Authors: Barbara Ankrum
"Miss Parsons?" Devereaux prompted, eyeing her strangely.
"Of course," she answered. "I'll do whatever I can." Mariah pushed herself upright on the seat. This time she was more clear-headed. Behind Devereaux's shoulder, Albert Lindsey ran his hand irritably through his hair and shook his head. It was then that she noticed David Conner, his cousin, and two others were missing. "Where are the others?"
"Chasing down what's left of the team," Devereaux answered. "One of the horses broke a leg and had to be put down. The lead pair snapped the first hitch and lit out for—"
"Oh, for God's sake, Devereaux," Lindsey snapped, ramming the spectacles up the bridge of his nose, "must you give her all the wretched details? She's a
lady."
Creed slid an impatient glance at the thin man. "A lady who's been caught in an ugly situation."
"And you're compounding that by scaring the daylights out of her. Is it your habit to frighten innocent women unnecessarily?"
Creed's jaw tightened. "I'm telling her the truth. She's part of this as much as you or me." He glanced at her bruised face. "Even more than some, I'd say."
"He's right." Mariah raised her chin defiantly, surprised to find herself defending the bounty hunter. "You needn't protect me from the truth, Mr. Lindsey, just because I'm a woman. I have a right to know." She searched Creed's eyes, suddenly glad for their steadiness. "Exactly what
is
our situation, Mr. Devereaux? Are we stranded here?"
"Only until we get that hitch fixed and the Conners get back with the team. They won't go far all rigged out like they are. In the meantime, I have several men posted as lookouts."
Mariah studied the hard planes of Devereaux's face as he three-fingered his hat back on his head. Knowing who and what he was, it seemed absurd that she should feel safer with him in charge, but, inexplicably, she did. The same person who'd brutally gunned down a man in Fort Benton had just killed again—to defend her, and she was sure she'd been lucky to get off with only a bump on the head.
Could what she'd first taken for his unmitigated arrogance have been confidence, after all? That disturbed her, not only because it forced her to look at the man in a different light, but because thinking kindly about a cold-blooded killer went against every lick of good sense she'd ever owned.
Yet, what she'd glimpsed in those teal-blue eyes when he looked at her made her question her earlier judgment about him. Shaking off the thought, Mariah asked, "Do you think they'll come back? The outlaws, I mean."
"If they do," Creed answered grimly, "we're ready for them. But I don't think they'd be that stupid." He ran a tired hand over his eyes. "Will you be all right now?"
Despite the ache in her head, she nodded.
Cullen and Lindsey followed Devereaux back out into the pouring rain to work on the broken hitch.
Mariah heard the Conner boys return with the lost team of horses as she ripped part of one cotton petticoat to replace the blood-soaked scarf at Stembridge's shoulder. Gunshot wounds rarely bled profusely unless some vital organ was damaged or an artery nicked. She suspected the latter to be the case.
Experience, and the pallor of his skin, told her he was going into shock. She applied pressure to the wound with the heel of her shaking hand. A sigh of relief escaped her after a few minutes when the bleeding stopped and she covered him with a coat. There wasn't much more she could do, except try to make him more comfortable, as they were still hours from the stage station where they'd spend the night.
Within a half-hour, the mud-wagon was underway again. Devereaux drove, with several passengers riding shotgun in the rain to make room for the wounded driver inside. The ride was considerably more uncomfortable this time, with everyone soaked to the bone and the distinctive odor of blood rank in the stifling, muggy air. The hunger that gnawed at her stomach only a few hours earlier had fled. Now, only a numb fear settled over her as the stage plowed down the muddy road toward its destination.
* * *
Nightfall found them at the small one-story soddy stage station. At the door appeared a middle-aged, bearded man dressed in brown pantaloons, patched here and there with yellow buckskin. With a poncho draped over his head and a lantern held aloft in the rain, he waved to them as Creed pulled up the team.
"What in blazes kept you, and... and who the hell are you?" he shouted as Creed climbed down from the driver's box.
"Creed Devereaux," he called over the stinging rain. "Your driver was shot in a hold-up attempt and the guard was killed."
"Blast those murdering thugs!" the station master swore, extending his hand to Creed as they moved toward the cab. "John Lochrie's the name. My wife, Hattie, and I run this station. Who's the driver?"
"Said his name's Tom Stembridge. Do you know him?"
Lochrie stopped dead, his expression solemn. "Tom? Damnation. How bad is it?"
"Bad enough. The bullet passed through his shoulder and he was losing a lot of blood." Creed jerked open the stage door and his gaze collided with Mariah's. Fatigue had etched blue smudges beneath her amber eyes, but hadn't diminished the fire he'd seen there earlier. The bruise on her cheek had turned a nasty shade of violet-blue. Despite that, she held herself regally, as if she'd allowed none of the events of the past few hours to affect her.
Something unfamiliar and equally unwanted tore through him, skittering through his veins like heat lightning. A damned attractive woman, he thought, as his gaze traveled over her face and long, graceful neck. A perfect lady.
And... she was Seth's.
The untoward thought brought with it a sharp pang of guilt. For all he knew, Seth could be dying of the fever that had already claimed several lives in Virginia City. And here he was, having carnal thoughts about Seth's woman. That was a hell of a note.
An involuntary shiver raced down his back as the rain slapped against his oilcloth coat. Creed exhaled slowly and offered her his hand. "Miss Parsons? Mr. Lochrie here will help you to the house so you don't get wet." She nodded silently.
An electrical charge traveled up Creed's arm when she gave him her hand and allowed him to help her down from the stage. He might have blamed it on the rain, on the chill, or the fact that he hadn't been with a woman in months. He knew better than to explore the jolt she'd given his system.
He damn well knew better.
Lochrie ducked her under his poncho and the two dashed to the house together. Creed and several others carried the wounded man inside and settled him on the simple wooden cot kept solely for use by the drivers.
"There now, Tom," soothed Lochrie's wife, Hattie, a handsome blond-haired woman in her late thirties. "Those heathens can't get a man like you down. We'll fix you up, right as rain."
Stembridge managed a smile, but Creed saw the driver's Adam's apple bob in his throat as he fought the pain in his upper chest. He stopped Mrs. Lochrie before she could walk away. "Hattie—"
"What is it, Tom?"
"You've heard me talk of my... my brother, Henry, back in the Dakota Territory."
"Yes," she answered gently. "Yes, I have."
Emotion clouded the man's dark eyes. "Just in case... if I don't..." He cleared his throat, dismissing the words and gathering strength. "I know you can write. I'd... thank you to... to let him know for me. Just in case."
"Phooey! There'll be no need for letters, Tom Stembridge, except to tell him you're on the mend. That one I'll be happy to write." With a reassuring squeeze of her hand, she left several men to peel off his wet, blood-smeared clothing.
John Lochrie wrapped a comforting arm around his wife's waist when she came back to the common room. "It's lucky Tom didn't bleed to death before you got here by the look of his clothes," he told Creed.
"You can thank Miss Parsons for that," Creed said from his place near the roaring fire where a welcome warmth seeped through his wet clothing. He dropped his soaked hat on the horsehair settee that flanked the rag rug. "Her father was a doctor back in Chicago." He exchanged a look with Mariah that held a hint of a smile. "And... she doesn't swoon."
Mariah sent him an insincere smile, braced her hands across her aching lower back, and turned her attention to the couple. "I didn't do much but stop the bleeding. There wasn't much I could do in that rolling torture chamber you call a stage."
Lochrie chuckled, scratching his mutton-chop whiskers. "I've heard A.J. Oliver's mud-wagons called names before, but never that."
"Oh, my dear!" Hattie exclaimed, seeing the bruise on Mariah's face. "Look at your cheek!"
"If you've got a spare antelope steak to put on that," Creed told Hattie, "I'll gladly pay you well for one. Seth would never forgive me if I bring you back to Virginia City looking like you've been in a brawl."
Unable to resist the retort, Mariah arched one gracefully curved brow. "That wouldn't be so far from the truth, would it, Mr. Devereaux?"
"No, Miss Parsons, it would not."
"Well," Lochrie interjected, "that cheek ought to have plenty of time to heal before you get to your fella."
Creed shot him a look. "If you mean we'll have to wait because of the driver... that's not a problem. I can drive to the next station where we can pick up another driver."
"It's not the driver," Lochrie answered with a shake of his head. Picking up a poker, he jabbed at the fragrant pine log snapping in the fireplace. "One of my hostlers rode in from the south just before you pulled in. The ferry that crosses over the Sun River has washed out."
"Washed out?" came the collective moan from the other passengers listening nearby.
"Ain't there another one somewheres to get across?" Cullen asked hopefully.
"I'm afraid not. It'll be at least a week or two before we can get the supplies and manpower to rebuild it after the river settles down from this storm. Nobody's going anywhere but back until then. I reckon I'll have to drive you to Fort Benton myself as son as Tom can travel."
Mariah felt the blood drain from her face.
"Fort Benton?
No, that... that can't be. I—I have to get to Seth." She turned imploringly to Creed. "Tell them, Mr. Devereaux. Tell them I can't go back.
I won't."
Tight-lipped, Creed lowered his gaze to the floor. He knew this country well enough to know there was only one way around that crossing. The long way.
It was no route for the inexperienced and certainly not for someone like Mariah. And, more important, no place for her to be alone with a man like him.
"Lochrie's right," he said at last without looking up.
"Right?"
she cried. "What do you mean? Seth is desperately ill and you want me to—"
"You have no other choice!" he snapped, equally disturbed by the prospect.
His answer stunned her into silence, but her impotent look went back and forth between Lochrie and him.
Creed ran his fingers through his damp hair, leaving four furrows behind. "Lochrie, is it possible for Miss Parsons to stay here with you and your wife for a few days? After what happened today, I can't in good conscience send her back to Fort Benton unescorted."
"Well, I—" Lochrie began.
"Unescorted?"
Mariah repeated incredulously. "And where will
you
be?"
Creed's even gaze met hers. "Tomorrow I'll ride on to Virginia City to let Seth know what's happening and check on him. There's no telegraph service yet. He'll only worry if we don't show up." He turned to the station master. "Lochrie, I'll pay her keep for the time—"
"Oh, no, you don't," Mariah interrupted. "You're not leaving me here to go on ahead alone. If you know of a way to get to Virginia City, then I'm coming, too."
"Like hell you are!"
With her hands balled into fists at her waist, Mariah met his angry glare. "Try and stop me."
"Lady... you're crazy."
"Because I want to be with my fiancé? How does that make me crazy?"
Creed's snort of laughter punctuated the silence that had fallen. "You have no idea what you're talking about. You wouldn't last two minutes out there."
Tears trembled on the brinks of her eyes, but she wouldn't allow them to spill over. "Don't talk to me as if I'm some foolish child, Mr. Devereaux! I may be young, but I'm not completely ignorant. Nothing in this journey has been easy and I've no reason to expect it will get better."
"It's out of the question."
"Why? Because you say so?"
"Le bon Dieu me protege des femmes tetues!"
he ranted, slapping his hat across his thigh.
"Speak English if you're going to swear at me!" Furious now, she stood nose to nose with him.
"I said, God protect me from stubborn women—like
you.
Don't you see it's impossible? Forget, for a moment, the hardships of the trail. Think of your reputation."
"My reputation?
Do you think I give a fig about that when Seth is lying at death's door?"
"I didn't say that," he hedged.
"You didn't have to." Now tears spilled in earnest down her cheeks, but she no longer cared. Her whole body trembled like a newborn leaf in the wind. "I can see in your eyes how serious it is. He's very ill. Tell me that's not true."