Hope (3 page)

Joining up with the gang had been easy. Frank had done an admirable job spreading the word about the legendary Grunt Lawson. Grunt was accepted into the gang and given the job as lookout.

But Dan was tired.

Tired of cold food and sleeping on hard ground. Tired of washing in cold streams and tired of watching his back.

Weary of living with imbeciles.

This case had no apparent end in sight. The gang had hit several payrolls, but Dan considered it blind luck. If something didn’t happen soon, he was going back to Washington and tell Frank he was through. Spring was here, and he didn’t have a potato in the ground. The thought irked him. His plans were made, and he didn’t like interruptions.

Big Joe drew his bay to a halt at a wide place in the trail. “This is it.”

Boris and Frog reined up short. Boris’s mare jolted the rump of Big Joe’s stallion. Big Joe turned to give the outlaw a dirty look.

Boris blankly returned the look. “This is what?”

“This is where the stage’ll be comin’ through. We wait here until we see the dust on that second rise over there. Back yore horse up, Boris! Yore crowdin’ me.”

Boris grudgingly complied.

Dan studied the road below. It was the third stage the gang had attempted to rob in as many weeks. Somehow, their luck had soured lately. Yesterday Boris broke a stirrup. He rode it to the ground, and the stage flew past before he got the horse stopped and his foot untangled.

The week before, Frog had burst out of the bushes and had ridden straight into the oncoming coach. He was thrown fifty feet into the air and was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck. His horse ran off, and they still hadn’t found her. Frog had to steal a horse to replace the missing one; he also nursed some pretty ugly bruises for days, vowing that from now on Boris was leading the charges. A heated disagreement erupted, with a lot of name-calling Dan didn’t appreciate.

“I’ll wait here.” Reining up, Dan settled back into his saddle to wait. With any luck, they’d botch this one, too.

“Nah, you ride with us. Don’t need no lookout for this one. Ain’t nobody around these parts for miles.” Big Joe’s left eye wandered wildly. “The drivers usually whip up the horses when they come through this pass, so be ready.”

Dan shifted in his saddle. “What if the stage isn’t carrying a strongbox?”

“Don’t matter. This one’s carryin’ somethin’ better.” Boris leaned over and spat. A grasshopper leapt clear of the sudden onslaught.

Better? That was a strange statement. What did this stage carry that the men wanted more than army payroll?

The four men waited in silence. A dry wind whipped their hats, and the horses grew restless.

Dan shifted again. “Maybe it’s not coming.”

“It’ll come,” Big Joe said. “Somethin’ must be keeping it.”

“Yeah, somethin’s keeping it,” Boris echoed.

“Shut up, Boris.”

“Can talk if I want to.”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t make me.”

Dan shifted again. “Both of you dry up.”

Frog hunched over his saddle horn, staring at the horizon. Dan decided Frog didn’t speak much because it wasted too much effort. Frog was lazy. Lazy and he smelled like a skunk. The only time Dan had seen him take a bath was when his horse fell in a river and Frog was sucked under. Dan had begun to pray for river crossings.

He studied the motley group. Big Joe was questionably the brain of the outfit. Joe had difficulty deciding which side of his bedroll to put next to the ground. Frog was like his namesake, easily distracted, his attention hopping from one thing to another so quickly that it was impossible to follow his reasoning—if he had any. If this was the dangerous gang that was so adept at robbing the army-payroll coaches, their success had to be more fluke than finesse. These three had a hard time planning breakfast.

Big Joe suddenly sat up straighter. “There she comes!”

The others snapped to attention. Boris craned his neck, trying to get a better look.

“Where?”

“There.”

“Where?”

“There!”

“Wh—” Boris winced as Big Joe whacked him across the back with his hat. Dust flew.

“Oh yeah. I see it.”

Flanking the stallion, Joe started down the narrow trail. The others followed, Dan bringing up the rear. This had better be resolved soon.

Dan had had just about enough of this job.

Hope was dozing, her body automatically swaying with the motion of the coach. The sound of pounding hooves pulled her into wakefulness. One driver shouted and the reins slapped as the team whipped the coach down the road.

Scooting to the window, she peered out, wide-eyed.

A sharp crack rent the air. Clamping her eyes tightly shut, she swallowed the terror rising in the back of her throat. The crack sounded again and again. Gunshots! Someone was firing at the coach!

Horses pounded alongside the window. Hope’s fingers dug into the crimson upholstery, gripping the fabric. She craned, unable to see who was chasing the stage. Then four men rode alongside the coach, hats pulled low. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Robbery. The stage was being robbed!

“Stop the coach!”

The harsh yell was accompanied by another gunshot. Hope’s lips moved in silent prayer.
Don’t let this be a holdup. Let me get to Medford safely. Protect the drivers. Oh, dear—if only I could accurately remember the Lord’s Prayer . . . the part about walking the fields of death . . .

The coach came to a shuddering halt, dust fogging the open windows. Hope sat still as a church mouse, terrified to move. She heard the sound of someone cocking a rifle, and her heart threatened to stop beating. Dear Lord, what if she were killed before she reached John Jacobs? Would anyone find her? Faith? June? Aunt Thalia?

Our Father, who art in heaven, how now be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy . . . thy . . . something or other be something or other . . .

“Stay where you are!” a hoarse voice called out.

“You ain’t gettin’ the box!” Mr. Barnes yelled.

Another harsh laugh. “You totin’ cash money? Throw it down!”

“Stay back, Joe! Yore horse is gonna—”

A gun exploded and a horse whinnied. Hope carefully edged back to the window. One of the bandits was now lying spread-eagle on the ground, rubbing his noggin.

“Git back!” the grating voice yelled to the drivers who’d gone for their guns.

The drivers stepped back, still shielding the strongbox.

The second rider eyed the outlaw sprawled on the ground. “Git up, Joe. This ain’t no time to be foolin’ around.”

The man sat up, nursing his head between his knees. “Fool horse. Pert near knocked the thunder outta me.”

A third man rode in, his gun leveled on the drivers. His voice was steady, unyielding. “Throw down the box, and no one gets hurt.”

Hope shivered at the sound of the strong, confident tone. It was nothing like the others. She timidly poked her head out the window, her heart skipping erratically. The outlaw with the calm voice wore a mask across his face, but the disguise couldn’t hide his dark good looks.

The heavy metal box bit into the dirt beside the coach.

“Whooeee! Look at that!” The big man on the ground shook his head to clear it, then got to his feet. “We got us another U.S. Army money box!”

The second outlaw climbed off his horse and approached the cache. “Yes sirreeee. That’s sure nuff what it is, all right—got us another army payroll! Money and the woman too! This must be our day!”

“Lemme have it.”

“No way. Frog’s gonna carry it. You cain’t even stay on yore horse.”

Frog urged his animal forward, and the outlaw slid the cash box across his lap.

“Now, let’s see what we got inside here.” The big man, undaunted by humiliation, walked over to the coach and yanked the door open. Hope stared into the face of one of the strangest-looking men she’d ever seen. Thick body, bowed legs, square face. It appeared as if someone had fashioned a seven-foot man, then pushed him down into a six-foot-three body with a wandering eye.

“Well, howdee do! Here’s what we’re lookin’ for!” Big Joe’s mouth split into a tobacco-stained grin. “It’s Thomas Ferry’s daughter! And ain’t she pretty.”

Dan’s eyes switched to the frightened girl. “Senator Thomas Ferry’s daughter?” He urged his horse closer to the coach. “What are you doing?”

Joe looked back at him. “This here is the daughter of the big politician from Michigan. Read in th’ paper that she was on her way to visit friends in Louisville—”

“You cain’t read!” Boris accused.

“Oh, all right! I had someone read it to me! What’s the difference?” Joe’s good eye rested on the prize. “Bet her daddy will pay a fine ransom to get his little girl back. A fine ransom.”

The young woman drew back, slapping the outlaw’s hand when he reached for her.

“Now don’t be spunky, little gal. Come on out here and let us have a look-see at what’s gonna make us rich.”

Boris grinned. “Yeah, rich—even if we cain’t spend any of the money.”

“Not yet, we cain’t. But in a few months, when we got all we want, we’ll lie back and let the stink die down; then we’ll hightail it to Mexico and live like kings.”

Big Joe reached inside the coach, but the woman scooted to the far end of the bench. “Why, Boris, she don’t want to come out,” Big Joe complained. He grinned. “Guess I’ll jest hafta go in and git her.”

One boot was on the metal step when the occupant apparently decided it would be better to exit the stage herself than have him inside with her.

“I’m coming out!”

“She’s coming out,” Joe repeated loudly.

“Could be she don’t want anywhere near you!” Boris laughed.

Dan backed his horse away from the coach as a bronze-booted foot searched for the stage step.

Dressed in a brown traveling dress with a straw hat perched atop her ebony hair, the young woman slowly exited the stage. For a moment, Dan couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d seen his share of good-looking women in his day, but this one was a rare jewel. Safe on the ground, she brushed at her skirt, glancing from one gang member to another, her gaze finally fastening on him.

Dan drew a resigned breath, looking away.

There was only one problem: this woman wasn’t Anne Ferry.

Chapter Two

The dark-haired beauty struggled against the burly outlaw who had slung her over his shoulder like a sack of feed. Dan watched the exchange, helpless to intervene. If he tipped his hand, he and the girl would both be shot.

“Stop fighting me, girlie!” Big Joe dragged Hope toward his waiting horse. “Frog, tie up that driver and guard!”

“Hold it a minute.” Joe whirled at the sound of Grunt’s voice. Dan met his eyes with a grave warning.

“How do we know she’s Thomas Ferry’s daughter?”

Dan had met Anne Ferry at a social event at the senator’s mansion in Lansing a couple of years back. While Anne was an attractive young woman, she couldn’t hold a candle to this dark-haired beauty pummeling Joe’s back.

Slim and fine boned, she was a striking enchantress. A cloud of black hair framed her pretty heart-shaped face. Eyes—an unusual shade of violet—were wide beneath her flowered straw hat, but not with fear. Stubbornness. Dan could spot obstinacy a mile off. This woman was going to fight Joe Davidson every step of the way.

“It is Miss Ferry—paper said so,” declared Joe.

Dan met the girl’s headstrong gaze as Big Joe let her down off his shoulder. “Are you Anne Ferry?”

“Certainly not!”

“She is too!”

Dan shot Boris a short glance. “She says she isn’t.”

“Well, she’s lyin’ through her teeth. Look here.” Boris picked up the turquoise purse lying in the coach seat and rummaged through its contents. Holding up a gold locket, he asked smugly, “What’s this say?”

Dan frowned when he read the initials:
A. F.
How did this young woman come to be in possession of Anne Ferry’s personal effects?

The girl watched the spectacle, tapping her foot. “Anne was on the stage, but she had to leave when her chaperone fell ill and—”

“She’s lyin’!”

“I am not!”

“Are too! You’d say anythin’ to save yore hide!”

Dan’s sharp command broke up the spirited debate. “We can’t just take a woman hostage without knowing her identity.” That’s all Dan needed—a woman thrown into this insane mission to up the ante.

The girl wasn’t Anne Ferry, but he had little choice but to play along and stay close enough to keep her from harm. Thomas Ferry wasn’t going to pay money for a daughter who wasn’t missing.

“Well, well.” Big Joe rubbed his beefy hands together, studying his prize. “Yore a purty little dish. Papa’s gonna pay a handsome sum to get you back.”

Crossing her arms, Hope glared at him. “I can’t imagine why. I’m not Anne Ferry. My name is Hope Kallahan.”

Big Joe snickered. “Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is not!”

“I am not Thomas Ferry’s daughter!” Hope stamped her foot.

“’Course you’d say that!”

Dan shook his head, turning his horse. Now he had four of them on his hands.

“Frog! Get Miss Ferry’s valise,” Big Joe ordered. “She’ll need duds.”