Rachel Donnelly (36 page)

“Which makes him a very poor candidate for a husband.”

“Indeed!”

“Not to worry. I’m certain your sister won’t do anything rash. She’s written to you for advice, hasn’t she? That’s a good sign.”

Christie wasn’t so certain. Meagan was prone to eruptions of spontaneous rebellion. Christie had always put it down to her being the middle child. If Meagan disagreed with their father, she thought nothing of telling him so to his face. Eloping would be the perfect way to assert her independence once and for all — in this case, with permanent and disastrous results.

Oh!

Why must she be so far away when Meagan needed her most? But then, if she hadn’t come west, she might be married to Robby herself right now. Coming west had saved her. Unfortunately, Meagan was in danger of making the same mistake.

There was nothing else to be done.

She must return home — at once.

• • •

Good place for an ambush — a long stretch of lonely road with just enough tree-cover to hide in.

Cecil hunkered down over his horse trying to get warm. Waitin’ was the hardest part. With Billy gone the only thing keeping him company was his growling stomach. If that stage didn’t come along soon he was liable to eat himself from the inside out.

This was all Flossie’s fault!

He should have killed her when he had the chance. If it weren’t for that fancy-pants Wallace he might have. So much for her lovin’ Billy. The lying bitch! Her tears had dried real quick with a new shoulder to lean on.

He should have killed them both. But after waitin’ for hours under Flossie’s bed upstairs in the dancehall, he’d fallen asleep. When he woke, they were goin’ at it like jackrabbits. He couldn’t pull his gun from its holster with the bedsprings bouncing off his head. One of them higher bounces must have knocked him out cold.

By the time he regained his senses, they was gone. Not just gone from the room, but gone from the dancehall for good.

That crack on the skull had taught him a lesson — it was a damn sight more fun in a whore’s bed than under it. Not that he’d been in too many. But with a little money he was going to change all that.

Yes siree, he planned to do some sportin’ of his own, once that stage came along.

It wouldn’t be easy, all by himself. Might take some shootin’ — maybe killin’. But killin’ was better than starvin’ to death.

• • •

The jolting and swaying came to an abrupt halt — a signal they were sweeping into the next station.

Mrs. Shanks and her sullen-faced daughter filed out of the stagecoach as soon as it stopped.

Christie held her seat, anxious for the journey to end, yet relieved for a brief moment of clemency from the older woman’s austere stares. It seemed a woman traveling alone garnered much attention, even in this wild place. There would be much of that when she got home.

In the meantime, hopefully her telegram would arrive in time to stall Meagan from attempting anything rash. How frustrating, to be so far from home with Meagan in peril — on the verge of making such a disastrous mistake. If only she’d returned home earlier. If only she’d known what a womanizer he was — switching his affections from one sister to another without conscience. Obviously his affections weren’t genuine.

Christie tapped her fingers on the seat, peering under the rolled leather curtain of the stagecoach window, at the clapboard structure beyond. Only the odd streak of paint remained on the once white, two-story building. The long barn beside it looked equally bare. Nothing new here. Another hastily cobbled together building where fat, greasy steaks were slapped down in front of hungry passengers with bitter black coffee to wash it down.

Four or five station-keepers and hostlers came rushing out to unhitch the team of six horses. The conductor and driver had already clambered down. They stood by the station door conversing, while removing their buckskin gloves.

Christie leaned her head back on the black, leather seat and closed her eyes. Perhaps this was the Shanks’ stop. Perhaps they wouldn’t come back. But then she’d be left to her own thoughts — a dangerous prospect at best. A soft sigh slipped past her lips. How she missed Mrs. Beaton’s lively chatter and her unfailing optimism — just when her own was beginning to slip.

But that was over.

No more fairy godmother.

She was on her own.

So she’d best pull up her socks.

The click of the latch on the stagecoach door snapped her eyes open.

She shifted to a more upright position, lifting her gaze to nod politely at the new passenger. But to her consternation, she found herself staring into the deep blue depths of a pair of familiar eyes.

Her jaw went slack.

Her heart banged in her chest like a giddy drum.

Nat.

What in the devil was he doing here?

He settled back in the seat across from her like he owned it, tipping his grey Stetson with one knuckle, while folding his arms across his chest. A half-wry smile played about his lips. “Afternoon.” His tone came so casual and his glance so bland, he might have been speaking to a stranger.

Christie regarded him steadily for a moment, before inquiring in an equally casual tone. “Good afternoon, Mr. Randall. What brings you here? Have you lost your horse?”

“He’s catching up with me in Sacramento,” he drawled.

Christie lifted a speculative brow. It was too much of a coincidence that he should board the very same stage as her to rest his tired backside. Had he come to say goodbye — see her off? Well, it was a bit too late for that. After weeks of silence, she had nothing to say.

How had he known how to find her? He must have called at the Beatons and discovered her whereabouts. If only he’d come a week earlier. If only — oh, what was the use? If never was. Her train left tonight. Whatever might have been was lost. She couldn’t delay her departure. Meagan needed her. Her father needed her.

Why did Nat have to show up now?

Damn him!

Why must he look so virile and tanned?

Why didn’t he speak?

Why didn’t he say something — anything!

The stage swayed and groaned like a giant cradle. The conductor and driver clambered aloft to take their seats. Mrs. Shanks and her daughter would appear any moment, and it would be too late.

Christie slid her tongue across her bottom lip. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “Why are you going to Sacramento?”

“Business.”

Something sank to the pit of her belly. She should have known. Spurs and a fringed buckskin coat were trail gear, not leisurely travel attire. “Concerning the Everetts, I suppose.”

“That’s right. One left, and the job is done.” He sounded so cool and self-assured — like catching outlaws was like netting fish.

“What will you do then — rejoin the Pinkertons, or gallop off with the first posse that comes along?” Her voice sounded bitter even to her own ears.

His gaze flicked down the length of her. “Go back to my ranch, raise a few cattle, I suppose.”

It was hard to believe a man like him would be satisfied with that. After years of living out of a saddlebag, how would he find contentment with the everyday existence of a ranch? Had he yearned for that all along? Or had the killing and the bloodshed finally taken its toll — making him realize how precious and short life really was?

She had no more time to think of it.

The driver cracked his whip, sending them bowling off down the dusty road.

Christie grasped the rail to prevent herself from sliding across the seat. She glanced out the window, spying Mrs. Shanks and her daughter climbing into a buggy. So this was their stop after all. At least she wouldn’t have to suffer Mrs. Shanks’ dour looks along with Nat’s indifferent stares.

And here she’d hoped he’d come to say goodbye. No. She’d hoped for something more. But he was only here because of Cecil.

She wanted to plead with him to stop — it was over. Billy, the worst of the Everetts and Heather’s killer, was dead. But she knew it would do no good. Nat was obsessed. Nothing would stop him short of a bullet.

All for a promise.

But how could she fault him for that?

• • •

All the things Nat wanted to say seemed to stick in his throat. But hell, she wasn’t offering much encouragement, sitting cool and aloof with her face turned toward the window.

What had he expected? That she’d throw herself into his arms? No, not his Christie. She wasn’t prone to bouts of hysteria. She kept everything bundled up tight inside. The sky could be falling and she’d insist everything was just fine.

His Christie.

He had to stop thinking of her that way.

She was going home, where she belonged — out of harm’s reach.

That’s why he’d come, to see her safely to the station.

But seeing her without touching her felt like starving. The sight of all those silky curls and the sweet curve of her lips sent his blood pumping like a runaway train. Holt had volunteered to come. He should have let him. But the thought of Christie traveling by stage all the way to Sacramento made him nervous. Or maybe he just needed to see her one more time.

Whatever the reason, he was here.

And it was tearing his guts out.

If things had been different, he might have asked her to stay. But his life wasn’t his own — not with one last Everett left to round up.

Watching her without letting her know took all of Nat’s concentration.

The terrain grew rougher and rougher.

Soon he was more occupied hanging on to his seat.

When they flew down a steep bank, Christie lost her grip on the rail. The sudden ascent up the other side catapulted her right into his lap. Her face landed squarely in his crotch.

He expelled a low groan.

“Ohhh, I’m so sorry!” Her muffled apology vibrated against his thigh as she scrambled to right herself. “I’m afraid that hill took me by surprise.”

“Yes, ma’am,” He gritted, clasping her by the arms to avert further damage. “I think it’s fair to say it took us both by surprise. You’d better stay here beside me.”

Her cheeks burned as red as a confederate flag. “Did I hurt you?”

“No permanent damage.” He flashed a forced smile. “Of course I won’t know for sure until I see my first born.”

“Oh!” she gasped with a hint of dismay. Then her voice stiffened. “Please extend my apologies to your future wife.” She wriggled to the far end of the seat to plant herself by the window, but not before he saw the tiny green sparks flash in her eyes.

He couldn’t help but smile. Even when she got riled, she could conjure up a haughty look. It was all he could do not to lean over, take her in his arms, and kiss it from her face.

They clattered down a bank into a gulley where the tall oaks crowded the road, blocking out the sun.

The team of six came to a skidding halt.

Shouts came from above.

Nat settled his hand on the butt of his Colt, strapped to his hip under his coat.

Christie wriggled to the window to peer out under the flap. “Why are we stopping?”

“Stay here. I’m going to take a look.” Nat turned with his hand on the latch. “No matter what happens, stay inside. Do you hear me?”

He didn’t wait for her nod, but bounded from the vehicle, shutting the door with a firm click.

Prickles chased over his skin.

He rounded the back of the stage, keeping low to avoid being seen.

His pulse hummed in his ears.

It was like a nightmare, happening all over again. Except this time, he hadn’t cracked his head — this time he was awake.

“Drop those rifles down here, then get down real slow!” a voice shouted.

“We ain’t carrying any gold!” The driver called back. “Only passengers. If you don’t believe me, you can take a look.”

The rustle of silk turned Nat around just as he heard the driver’s rifle hit the dirt.

Dammit!

Why couldn’t she ever do what she was told?

“I told you to stay inside.”

“I feel safer with you.” Christie crouched behind him, derringer clutched in her hand. “What’s happening? Are we being robbed?”

“Put that thing away before you shoot me in the back.”

“I said get down!” The robber demanded again.

“Oh my God!” Christie whispered. “That sounds like Cecil.”

It sure did. Well, that slimy son-of-a-bitch was in for a big surprise. He’d waited a long time for an opportunity like this. “Stay down,” Nat commanded. “Stay right here.”

As he rounded the front of the stage, he found Cecil nudging the driver toward the stagecoach door, a pistol leveled at the driver’s head.

Damn!

He couldn’t get a clear shot.

By the time Nat crawled under the hitch, they were at the stage door.

“I thought you said there was passengers!” Cecil screeched. “I ought to shoot you right now.” A hint of glee crept into his voice. “If there ain’t no passengers you must be carrying something better.”

Nat stepped out onto the road, Colt leveled in the air. “Put it down, Everett!”

Cecil’s eyes bulged above his blue bandana. He shook his pistol at the driver’s head. “Stay back Randall, or I’ll shoot!”

Sweat trickled down the side of the driver’s cheek from under the brow of his wide-brimmed hat. His black eyes shifted like a stag between two hunters. “There’s no need for shootin’! Take what you want!”

Christie appeared at the back of the stage. “Drop the weapon Cecil!”

At the sound of her voice, Cecil took a step back and swung his pistol toward her.

Nat fired.

Cecil flew backward like a scarecrow blown from a post.

He landed with a thud in the dirt.

Nat strode past the driver, who lay prostrate, wheezing for breath.

Blood oozed down Cecil’s forehead from a hole in his skull, his lifeless eyes staring at the patches of blue sky between the trees.

It was over.

The last Everett was dead.

• • •

Christie searched over the heads of the crowd on the platform, clutching her small valise in one hand and her corn-colored parasol in the other. Nat told her to wait — that he’d be right back. But the conductor had already called twice for passengers to board.