely-carved bone with blue and red trade beads. It was beautiful, unique, and obviously Indian. A shudder raced through her. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that a man as dangerous-looking as he would consort with savages, but the thought horrified her.

"Miss?"

Mariah blinked, unable to summon the courage to respond. She imagined her face looked as chalky as her stomach felt.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Perhaps you should sit—"

Retreating from his hand as he reached toward her, she answered, "No, I'm fine. I'm waiting for my—" It was then she noticed the blood streaking his shirt sleeve.

"Merciful heavens, your arm..."

Creed followed her glance, then shrugged. "It's just a graze."

Why she even cared, Mariah couldn't imagine. After all, the man had just snuffed out another man's life as if it were nothing. She turned away taking Maeve's arm. "I appreciate your concern," she said firmly, "but if you'll excuse us now—"

"Miss Parsons—wait."

Setting her teeth on edge, she whirled back to face him. "Mister-?"

"Devereaux. Creed Devereaux."

"If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Devereaux, that's the third time you've called me by my name. We haven't been introduced, have we? And since you have a most memorable way of introducing yourself, I'm certain I would have remembered."

Something akin to a smile played across his lips and he fitted his hat back on his head slowly. "Seth sent me to bring you home."

Chapter 2

Mariah felt the blood drain from her face. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"Your fiancé? Seth Travers?" Devereaux repeated slowly, as if she were dimwitted. "He sent me to escort you back to Virginia City on the stage."

He might as well have told her he was from the moon. "Seth... sent
you?"
She glanced imploringly at Maeve, but the woman looked equally confused. "Why, that's impossible," Mariah argued. "Seth would never... I mean, you're a..."