Wed to the Texas Outlaw (9 page)

She bit her lip, listening for a sound to indicate the wagon was ready to go.

Nothing—only the footfalls of the man's boots crossing the dirt.

Perhaps he would turn aside, go into another establishment.

Billbro growled, he, too, not anticipating that easy of an outcome.

She heard the jangle of a harness over the loud thumping of her heart. Please let it be already attached to the horse.

“Stay here, deputy.” She stroked his head, his long ears. She had no doubt that he understood her. “Don't let anyone but the doctor touch Mrs. Coulter.”

Billbro's long, soft tongue flipped out and licked her wrist. She kissed his snout in return.

If it was true that the Kings would go to the saloon first, Boone would be busy there and not be able to get back here in time to take control of this emergency.

It was up to her and the dog to get everyone to safety.

She stepped outside, a smile on her lips, a practiced sparkle in her eye. With any luck, this congenial-looking fellow was not “royalty.”

“Good day to you, sir,” she said. “I couldn't help but notice you looking about on this lovely fall day. I suppose you are a lover of nature, as am I.”

“Nothing sweeter than the twitter of a little bird, unless it's the smile of a lovely woman.”

He didn't seem a threat, which made the hair on her arms rise. One of the Kings, maybe the worst of them, was said to put on a charming facade.

And, yes, just there in the breast pocket of his elegant coat was a bulge—a Derringer, possibly.

How long could she keep an evil man charmed?

She blinked her eyes, fanned her face with her fingers. “You're making me blush.”

“And a sweet pink color it is.”

Had he realized it was caused by pure terror, he would pounce upon her immediately, of that she had little doubt.

“If you're here to see the doctor, he isn't here. There was an emergency at some homestead or another—I'm not sure quite where, exactly. It was exceptionally urgent, though, judging by the way he left me waiting.”

“You must be new in town.” He mounted one step of the porch while he spoke. “I'd have noticed you.”

“Yes, indeed.” She took a step down but, oh, how she longed to turn and run. “Jasper Springs seems a charming place. Have you lived here long?”

“Long enough to know that you are, by far, the loveliest woman to ever walk our streets.”

His smile was serene; his brown eyes expressed nothing but congeniality. But his fists clenched; one then the other. Oddly, in rhythm with the clock, not that she could actually hear it ticking at the moment.

“Mercy.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, as though his compliment had been her undoing. “And I'm so pleased to have met such a fine gentleman. Among those I associate with, there are so few.”

“Ah, then I'm correct in guessing that you are the outlaw's wife.” He moved closer to her than respectable distance called for.

“Sadly, I am.”

She held to her spot, listening for the sound of the doctor entering the office. Please, please, please, let it be soon—her palms were beginning to sweat.

“I imagine he's rather coarse—rude to a fault.”

“You wouldn't believe the things I must put up with! Crude language, ill-gotten gains and even—” she lowered her voice and her lashes “—other women.”

He reached for a curl at her temple, twisted it around his thumb. Suddenly his eyes lost the happy-puppy look and took on the sly, cool stare of the copperhead he claimed as his nickname. The hold on her hair tightened, pinched. “Not a man who pleases you under those skirts, either, I reckon?”

His brow lifted. He gathered a hank of her skirt in one fist and tried to tug her down another step.

This went beyond her experience in flirtation. She shoved him but he grabbed her wrists in a bruising hold.

His grin flashed. In her mind she saw a serpent's mouth open, dripping venom from sharp fangs.

“Billbro!” she shouted, her heart nearly beating out of her throat.

Behind her, glass shattered. The dog leaped through the window. Midflight he took Leland King down, his jaws clamped around the outlaw's shoulder.

Instinct told her to run for the door and lock it behind her, but she hurried down the stairs instead to where King's horse was tethered. She freed it then slapped its rump. It circled nervously but didn't go far away.

The back door opened.

“Let's go!” Doc shouted, carrying Mrs. Coulter in his arms.

Melinda dashed after him, through both rooms then out the front door. Climbing onto the buckboard, she gathered the horses' reins in her fists. She'd never driven anything this unwieldy, but she'd seen it done.

As soon as Dr. Brown laid his charge on the wagon bed she jiggled the reins and shouted. The wagon jolted forward but trudged along slowly. Leland would be able to catch them by running alongside.

A gunshot split the afternoon silence, immediately followed by another. The sharp reports made the horses bolt and her heart constrict.

Billbro! That ugly-hearted criminal must have shot him.

Chapter Seven

O
nly a mile outside of town the horses calmed down. No matter how she slapped the reins—shouted even, the animals refused to quicken their trot.

From behind, she heard Mrs. Coulter cry out, the doctor curse.

The road was too rough. Bouncing over ruts, heaving up, slamming down. How would the poor woman survive this?

“Hold up!” shouted Dr. Brown.

“We can't, not yet.”

“I need you back here. Now!”

Melinda hauled hard on the reins. Before the team had come to a stop, she scrambled over the bench.

“They've heard the shots. We don't have time—”

“She doesn't have time,” he whispered. “This baby's got to be turned.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“For now, soothe Mama as much as you can. Hold her hand while I try to maneuver the child into a better position.”

Stroking Mrs. Coulter's brow and squeezing her hand did little good. What the doctor was attempting would be beyond painful.

“It won't be long now,” she crooned. “Before you know it you'll be holding your beautiful baby.

Melinda prayed that would be so; that even if the little one survived its birth, no harm would come to it from the men pursuing them.

But even before she uttered “amen,” she heard hoofbeats pounding the road, coming fast and hard.

“Doctor!”

“I can't deal with it now.”

Melinda lay Mrs. Coulter's hand down, across her breast. Scanning the wagon, she looked for a weapon. The bed was empty except for the doctor's bag sitting open beside his knee.

There would probably be a scalpel inside. She would not touch it, though, just in case— No! That was unthinkable—it would not happen.

Figures appeared on the road behind them. She couldn't distinguish who, or even how many there were with all the dust being stirred.

Perhaps there was something stored under the wagon. She scrambled down. Crawling underneath, she spotted cobwebs, dried weeds—and just there, tied to the bottom of the wagon bed was a broom.

Willing her fingers not to tremble, willing her belly not to empty itself, she untied the broom then crawled back out.

Standing in the road at the rear of the wagon, she held her splintered weapon, pole end toward the approaching riders.

A movement, a blur is all it was, caught her attention. It didn't travel the road, but cut across open land.

Barking, the blur raced toward her.

“You good dog!”

She thought the deputy was going to bowl her down but he whirled hard in front of her. Teeth bared, he waited for the riders.

There were two.

Since staring at the road would not slow them, she glanced down at her canine protector.

She was certain the dog had been killed. Leland'd had a gun. She'd heard two shots. Her heart had shattered thinking she had lost her wolfish friend. That perhaps he had given his life for her.

“Good, wonderful dog.” She ruffled his fur.

The blood covering his muzzle was not fresh. It had to be Leland King's. That thought did not shatter her.

A mule brayed. A mule!

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she murmured.

Keeping hold of her weapon because she did not know if Boone and Stanley were being followed and a broom might be required, she scrambled back into the wagon.

Kneeling beside the doctor, she took Mrs. Coulter's hand again. Her grip through the next contraction did not feel as strong.

“It's all right, Mrs. Coulter. My husband is here now. Stanley, too.

Stanley tied his mount to the rear of the wagon, then in a single leap, probably unheard of among lawyers, hit the bench and snatched up the reins.

He yee-hawed the team into motion while Boone was still tethering his horse beside the mule.

On the run, Boone snatched a rifle from his horse's saddle then made a leap for the side of the wagon. He pulled himself up and over the edge one-handed.

Even with her attention riveted on surviving the next half hour, she couldn't help but feel a thrill at seeing how strong the man she had married was.

If only—oh, never mind. That was a thought she would consider another time.

Crouched on one knee at the back of the wagon, Boone raised the rifle to his shoulder. Melinda's hip bumped against his solid thigh as she knelt beside Dr. Brown.

She scooted sideways so that she would not disturb his aim when he needed to fire the weapon.

But that brief touch gave her courage. Just knowing he was there, strong and in charge, gave her the gumption to breathe.

She took one more glance at his broad-shouldered, powerfully muscled back before she gave her full attention to helping the doctor deliver the baby.

Boone could have taken shelter behind the buckboard gate and left them exposed, but he had not.

No, this horrible, wicked outlaw presented his body as a living shield.

If she lived to see tomorrow, there was every chance that that she would wake up half in love with her husband.

* * *

Even the road was an adversary. Its cursed unevenness knocked Boone's aim every which way. Worse, every time the wagon wheel crashed into a gouge in the earth, the poor woman in labor cried out.

“Riders getting closer!” he shouted to Stanley. “Get those horses moving!”

It was a damn foolish thing to say. The animals weren't racehorses and they were pulling a wagon with five people plus a large, blood-smeared hound.

As far as he could tell from this distance, there were four riders coming hell-bent for leather.

A short time ago, when he and Stanley had heard the gunshots and raced for the doc's office, they hadn't found anyone.

Sure had found a mess of blood, though, and wagon tracks.

For every second of that hellish ride out of town, panic had bitten his nerves, made him want to shout out in rage because it might be Melinda's blood. His beautiful wife, whom he had sworn to protect, might be wounded, or worse. He'd prayed; lifted his heart to God and begged.

Then, suddenly, there she had been, standing in the road as though she meant to protect the doctor and his patient with a damned broom.

His heart had shifted in that moment in a way he didn't understand. All he knew was that he had never felt this emotion for another person—not even his brother.

That was something he would have to consider later. Right now his attention was consumed with trying to peer through a dust cloud.

The four riders emerged from the haze. He figured it was Leland who was missing and that the blood on the ground had been his.

King Copperhead must have skipped the social outing and gone straight to deliver twisted justice to the doc.

Judging by the blood crusting the dog's muzzle, it had to have been Billbro who'd delivered justice.

Boone heard Melinda and the doc speaking, but with the wagon creaking, hooves pounding the earth and Stanley cursing the horses to greater speed, he couldn't tell what they were saying.

Still, he did sense the mood of the words. Anxiety but not panic.

“You can do this!” The doc's voice was urgent, loud enough to be heard now. He wondered if it was Melinda or the young mother he was encouraging.

Then he heard Melinda say something like, “Butt presenting.”

Lord, don't let that be the case. He'd lost a baby sister that way.

Not being able to help with what was going on behind him, he focused his attention on the swiftly approaching outlaws.

He drew a bead the one in front. Lump, unless he missed his guess. A damned, blasted, accurate shot was impossible with the wagon heaving.

Luckily their shots weren't any more precise.

But they soon would be because unless something changed, they would be overtaken. As easy to shoot as ducks napping on a pond.

Behind him, the woman cried out, her scream so raw that it cut his heart to the quick. But then another cry filled the air, high-pitched, urgent—and being used for the first time.

He'd find out later if the newborn was a girl or a boy—if its mama had survived.

For now, if any of them was going to survive, he had to do something. Popping off misaimed shots was not slowing the villains down.

Hell's curses.

With the newborn's cries ringing in his ears, he tucked the rifle between his arm and his ribs. One-handed, he loosened his horse's reins where they were tethered at the back of the wagon. With a tight grip on the leather, he maneuvered the animal closer to the buckboard. When it was nearly alongside, he made a leap onto its wide back.

Circling the horse around, he galloped toward the Kings.

The dog-wolf leaped from the wagon and raced ahead of him, teeth barred and looking like a hound from hell—or an avenging angel.

Boone thought he heard Melinda scream his name.

* * *

Pulling into the yard of the homestead, the animals winded and everyone shaken to the core, Melinda glanced back at the road.

With the rolling terrain, she couldn't tell if they were still being pursued. If they were, that meant that Boone was— No he was not. She refused to think it.

She stood in the wagon bed, looking for dust out on the road and listening for gunshots.

Nothing. Just the cold wind howling across the ground.

Tearing her thoughts away from Boone, she focused her attention on the baby. They needed to get the infant warm.

With some effort she banished the panic gripping her belly and concentrated on something that she had some control over.

Climbing down from the wagon she turned toward the doctor then reached up. “I'll take the baby.”

Mrs. Coulter was unconscious. It would take both of the men to get her inside.

Melinda hugged the child close to her heart. The doctor had taken off his shirt and wrapped her in it, but her tiny head was still wet, cold and exposed. She covered it with her hand while she hurried inside the house.

Luckily, the coals in the hearth of the main room were still warm. She stirred them then added a log.

Dr. Brown and Stanley carried Mrs. Coulter into the bedroom.

The doctor would be busy for some time. The care of the little girl was in her hands.

If only they had bothered to cook breakfast this morning, the stove would still be warm.

She'd give a hundred dollars for a pot of warm water to bathe the baby in.

Placing the infant against the warmth of her own skin was the best way to warm her, she had learned from Lantree. It was the first thing he did after a birth; place the newborn against its mother's chest.

Melinda unbuttoned her shirt then loosened her underclothes. She unwrapped the tiny girl, tucked her inside her camisole and hugged her close to her heart.

“There now, sweeting,” she crooned. “Let's get you warm. We'll make you clean and pretty for your mama.”

While she set about building the fire in the stove one-handed, Melinda felt the baby's skin begin to warm. Thank the Good Lord.

Stanley came into the kitchen. Upon seeing more of Melinda than he must have thought proper, he spun around.

“Baby all right?”

“I believe she will be once she's warmed through.” Little Miss Coulter turned her cheek toward Melinda's chest. “How is her mother?”

“Coming around. Doc expects her to be fine.”

“Just in time.” Melinda glanced at Stanley's straight, slim back. “This baby girl is getting hungry. There's a shawl in my trunk. A white one, very soft. Can you fetch it for me? Then get me something to use as a washcloth and a towel. Also, if you wouldn't mind carrying the pot of water to the table?”

Stanley returned with the items she had asked for at the same time as the water finished heating.

With the room and the water warmed, Melinda removed the baby from inside her camisole. She placed her on the table and began to wash the small limbs with the warmed cloth.

“She's lovely,” she said to Stanley who did not approach the table until Melinda had properly buttoned up. “So pink and pretty.”

“I wonder what her name will be.”

“Something to do with courage, I would think, considering everything she went through to be born.”

“I'd suggest Melinda,” he said.

At Dr. Brown's call, Stanley went back into the bedroom.

While she washed the baby, she kept one ear open, listening for something that shouldn't be. Half an hour had passed since they'd ridden into the yard and still there was no indication that they had been followed.

By anyone.

Boone.

An image of his handsome face flashed through her mind. But, no—she couldn't think of him yet.

There were still things that needed to be done. Plans to be set in place in case—no, never mind that. Plans were needed in any case.

“Boone and I will move into the barn,” she called over her shoulder to Stanley who had come back into the room to heat some water for tea. She dried the little girl's head, admiring the fine brown hair tipped with blond. “The rest of you will need the house.”

“That won't do and you know it. It's not proper.”

“I don't know it, Stanley.” She would not charm him to her way of thinking. She didn't have the heart for anything at the moment but getting this lovely little one clean and in her mother's arms. “Boone is my husband and it's the most proper thing in the world for us to sleep in the barn.”

“Melinda...don't go thinking that the two of you have any kind of future. You'll only get your heart broken. He's lived a criminal's life. He's not the kind of husband you need.”

“The kind who would place his body between me and a bullet, do you mean?” She swaddled the baby in the shawl, hugged her close.

Maybe Stanley, having been so involved in driving the wagon, had not glanced back and seen what Boone had done. But there would never be a time when Melinda did not see it. Boone had told her he would protect her, but seeing him do it at the risk of his own life? Well, it changed everything. He was, beyond a doubt, the man she had believed him to be. She was, beyond a doubt—