He damn well knew better.
Lochrie ducked her under his poncho and the two dashed to the house together. Creed and several others carried the wounded man inside and settled him on the simple wooden cot kept solely for use by the drivers.
"There now, Tom," soothed Lochrie's wife, Hattie, a handsome blond-haired woman in her late thirties. "Those heathens can't get a man like you down. We'll fix you up, right as rain."
Stembridge managed a smile, but Creed saw the driver's Adam's apple bob in his throat as he fought the pain in his upper chest. He stopped Mrs. Lochrie before she could walk away. "Hattie—"
"What is it, Tom?"
"You've heard me talk of my... my brother, Henry, back in the Dakota Territory."
"Yes," she answered gently. "Yes, I have."
Emotion clouded the man's dark eyes. "Just in case... if I don't..." He cleared his throat, dismissing the words and gathering strength. "I know you can write. I'd... thank you to... to let him know for me. Just in case."
"Phooey! There'll be no need for letters, Tom Stembridge, except to tell him you're on the mend. That one I'll be happy to write." With a reassuring squeeze of her hand, she left several men to peel off his wet, blood-smeared clothing.
John Lochrie wrapped a comforting arm around his wife's waist when she came back to the common room. "It's lucky Tom didn't bleed to death before you got here by the look of his clothes," he told Creed.
"You can thank Miss Parsons for that," Creed said from his place near the roaring fire where a welcome warmth seeped through his wet clothing. He dropped his soaked hat on the horsehair settee that flanked the rag rug. "Her father was a doctor back in Chicago." He exchanged a look with Mariah that held a hint of a smile. "And... she doesn't swoon."
Mariah sent him an insincere smile, braced her hands across her aching lower back, and turned her attention to the couple. "I didn't do much but stop the bleeding. There wasn't much I could do in that rolling torture chamber you call a stage."
Lochrie chuckled, scratching his mutton-chop whiskers. "I've heard A.J. Oliver's mud-wagons called names before, but never that."
"Oh, my dear!" Hattie exclaimed, seeing the bruise on Mariah's face. "Look at your cheek!"
"If you've got a spare antelope steak to put on that," Creed told Hattie, "I'll gladly pay you well for one. Seth would never forgive me if I bring you back to Virginia City looking like you've been in a brawl."
Unable to resist the retort, Mariah arched one gracefully curved brow. "That wouldn't be so far from the truth, would it, Mr. Devereaux?"
"No, Miss Parsons, it would not."
"Well," Lochrie interjected, "that cheek ought to have plenty of time to heal before you get to your fella."
Creed shot him a look. "If you mean we'll have to wait because of the driver... that's not a problem. I can drive to the next station where we can pick up another driver."
"It's not the driver," Lochrie answered with a shake of his head. Picking up a poker, he jabbed at the fragrant pine log snapping in the fireplace. "One of my hostlers rode in from the south just before you pulled in. The ferry that crosses over the Sun River has washed out."
"Washed out?" came the collective moan from the other passengers listening nearby.
"Ain't there another one somewheres to get across?" Cullen asked hopefully.
"I'm afraid not. It'll be at least a week or two before we can get the supplies and manpower to rebuild it after the river settles down from this storm. Nobody's going anywhere but back until then. I reckon I'll have to drive you to Fort Benton myself as son as Tom can travel."
Mariah felt the blood drain from her face. "Fort Benton? No, that... that can't be. I—I have to get to Seth." She turned imploringly to Creed. "Tell them, Mr. Devereaux. Tell them I can't go back. I won't."
Tight-lipped, Creed lowered his gaze to the floor. He knew this country well enough to know there was only one way around that crossing. The long way.
It was no route for the inexperienced and certainly not for someone like Mariah. And, more important, no place for her to be alone with a man like him.
"Lochrie's right," he said at last without looking up.
"Right?" she cried. "What do you mean? Seth is desperately ill and you want me to—"
"You have no other choice!" he snapped, equally disturbed by the prospect.
His answer stunned her into silence, but her impotent look went back and forth between Lochrie and him.
Creed ran his fingers through his damp hair, leaving four furrows behind. "Lochrie, is it possible for Miss Parsons to stay here with you and your wife for a few days? After what happened today, I can't in good conscience send her back to Fort Benton unescorted."
"Well, I—" Lochrie began.
"Unescorted?" Mariah repeated incredulously. "And where will you be?"
Creed's even gaze met hers. "Tomorrow I'll ride on to Virginia City to let Seth know what's happening and check on him. There's no telegraph service yet. He'll only worry if we don't show up." He turned to the station master. "Lochrie, I'll pay her keep for the time—"
"Oh, no, you don't," Mariah interrupted. "You're not leaving me here to go on ahead alone. If you know of a way to get to Virginia City, then I'm coming, too."
"Like hell you are!"
With her hands balled into fists at her waist, Mariah met his angry glare. "Try and stop me."
"Lady... you're crazy."
"Because I want to be with my fiancé? How does that make me crazy?"
Creed's snort of laughter punctuated the silence that had fallen. "You have no idea what you're talking about. You wouldn't last two minutes out there."
Tears trembled on the brinks of her eyes, but she wouldn't allow them to spill over. "Don't talk to me as if I'm some foolish child, Mr. Devereaux! I may be young, but I'm not completely ignorant. Nothing in this journey has been easy and I've no reason to expect it will get better."
"It's out of the question."
"Why? Because you say so?"
"Le bon Dieu me protege des femmes tetues!" he ranted, slapping his hat across his thigh.
"Speak English if you're going to swear at me!" Furious now, she stood nose to nose with him.
"I said, God protect me from stubborn women—like you. Don't you see it's impossible? Forget, for a moment, the hardships of the trail. Think of your reputation."
"My reputation? Do you think I give a fig about that when Seth is lying at death's door?"
"I didn't say that," he hedged.
"You didn't have to." Now tears spilled in earnest down her cheeks, but she no longer cared. Her whole body trembled like a newborn leaf in the wind. "I can see in your eyes how serious it is. He's very ill. Tell me that's not true."
He couldn't. God help him, he couldn't lie to her about something as important as Seth. "He's... ill. Very ill. Camp fever, pneumonia. They mean the same thing." His pained eyes met hers. "But if you think I'm risking your life to get you to him, lady, you're out of your mind."
"I'll take my own chances then," she declared impetuously. Turning to the others in the room, she asked, "Is there any man here willing to escort me to Virginia City? I can pay you well for your trouble."
Before any could answer, Creed grabbed her arm and whipped her around to face him. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you little fool?"
She clenched her jaw against the angry words she longed to hurl at the self-righteous bounty hunter. "Name-calling will get you absolutely nowhere, Mr. Devereaux. If you're not willing to help me, I'll find someone who is. There must be someone among you who is as anxious to reach the gold fields as I am."
Creed shot a killing look at every man in the room, and one by one, each wisely shrank back from her invitation. "There," he spat through clenched teeth. "Happy? Now, Miss Parsons, be a good girl and do as I tell you." He jammed his hat on and water flew in a spray off the brim as he headed for the door.
She followed on his heels. "Where are you going?"
"T
o get my horse in out of the rain!"
"This isn't finished, Mr. Devereaux—"
He turned abruptly, causing her to run smack into his chest. With a jerk, he pushed her away from him, but his fingers dug sharply into her upper arms. His eyes, the blue-green color of the hottest flame, bore into hers.
"Don't push me, Mariah. You don't know me. You don't want to know me. Just let this be. I'm doing the right thing here and Seth would agree with me. You know he would. Let that be an end to it." Without another word, he released her and slammed out the door into the rain.
Mariah stared at the worn wooden portal, too angry to speak, too stunned to move. She felt Hattie's arm on hers and turned toward the older woman.
"He's right, you know, dear," Hattie told her gently. "You couldn't follow him on that kind of a trip. It's rough, dangerous country—"
Mariah's chin rose with characteristic determination. "He's wrong, Mrs. Lochrie. He doesn't know that yet, but he will. If Mr. Devereaux thinks he's leaving tomorrow without me, he's got another thing coming."
Chapter 4
The rain stopped around dawn and Mariah was still awake to hear its stealthy departure. As she lay beside Mrs. Lochrie, sharing the narrow bed which her husband had generously relinquished for the night, Mariah watched the sun creep over the windowsill in the thick, white-washed sod wall.
The smell of damp, rain-washed earth lingered on the morning breeze that fluttered the lace curtains at the window. She smoothed the starched white sheet beneath her hands, admiring the home Hattie Lochrie had carved out of this wilderness. It was the kind of home she'd planned to make for herself and Seth. The kind of home a man could be proud of.
She pressed her fingertips against her tired eyelids. Sleep, except for short snatches here and there, had eluded her, despite her fatigue. In the darkness of night, Seth's face haunted her and her thoughts careened wildly out of control. What if Seth were dying slowly without her? Alone. Had she not seen men who'd lost their will to live back in the hospitals in Chicago rally when a loved one found them? Would Seth blame her if she came to him with Creed Devereaux?
She thought not.
The bounty hunter had refused to speak any more about her going with him when he'd returned from the barn. Ignoring her, he'd spread his bedroll out beside the others on the floor near the fire and shut her out by turning his back on her.
Mariah gathered a fistful of sheeting in her clenched hands. The man was infuriating! But he hadn't heard the last from her. Of that she was certain. A plan had begun to form in her mind sometime in the dark of night. All she needed was a little help.
In the outer room, the intermittent rattle and wheeze of men snoring was broken by the sound of a door being carefully latched shut. Mariah lay perfectly still for several minutes, waiting to hear boot heels moving against the floor or the fire grate opening stoked. Instead, the crunch of footsteps outside drew her gaze to the window. Mariah sat bolt upright in bed and saw his dark shape cross the yard.
Devereaux!
Why, the rat! He was sneaking off before she even got up! Mariah pushed the bedclothes aside and started to dress. With a practiced hand, she slipped her new readymade Dr. Warner's Coraline corset around her waist, hooked it together and re-tightened the lacings as best she could. She winced when it pinched her and cursed the newness of the whalebone stays. Over that went her corset cover and two petticoats made of crinoline and red flannel.
She pulled a serviceable, if wrinkled, two-piece green calico from her bag as Hattie stirred behind her.
"My dear," Hattie muttered sleepily. "What's wrong? Can't you sleep?"
Mariah slipped the skirt over her petticoats and tied the drawstring waist. "Mrs. Lochrie," she began, slipping the bodice over her shoulders and keeping her voice low, "you must help me."
Hattie sat up in bed, confused and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Help you?"
"I wouldn't ask, but I'm desperate."
"Desperate?"
"I need a horse."
Hattie blinked as she began to understand. "A horse—? My dear, you can't mean what I think you mean."
"I mean exactly that. I have no one else to turn to. I have money. I can pay you."
Hattie shook her mob-capped head. "I can't sanction something like—"
Mariah dropped down onto the bed to sit beside Hattie. "Do you love your husband, Mrs. Lochrie?"
Hattie stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Well... of course I do, but—"
"—And if he were ill," Mariah pressed on, "desperately ill, and there was a way you could get to him to help him, you would do anything to get there, wouldn't you?"
Hattie's eyes seemed to take on a faraway look as she considered this. "I—"
"Mrs. Lochrie, I must get to Seth. I can't go back or wait here when I could be with him. You of all people can understand this, can't you? Mr. Devereaux doesn't know me, or what I'm capable of. I'm not afraid of hardship or an untraveled road. I... I've come a long way to be with Seth and I'm duty bound as his future wife to be there."
Hattie's eyes met hers and Mariah knew in that moment she'd found an ally.
"Miss Parsons—"
"Please... it's Mariah."
"Mariah. I sympathize, but even if I do sell you a horse, Mr. Devereaux will never change his mind about letting you come. I'm afraid he's dead set against it."
Hope tightened Mariah's throat. "You leave that part to me. I can handle Creed Devereaux. Does that mean you'll do it?"
Hattie let out long breath and her steady voice faltered. "I've loved my husband for more years than I care to count, dear. The thought of losing him... is more than I can bear to consider. I understand what you're going through." She glanced down at her work-roughened hands atop the clean white sheets. "John will think I've lost my mind... but this business belongs to both of us. I can sell you a horse if I'm of a mind to. And,—" she took Mariah's hand in hers—"if you're as determined as you say... then I'm willing to help you. Something tells me you can do it."
Impulsively, Mariah threw her arms around Hattie and squeezed her in a hug. "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" She sat back. "You can't know what this means to me. I'll have to hurry, though. I heard Mr. Devereaux leave the house a few minutes ago. I think he's planning on sneaking off before I know what he's up to."
Hattie got up and threw an old wrapper around her shoulders. "Can you ride, Mariah?"
Mariah swallowed hard. She had ridden once with Seth when she was much younger. He had found her abilities more hilarious than disastrous, but then he wasn't the one who had ended up at the bottom of a hollow, covered head to toe with leaves and too sore to walk straight for days. Still, Mariah reasoned, she'd seen enough men ride to know she could do it if she had to.
"I can ride," she lied, collecting her tapestry bag. "But, um... if you give me one of your gentlest mounts, I... well, I won't be disappointed."
The older woman gave a knowing shake of her head. "Well, then... Petunia should do. Be quiet now," she said lifting the latch on the bedroom door. "If we wake John, the jig will be up before it's begun."
Mariah touched the woman's arm. "Thank you Hattie. I'll never forget this."
"Mind you," Hattie returned with a fierce smile, "don't you give me cause to regret it."
* * *
"Whoa, Buck."
Creed's roan ground to a halt at the sound of his voice. The gelding's sides glistened with sweat and his sharp hooves pawed at the grassy slope of sweetgrass and goldenrod. The cool breeze tugged at them, erasing even the rushing sounds of the Sun River only a few hundred yards to the south.
Creed turned in the saddle once more to look at the ground he'd already covered. Like some bothersome gnat buzzing near his ear, the feeling that he was being followed continued to plague him, even though he could see no one.
The stands of lodgepole pine and aspen grew thicker with the altitude. To his right, a huge outcrop of granite rock stood sentinel over the valley.
Below the tree
line rolled the sea of grass-covered foothills, undulating in the ceaseless prairie wind. Like a painter's canvas, the landscape below them was a boundless green, splashed here and there with the riotous colors of prairie gentian, blue flax, and Indian paintbrush. Their scents floated in the air, mingling with the fragrant crushed pine needles underfoot.
Two miles distant Creed could make out a sweeping splotch of gold and black: a small herd of pronghorns grazing a grassy hillock.
He glanced up at the sun's arc. It was nearing ten and his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since last night. Even then, all he'd wound up with for his efforts was a case of indigestion.
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the memory. Flipping the buckle on his saddlebag open, he pulled out a piece of pemmican. With a sigh, he bit into it and chewed slowly, savoring the bittersweet taste.
Buck dropped his head to graze in the sweetgrass at his feet and Creed was content to allow it. The truth was, Creed decided, he was tired. Bone tired. Too tired to be arguing with an ornery female who seemed bent on self-destruction. It had seemed best to leave this morning without exchanging any further pleasantries with Seth's woman. He wasn't up to another argument with her.
His encounter with Étienne LaRousse still haunted him, robbing him of yet another night's sleep. The savage pleasure he'd taken in putting a bullet between the man's eyes remained undiminished, yet, even after all these years, revenge was not the balm he'd hoped it would be. It had done little to right what had seemed wrong inside him for such a long time.
In the past four years, he'd rarely given a thought to his solitary way of life. There had always been women willing to soften his nights, most for a price. One, a madam in Virginia City named Desiree Lupone, more friend than business acquaintance, never charged him for that kindness, nor had she ever turned him away. Even the times he'd come to her half-drunk and made love to her with an almost savage intensity, she'd held him long into the night and soothed away the demons that possessed him. That had seemed enough... until now.
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