Wilda's Outlaw
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Wilda’s Outlaw
by
Velda Brotherton
The Victorians, Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Wilda’s Outlaw
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Velda Brotherton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
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Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-714-4
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-715-1
The Victorians, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Cait London, who made my second career possible.
Thanks so much.
Books by Velda Brotherton
as Elizabeth Gregg:
Goldspun Promises
Moonspun Dreams
Brightspun Destiny
Trail To Forever
as Samantha Lee:
Images In Scarlet
Angel's Gold
as Velda Brotherton:
Stoneheart's Woman
Wilda’s Outlaw
Prologue
Rowena Duncan, Her Diary
May, 1874
On board
The Alabama
bound for America
Longing to be in the arms of my sister’s betrothed is a sin, and certainly an improper wish for a Victorian lady. Only in the privacy of these pages, am I able to admit that the first time I saw Lord Blair Prescott I nearly swooned. In my tiny cubicle at St. Anne’s. That night, I dreamed of nothing but his lips on mine, his hands soothing my fevered longings.
Alas, I shall never know such pleasures, for he chose my sister Wilda, and because of the bargain struck, we three girls, Wilda, myself, and our cousin Tyra are on our way to America. Wilda to wed Lord Prescott, and Tyra and I to remain under his guardianship until a suitable marriage is arranged for each of us. Now that I have met him, I know I shall never be happy with any other man.
I can only seek solace in memories of the first time I set eyes on Lord Prescott. Eagerly, we three girls waited in the warm sunlight that poured from a clear blue sky. Masses of blush pink roses, nodded in a fragrant breeze. Filled with hope that such a lovely day was a portent of good things to come, my heart fluttered when Lord Blair Prescott strode around the corner of the gray stonework of St. Ann’s Charity House.
He presented a tall, lean figure, dressed immaculately in black trousers, a white shirt with three wide tucks in the front, braces embroidered with glass beads, and a silk ivory vest that peeked from beneath a black morning coat. A head of hair so black it reflected blue highlights. A scar along one cheek marked his inscrutable features like a mysterious mask. His full lips, finely drawn nose, and angular cheekbones might have been sculpted by Michelangelo. He is the most beautiful gentleman I have ever seen, except for our dear departed father.
Why such a man would ever consider betrothing himself to one of us poor orphans is beyond my understanding, but he did. To my dismay, and despite all my flirtatious efforts, he chose my most fair sister, Wilda.
It may have been her hair, the color of moon glow alight with fire, for mine is pale gold, suggesting there is no fire in me. That could not be farther from the truth. Alas for Lord Prescott, he shall never know such a burning love as mine, for Wilda hates the man, and has done since first she laid eyes on him that day.
Here in the narrow bunk of this ship, when it rolls madly over seas whipped high by howling winds, I dream I am in his arms, held secure by his love for me and no one else. Reality brings tears I must hide.
They say it shall take us most of a year to reach the great American West, and what an arduous journey it will be. By ship and boat, by train and stage, we will work our way to Victoria City in a place called Kansas in the untamed West. We are accompanied by the Chesshires, who are merchants and friends of our late parents. Marguerite Chesshire is responsible for Lord Prescott’s interest in us girls, and he remunerates her by paying their passage and setting them up with a shop in Victoria City.
We go to Fairhaven where Lord Prescott has built Wilda a home that is said to be an exact duplicate of the Prescott castle in Devonshire, only perhaps a bit smaller. Many of those on the ship go to Victoria City, and they carry with them their English heritage. Their silver and crystal, their damask linens and fine clothing, even their sheep and horses. We shall not become Americans, but will remain Victorian English to the very core, or so says George Grant, founder of our settlement.
I can hardly wait until we arrive on those far shores, yet I do not know how I will bear living in the same house where my sister will soon lie with the man I love.
Chapter One
The monster swayed and roared. Wilda clung to its neck, Tyra beside her. With clawing fingers she grabbed her cousin’s arm. All she could think was save her from the beast.
“Ow, what’s wrong?” The arm was yanked from her grip.
Wilda rubbed her eyes, took in her surroundings. Tyra sat in the seat next to her massaging her wrist. They were aboard a train, its heartbeat the clickety-clack of the engine’s wheels.
“I dreamed someone was chasing us and we were astride a monster of some sort.”
“You scared me.” Tyra rose and leaned across Wilda’s lap to peer through the smoke-smudged window. “I never rode on a locomotive before. It is almost like a monster, isn’t it? Did you ever see so much open space?”
Beyond the glass a sun-drenched prairie stretched to the horizon, hazed by an endless summer sky.
Ah, this must be Kansas. At last.
Wilda swallowed, her throat and tongue parched. Another lurch of the car and she clutched her stomach.
Tyra’s elbow dug into her lap. “How much longer now? I thought there would be buffalo. I’m hot and tired and thirsty.”
As for the buffalo, Wilda had no idea, but she could certainly sympathize with the girl’s impatience. They’d departed England over a year ago. At long last they had left behind the ship and boats and wagons and were on a train bound for Victoria City in America.
“It can’t be far.” She grimaced when the girl continued to squirm and poke at her to get a better look. “Would you like to trade places?”
“Yes, please.”
Wilda rose, clung to the seat in front. If the day ever came when she set foot on solid ground, she would never, ever, ever step aboard anything that moved.
Wheels screeched. Tyra slid behind her, touched her nose against the glass. Still on her feet, Wilda stepped to the aisle seat, glanced up. A masked man filled the doorway, pointing a gun at her. Standing so close, she could reach out and touch him…or he her.
Still asleep? Still dreaming?
A startled “Oh” escaped her lips. Her heart raced. Frozen in a hunched position, she peered at him. He wasn’t real, he couldn’t be. Of course she was still dreaming, had conjured one of her cousin’s favorite fantasies of an old west outlaw. A beautiful one, at that, or at least what she could see of him. Above the dusty bandana that covered the lower half of his face, green eyes flashed with amusement, as if he shared a secret with her.
No one in the car paid him the least attention. Obviously she hadn’t awakened after all, but still slept, not in her room back in Manchester, but on a train in the middle of nowhere.
How to react to a scruffy outlaw who arrives in a dream? No harm had ever come to her while dreaming, so she might as well play this out. Be calm, speak to him. All she managed was a stiff smile. Odd how her tongue lay numb, her throat dry as a ball of cotton. How silly, for what harm could it do to befriend such a lovely figment of her imagination?
Bronzed skin crinkled around his eyes, and he lifted the gun barrel to push up the brim of a disreputable, sweaty hat. She imagined he returned her smile, for the skin around those incredible eyes crinkled. He placed a gloved finger over lips she couldn’t see. Winked.
The outrageous man! She gasped, sneaked another look around. Attempted to shout and alert the other passengers. Nothing came out. Some slept—no doubt enjoying their own dreams—while others gazed out the window. Surely one would glance up, see him. But they didn’t.
Fine. Dreams being what they were, she'd have some fun. No one paid the least attention to the man with a gun. Not even Tyra, who bounced about and gazed out the window. Weird how real everything seemed. The smell of cinder-laden smoke, the hot wind on her face, the trickle of perspiration down her back, the heavy intolerable weight of her traveling toilette. So heavy she slipped down into her seat, glanced around once again.
Was he still there? Had he disappeared because she’d taken her eyes off him? Dare she look one more time?
Holding her breath, she peered through nearly closed lids. No, he hadn’t left. He continued to watch her as if he had all day. A shiver raced up her spine and she offered a gloved hand. With graceful ease, he took it, bent over and gently kissed her bare wrist above the cuff. Though she could not see or feel his lips, he kissed her all right. The heat of his breath flowed through the dusty bandana to coil about her arm.
Dear Lord
. Had the fear of what awaited in Victoria City caused this leap into unreality? In her most secret dreams, had she not dreamt of a royal prince who would ride in and carry her away from her responsibilities? A gallant man who would put a stop to this damnable marriage toward which she traveled with continued apprehension. She had no power to stop it, so perhaps she had dredged this man up from deep in her subconscious. Summoned him to save her when no one else could. But this stranger was no prince, and certainly not a knight in shining armor.
Before she could consider the questions, bedlam broke out. Women screeched, men shouted, and she twisted to stare at them, to tell them to shut up, to get out of her dream and leave her and the handsome outlaw alone. He was about to do a lot more than kiss her wrist. A second masked man appeared inside the doorway at the other end of the rocking car. Seated near the other bandit, her sister Rowena and her companion Marguerite Chesshire screeched in unison. Neither of them ever grew excited over anything, but they hugged each other and squealed in fear. Looking not at
her
outlaw, but toward the far end of the car where a bigger, more menacing gunman stood. This one truly frightened her.
She turned back to the younger man, half expecting him to help. But his demeanor had altered, he dropped her hand as if it were hot and pointed the gun.
She found her voice amidst the shouting. “How dare you kiss my hand then point that thing at me? If you’re going to shoot me, then please do so and put me out of my misery. I’m hot and tired and have no patience for such tomfoolery.”
He was nothing more than a lowly bandit. Acting as if his appearance might possibly be the least bit amusing to her.
Perspiring and miserable under the heavy drape of silk fabric, she glanced at Tyra who stared wide-eyed, mouth open. This was real. Her heart beat so hard in her throat she gasped for air. Shifting, she put herself between the child and the outlaw. Addressed him with a trembling voice: “Aren’t we indeed the brave one? Pointing a gun at a child and an unarmed woman. What would your mother think of such actions? Or were you dragged from under a rock?”
The bronze skin crinkled and he chuckled. “If you was a filly I’d unhitch you from that garb you’re wearing, give you a nosebag of grain and a good long rubdown. Work out the stiffness.”
The rich timbre of his voice sent chills to places she was loathe to admit existed in a well brought up lady. Her rebuttal sounded weak. “Not only are you a thief, you can’t speak the King’s English.”