Margaret Brownley (2 page)

A cloud of dust in the distance caught her attention. Moving a leafy branch aside, she could just make out the silhouettes of three horsemen racing toward her.

The horsemen drew nearer. Strangers, by the looks of them. Instead of passing on the road below, they cut across the meadow and disappeared into the nearby woods. Definitely strangers.

Sighing, she leaned back against the trunk of the tree, grateful for the thick green foliage that protected her from the warm sun. As usual, she’d forgotten her hat. She hated anything confining. Hair piled on top of her head in the haphazard way that she favored, she impatiently brushed a wayward tendril away from her face.

She waited. A blue jay flew into an upper branch and protested her presence with a harsh jeering
jaay, jaay
before taking to the skies. A bushy-tailed squirrel started up the trunk of the tree, spotted her, then ran back down and vanished in the brush. A bee buzzed in her ear.

A rumbling sound alerted her. Peering through the branches, she realized it was the Wells Fargo stagecoach, two days late as usual.

Sighing, she wiggled into a more comfortable position and restlessly swung her bare legs. No wild stallion would make an appearance as long as the stage was in the area. She had no choice but to sit and wait.

The rumbling of the stage grew louder, as did the impatient shouts of the driver urging his team of six horses up the slight incline. To while away the boredom, she decided to take a photograph of the stage as it passed below.

She adjusted the camera so that it pointed to the road and peered into the viewfinder. The image, though dim, was clear on the frosted glass. No black cloth was needed. She moved the lever to adjust the shutter speed to high.

Fingering the leather bulb in hand, she waited. The bulb, attached to a rubber tube, allowed her to take photographs without jarring the camera.
Steady, steady—

Startled by voices, she pulled away from the camera and blinked. The stagecoach had stopped directly below her and the driver disembarked, hands over his head.

It was then that she noticed the three horsemen she had seen earlier, their faces now hidden beneath bright-colored kerchiefs. She had been so focused on the stage she failed to notice their presence until now. The sun glinted against the barrel of a gun and she gasped. Covering her mouth with her hand, she watched the drama unfold below.

The stagecoach was being
robbed
. Shock soon turned to delight. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. A wonderful photographic opportunity had practically fallen into her lap—or more accurately, at her feet. Just wait until Jacoby Barnes hears about this!

The gunman came into view below her, yelling, “Get the box!” He was no doubt referring to the green wooden Wells Fargo money box strapped next to the driver’s seat.

Praying the bandits would not notice her high-button shoes strewn at the base of the tree, she peered through her viewfinder.

The lens was focused on the driver, but if she moved it to the right, just so . . . with her heart pounding from excitement, she leaned forward and readjusted the camera, tightening the rope that held it.

A twig snapped and one of the robbers looked up. She quickly pulled back and lost her balance. Arms and legs flailing, she fell through the air, letting loose an ear-piercing scream. She landed on the stagecoach roof with a thud, sprawled facedown.

The startled horses whinnied and the stage took off, taking her with it and leaving the startled gunmen, passengers, and driver in the dust.

Two

Never say “shoot” when you mean “photograph,” especially when
talking to a trigger-happy gunslinger.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

S
tuck amidst a bewildering confusion of baggage, Lucy held on for dear life. A large canvas bag had cushioned her fall and probably saved her from a broken bone or two.

The wine-red stage bopped and rattled along the narrow dirt road, the horses gaining speed with every stride. The coach swayed from side to side, its leather-thong springs tested to the limits. The scenery was little more than a blur as the stage raced by.

“Stop!” she yelled. “Whoa!” Her yelling did no good. The horses continued to run along the river’s edge at breakneck speed.

“Help!” she cried, but no one was around to save her. Her only chance was to reach the driver’s seat and grab the reins.

Flopping about on the roof of the stage like a rag doll, she grasped the rope holding the baggage in place. The rope dug into her flesh but still she held on. Inhaling, she forced herself to calm down.

“I c-can do-do-do this,” she bit out between teeth-rattling jolts. She had to do it.

Taking a deep breath to brace herself, she tightened her grip. Hand over hand she slowly pulled herself forward. She reached for the guardrail but the stage hit a bump, throwing her backward.

“Ohhh!”

Gasping for air, she waited for the coach to stop fishtailing before clawing her way back. It took several tries before she could finally grab the brass rail.

Fighting to hold on, she lifted a bare foot and heaved her body over the top, landing in the driver’s box. She banged her elbow and tears sprang to her eyes. Her slight frame bounced up and down like water on a hot skillet. Grimacing against the pain, she pulled herself upright and searched frantically for the reins.

The leather straps had fallen between the horses and now dragged on the ground beneath the flying hooves. The horses’ flanks glistened with sweat, but they showed no sign of stopping. With a cry of dismay she fell back in the seat.

The coach careened dangerously around a sharp curve, thrusting her to one side. At the last possible second, it righted itself and followed the road along the river’s edge. Surely it would only be a matter of seconds before the stage went off the road and plunged into the water.

Trembling with fear, she forced herself to think. She had to do something fast, but what? Her only hope was to climb over the front boot and lower herself down to the yoke between the horses to gather up the reins. Not a good idea. It was the only way.
Yes. No
.
Ohhh
.

A shiver of panic threatened her resolve. Heart pounding, her throat felt raw. Her hair pulled loose from its last hairpin and whipped around her head. Dust stung her eyes.

“You c-c-c-can do this,” she stammered in an effort to calm herself. She blinked rapidly to clear her blurred vision, then searched for a foothold. Momentarily frozen by fear, she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.

Lord, help me
. It wasn’t the first time she’d faced almost certain death while trying to capture the perfect photograph, but if God saved her one more time, she promised to mend her ways.

Her hands sweaty, she waited for the stage to round a curve and straighten. She then turned her back to the horses and prepared against her better judgment to lower herself over the front of the stage.

A loud popping sound whizzed through the air. Craning to look over the roof of the swerving coach, she stared in horror at the three gunmen close behind. Another popping sound and she dove to the floorboards. Pain shot through her shoulder where she hit it but that was the least of her worries.

Those fool men were shooting at her!

“Stop the stage!” someone shouted.

She peered over the side, her knuckles white from holding on. Wasn’t that what she’d been trying to do?

One of the horsemen hurtled past her. His gelding neck and neck with the runaway horses, he managed to leap onto the lead animal. After much shouting and cursing, he finally brought the stage to an uneasy halt.

Lucy’s relief lasted only as long as it took for the highwayman to slide off the lead horse and walk back to the stage.

“Stand with your hands up.” His voice was slightly muffled by the red kerchief that covered half his face, but there was no mistaking his menacing tone. He was dressed in black from his wide-brimmed hat to his dust-covered boots. A black leather holster trimmed in silver hung from his waist.

With a nervous glance at the gun he brandished, Lucy did what she was told.

His dark glittering eyes narrowed above the kerchief. “Why were you spying on us?”

“I . . . I wasn’t spying on you, sir,” she stammered. “I was only trying to—”

Before she could explain, the other two horsemen galloped up and the leader sent the short, heavy man after his horse.

She eyed the man with the gun and gulped.

“Come on down,” he said. When she showed no sign of moving, he nodded to the other man. “Help her down.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” she said primly. Lifting her skirt above her ankles, she lowered herself to the ground and brushed herself off. Shaken from her spine-tingling ride, she lashed out at the bandit.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she stormed. A strand of hair fell over her eyes, and she brushed it aside with an impatient flick of the wrist. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her but she had no intention of dying until she gave the outlaws a piece of her mind.

More words tumbled out. “Just wait till Marshal Armstrong gets hold of you. You’ll wish you never heard of Wells Fargo. Have you no conscience? Have you no—”

“Quiet!” the man thundered. Startled, she fell silent and he looked her up and down. “That was a pretty good trick you pulled back there. I never thought of hiding in a tree to rob a stage. Too bad you’re a woman. I could use someone like you.”

Lucy bristled. “How dare you accuse
me
of trying to rob the stage. I have never stolen a thing in my life.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she corrected herself. “Well, maybe once. There was that little incident with the penny candy. I snuck it away from my little brother but only because he’d already eaten half a bag and I didn’t want him to get—”

“Quiet!” he roared again, his red kerchief practically in her face.

Lucy drew back, hand on her chest. “I was only trying to tell you why I took the candy from my brother.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m not a thief,” she said, glaring at him. “And I’m not a spy either! I was only trying to shoot—”

He drew back. “You were trying to shoot us?”

“No, no, I . . .” She described as best she could her reasons for being in a tree but the bandit quickly grew impatient. “Of course it’s possible that the white mustang doesn’t—”

He grabbed her roughly by the arm and shook her. “Enough!”

She covered her mouth with her hands, and he released her.

The other bandit sat on his bay and watched her from over his kerchief. Thinner than the leader, he looked twice as menacing. “What are you gonna do with her?”

The leader considered for a moment. “I’m ’fraid she may have seen us without our kerchiefs.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t see—”

The leader swore beneath his breath, his finger practically on her nose. “Don’t say another word.” He nodded toward the man on the horse. “You get the box while I figure out what to do with the lady.”

Oh, Lordy
.

The third man rode up with a second horse in tow. The leader nodded, then turned to her.

Just then a shot rang from the distance.

Reaching for his gun, the bandit spun around. “What the—”

A bullet whizzed by, hitting a nearby tree. The horses whinnied and stomped the ground in protest. The leader cursed, grabbed the horn of his saddle, and mounted. “Let’s get outta here.”

“What about the box?” the heavy man asked.

Before the leader could answer, more gunfire sounded. He took off in a fast gallop with the other two men close behind.

Lucy barely had time to thank God for the narrow escape when a stranger charged out of the woods on a coal black horse.

Three

A lady must never be photographed next to a man
with whom she’s not fully acquainted.

—M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

T
he stranger thundered past her as if to make certain the bandits were gone before reining in his horse. He slid off his horse’s bare back and circled the stagecoach on foot. Checking inside and finding no one, he stood with his hands on his hips, feet apart, as if trying to figure out what had happened to the driver.

Apparently recalling her presence, he strode toward her. Up close he was even taller than she had initially supposed, and her gaze froze on his long, lean form.

“Thank you for s-saving me,” she stammered. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but what if he was a bandit too? Or . . . or worse. The thought made her more nervous, and her mouth responded accordingly.

“That man was about to sh-shoot me.” Or something like that. “If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what I would have done. If that’s not bad enough, he accused me of trying to rob the stage and spying on him . . .”

She talked on and on, doing exactly what she was prone to do whenever she was nervous or scared, and, at the moment, she was both. He was the tallest man she’d ever seen, towering over her own five-feet-eight by another six inches or more. His fringed buckskin shirt barely contained his broad shoulders and strong chest. Muscular thighs bulged beneath buckskin pants. A knife hung from the leather pouch at his waist, and a rifle was slung over his shoulder.