Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (23 page)

“I do think that might be the cause.” She seemed to be struggling not to laugh.

“Then,” he said as he replaced the hat on his head and worried with it until he’d found just the right fit, “if I must choose between my Stetson and a bride, I’ll remain happily without.”

“Between a Stetson and a Bride, or the Story of a Love Gone Amiss,”
Anna said. “A story I’m not proud of, though it received many compliments. Are you a reader, Mr. Sanders?” She asked it as if it were a natural question under their less than natural circumstances.

It took a minute for his addled brain to catch up to the question. “On occasion,” he said slowly. “Though I’ll admit I’ve not read any of your—”

Lightning flashed too close for comfort, and Miss Finch screamed and lunged for his arms. He held her against him, her damp hair spilling across his shoulder and her face buried in his shirt.

He wasn’t sure whether the true danger was outside with the weather or inside with Anna Finch.

“So,” he said with what he hoped was a calm voice, “this isn’t what I had in mind when I trailed you to Garrison this morning.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, her face still resting against his shoulder and her hands holding fistfuls of his shirt. “Certainly not how I thought I would be spending the day.”

He waited for the tears. In Jeb’s experience, there were always tears where women and unexpected events collided. Instead, she leaned away to stare past him at, he assumed, the foul weather. He followed her gaze and saw the mules had found them despite the thunder, lightning, and downpour.

“Oh no, you don’t.” He rose up on his knees to block the fool animal as one of the mules attempted to share their shelter. “Get your own place to hide out.”

The mule kept trying to fit into the small space. As hard as Jeb pushed the critter back, he kept coming. The other one, soggy from his swim, ambled up and stuck his muzzle in as well.

From behind him, Jeb heard Miss Finch begin to giggle. At least this battle would have one winner, though it would be neither him nor the animal.

“You find this funny, do you?” he asked. “Why don’t we trade places?”

He pretended to dart in her direction, and she squealed. When he rocked back on his heels, Jeb felt something bump his head.

And then his hat was gone.

“Hey, you.” Jeb whirled around and reached for his hat, but the mule wouldn’t let go. He realized he could either fight for his hat or get rid of the mule.

With a jerk of his hand he yanked the Stetson from the mule’s mouth and tossed it outside. He watched the terrible twosome make a game of dividing the spoils. He might have given chase had a bolt of lightning not shattered the topmost section of a tree not thirty yards away.

As the rain quickly squelched the fire, Jeb dove back inside the tiny hideaway.

“Everything’s all right.” He swiveled to look at Anna. “And there’s good news.”

That seemed to get her attention. “Oh?”

Jeb settled back and got comfortable. “Yep. Those mules have taken my hat, which means I just might stand a chance of getting married someday.”

Only then did he get what he’d expected earlier: a woman’s tears.

Anna felt like an idiot, crying now that she was safe. But the little space was damp and smelled of earth and whatever animal had last slept in it. Mud splotched her clothing, and one of her gloves was gone. The other had torn and was completely useless. She peeled it off and let what remained of it fall as the thunder rolled around them. The back of her head throbbed, and when she checked, she found the beginnings of a nasty bump.

And amongst all of this she’d had her second kiss in as many days, and then her third. After that, she’d stopped counting.

To his credit, Mr. Sanders kept to his side of the space. Had he attempted to console her, she might have allowed it, and that would have been most improper.

Improper
.

Anna began to chuckle. She certainly hadn’t considered what was proper when she behaved so horribly in the water.

“It’s not funny,” she said as she swiped at the last of her tears. “It really isn’t at all.” Outside the little cave, one of the mules brayed
while the other chewed on the battered Stetson. “And your hat is ruined.”

He shrugged. “Wagon’s not in such good shape either.”

“I’m terribly sorry about that. Please let me buy you another.” He had the audacity to laugh. “What?” She swiped away the horrid tears. “Do you find my offer humorous?”

Mr. Sanders held up his palms. “No,” he managed through his chuckles. “Not at all. I find it …”

“What?”

“I find it unnecessary.” He shrugged. “Looks like we’ll be in here awhile.”

“Yes, it does.” She sighed and leaned back against the damp grass while outside the mules moved on. The rain, however, did not.

“Puts me in mind of something I meant to ask before your horse caused all this commotion.”

“About that,” she said, wincing. “I’m very sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t had much interest in riding her since our unfortunate first meeting, which, of course, I am also sorry about.”

Mr. Sanders turned and shook his head. “Enough apologizing. Tell me about Doc Holliday. I know you have corresponded with him.”

The breath went out of her. “How did you know?” she finally managed to inquire.

One of his shoulders lifted slightly. “I’m good at what I do, Miss Finch.”

“I noticed.” Anna shifted position to stretch out her legs and saw she wore only one shoe.

“And I noticed you haven’t answered.” He inched slightly closer, enough to cause his leg to touch hers. “So I will ask again. How is it you know Doc Holliday?”

“The rain seems to be letting up,” she said, though nothing could be further from the truth.

He leaned toward her and pressed his palm against her cheek. His touch was gentle, his fingers calloused, and until she felt its warmth, she hadn’t realized how chilled she was. Slowly he forced her to look at him. It was, under the circumstances, not an altogether unpleasant experience.

“You can trust me.”

“No.” Anna scooted out of his reach. “I think not. Though I don’t mind answering your question.” She paused to let her racing mind catch up to her words. “Mr. Sanders,” she said carefully, “I’ll admit I took delivery of a bag of mail. I also admit if there is a letter in that bag from Doc Holliday, I will be thrilled but also very surprised.”

He lifted a dark brow. “So you admit you know him?”

Her temper rose. “No. As I said, I hope he’s written to me.” Anna narrowed her eyes. “You seem particularly interested in him. Has he wronged you in some way?”

That brought a reaction she hadn’t expected. For a moment, she thought Mr. Sanders might answer in the affirmative. Then he looked away. “Miss Finch, it appears we are at the end of our discussion on this topic.” He paused. “For now, at least.”

“Mr. Sanders,” she said, “don’t you think under the circumstances you ought to call me Anna?”

As Mr. Sanders began to chuckle, a crash of thunder made Anna jump.

“You scared of bad weather?” he asked. “Because it’s nothing to be ashamed off, though you’re safe right where you are.”

The rain came down so hard that it obscured everything beyond their little hideaway. Anna flinched as lightning slashed through the curtain of gray. “As many times as I’ve imagined it, I’ve never actually seen it from this perspective.” She paused. “It’s much different. Louder.”

“I suppose.”

“And there’s a smell. A scent, actually. Earthy.”

He gave her an appraising look. “I suppose,” he said slowly. “I’ve never thought about how rain smelled or sounded.”

Anna shifted positions, trying to find a spot where the rocks didn’t cause her discomfort. She half hoped the Pinkerton would offer her a shoulder to lean on, but he didn’t. “Does the rain make you sleepy? I’m exhausted.”

“Sometimes.” He began a story that had something to do with rain, and she tried to pay attention. Unfortunately, her eyelids refused to cooperate.

When she opened them again, the sun shone across her face, and Anna was alone.

Stretching as best she could, she gathered her wits and followed the sunshine out to the riverbank. She found Jeb Sanders hunched over something he held in his lap.

“Is that my mailbag?”

He jumped as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to her. “Had to walk more than a quarter mile before I found it. I was checking to see if anything inside was salvageable.” He handed the soggy bag to her. “It’s not.”

“I see.” Indeed, the letters inside seemed to be a total loss. Any ink on the sodden pages was long washed away by the rain. She could only hope those who’d corresponded with her might try again.

Stretching out the soreness born from too much time in too cramped a space, she stepped past the mail to find her saddlebag, now with a single bullet hole decorating one side. This she would bring home. The mail sack, probably not.

At least not today, though perhaps she might return for it tomorrow when she no longer had company.

“It’s a long walk back to Denver,” Mr. Sanders said as he stood and moved toward the still-raging stream. He studied the remains of the wagon littering the bank.

“I don’t suppose you could build a raft out of those pieces so we could float,” she tossed over her shoulder as she climbed the bank and looked out over the prairie. There, grazing happily in the grass, was Maisie, the traitor that created this mess.

“Mr. Sanders,” she called. “I think I’ve a solution to our problem. Or at least to mine.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said as he caught up to her. “We’re in this together.”

When Maisie spied Anna, her ears perked up. The ornery horse nickered, then pawed at the muddy prairie before breaking into a trot. Anna called to the mare, and she came almost close enough to catch.

Almost but not quite. Apparently the mare had enjoyed her rain-soaked adventure much more than Anna and was ready to make merry at her expense. “Stupid horse,” Anna muttered as she began walking toward Denver, ignoring the animal altogether.

“I agree you’ve not chosen the most trustworthy animal.” Mr. Sanders fell into stride beside her. “And yet look over there.”

Up ahead the mules waited. Anna laughed. “I never expected they’d be anywhere nearby.”

He shrugged. “Guess they were too busy eating my hat to notice the weather and run from it. Though where would they run?”

“True,” she said. “I wonder if they’ll let us ride them.” She looked up at Mr. Sanders. “Have you only used them to pull the wagon?”

He hesitated. “Well, yes. But I can’t see why they wouldn’t oblige.”

Mr. Sanders inched toward the mules as if they were a pair of skittish horses. He got almost within reach before the pair of them bolted in different directions.

“Why didn’t you move that fast when you were hitched to the wagon?” he shouted after them. He swiped at the mud on his trousers. “Miss Anna, how do you feel about a nice walk on a sunny afternoon?”

With a sigh, she turned toward Denver, which loomed in the distance. She couldn’t just wait for some hero to save her. It was time to call on her years of writing Mae Winslow’s story to find the courage to keep walking. If Mae, fictional as she was, could emerge from every disaster unscathed, then so could she. Anna squared her shoulders and turned her back on the river and Jeb Sanders.

“Hold up, there.”

Anna ignored the man and picked up her pace. She’d only walked a few feet before she felt the saddlebag slip from her shoulder.

“I might not be able to control two mules, a mare, and a wagon, but I’m man enough to haul your bags for you.”

He shrugged the saddlebag onto his shoulder, then swiped at his brow. Only then did she notice he also carried the mail sack. “In case something’s readable,” he said as he met her stare. “You never know. There might be something in there that the rain didn’t ruin.”

“I suppose.”

Overhead the sun’s brilliance matched the rainstorm’s intensity. And on the horizon, the shimmering city of Denver seemed no closer, though she felt they’d been walking at least an hour. Other than occasional patches of mud to avoid, there was little to keep Anna’s mind occupied.

“Mr. Sanders, I have a question.”

He looked down at her and seemed slightly amused. “Fire away.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she said, then regretted the poor choice of words. “It’s about Doc Holliday. What if I told you I think there is more than one person claiming to be him?” She studied the lawman as he considered the question. “As you’ve said, you’re good at what you do.”

“I am.”

She chose her words carefully. “Then you must consider the evidence I can present.”

He met her stare. “Fair enough.”

She shook her head. “You’ll give me no argument on this? That’s a first.”

“I’m considering it.” He toyed with the silly mustache. “Care to kiss me again before I take this off?”