Renegade Bride

by Barbara Ankrum

  Tears started again. "I did. Oh, God, I made a horrible mess of things."

  Desiree watched her carefully, leaning back against the green velvet. "You...'ad a fight wis your man?"

  "Oh, worse. S-So much worse than that." Choking sobs erupted from her throat and Desiree took the coffee away from her lest she scald herself. Mariah hadn't meant to blurt out her troubles to this woman, but she couldn't seem to help it. Desiree wasn't at all the woman she'd expected and her soothing voice just seemed to break down Mariah's carefully erected misconceptions.

  "Sometimes... eet 'elps to talk." She handed her a hanky edged in lace with the letters D. L. embroidered on one corner. It smelled of expensive perfume.

  Mariah sniffed and dabbed her eyes. "It's all my fault."

  "What ees?"

  "Everything. I never meant to hurt him. I loved him. I loved them both."

  "Ahh-h. I see."

  "No, you don't. You can't. I was supposed to marry Seth, but I couldn't. I just couldn't, knowing I... I was in love with another man."

  "You mean Creed, yes?"

  Mariah's eyes flashed up to Desiree's in surprise. "How did you know that?"

  Desiree rose and crossed to the dark window, looking out over the street. "'Ee's a friend of mine, cherie."

  "I know. He—he told you about... us?" A sickening sensation rolled through her stomach.

  "'Ee didn't 'ave to tell me. I could see it on 'ees face that 'ee 'ad fallen for someone."

  Mariah watched the pain flit across Desiree's face and suddenly it struck her. "You love him, too, don't you?"

  Desiree took a long sip of her whiskey, glanced out the window and nodded.

  "Then... why are you being so... kind to me?"

  The woman shrugged and turned a smile on Mariah. "Why not? We don't compete for ze same man, cherie. I was never in ze race. I 'elp you because...'e cares for you. And I am 'ees friend."

  Mariah slumped in the seat. "You're wrong. Creed hates me."

  "Eef you think zat, you are ze one 'oo ees wrong."

  Mariah pressed the hanky against her red nose. "It doesn't matter anymore. I've ruined everything. Creed doesn't want me. He has some stupid idea that marrying him would ruin my life and besides, he wouldn't intentionally hurt Seth for anything."

  Desiree crossed the room and sat down beside her again. "Why don't you tell me what 'appened, cherie. Zen we can think of what to do."

  * * *

  In the yard behind Hasty's Livery, Creed forced himself slowly, painfully up off the ground. His ribs throbbed sharply with every breath. The Teuton hurdie, bless her soul, had given him something to stop the bleeding from the cut near his eye and mouth, but his face felt like chopped steak.

  The worst, however, was his right hand, which he cradled against his chest. From the way it was swelling, he decided he'd broken it against Seth Travers' jaw.

  Merde.

  Woozy, he staggered and braced his left hand against the cottonwood to steady himself. Twenty feet away several men, including Nate Cullen, were helping Seth to his feet. He glared over at Creed, sullen-mouthed.

  "Seth—"

  "Shut up! Just shut up, Creed."

  "I'm damned sorry," he said, swaying on his feet.

  Seth's jaw tightened. "Do me a favor, okay? Stay away from me. Just get the hell away from me." Two men helped Seth walk back to the barn, leaving Creed standing under the cottonwood, alone.

  He dropped his gaze to the ground and pressed an elbow against his aching ribs. Hell.

  Hell, hell, hell.

  Pain traveled up his chest as he leaned down to retrieve his hat and gunbelt, which he fastened on one-handed. He walked over to Buck and gathered up the reins.

  "You still figure on a'leavin' tonight, bounty?"

  Creed turned to find Hasty a few feet away.

  "Don't look to me like you should be ridin' anywheres, movin' like you are."

  Carefully, Creed pulled the reins over Buck's head and fitted his foot into the stirrup. It took four tries to actually haul himself up into the saddle one-handed. Creed bent over the horn, catching his breath. Hasty was right, but he wouldn't make it back to the hotel on foot.

  "I'll be all right," he said, straightening at last. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a twenty-dollar Liberty gold piece and tossed it to the liveryman. "Sorry about the fence."

  Hasty caught it with a frown and nodded. "It ain't none of my business what happened here tonight, but I'm right sorry to see two friends beatin' each other bloody that'a way."

  "Moi aussi, Hasty. Me, too. Au revoir." Creed gave Buck a nudge with his knee.

  "You take care o' yerself, boy," the man grumbled as he rode past him. Creed didn't answer, but aimed Buck in the direction of The California Exchange.

  Every step his gelding took sent pain rattling through Creed's chest and arm. He groaned, wondering absently if he'd actually fractured a rib or two as well.

  He rode past a dozen saloons and houses of ill repute before he passed The Nightingale. Slowing his horse, he glanced up and saw the lamp was lit in Desiree's room. For a moment, he considered going in to tell her he was leaving. But he didn't have the heart for another goodbye.

  Five minutes later, Creed filled the porcelain bowl on the washstand in his room with water from the pitcher. He pulled the cool moisture up to his face with one hand, over and over, until the clear water turned pink with his blood. Then, wiping his face off with a thin linen towel he lowered his throbbing hand into the cool liquid.

  A hiss of pain escaped him as the water seeped against his bloody knuckles and cooled the heat in his hand. His attempt to flex it sent a sharp, sickening pain rocketing up his arm. Damn. His gun hand.

  Absently, he pulled his army Colt out of its holster and hefted the weight of it in his left hand. Pulling back the trigger, he pointed the weapon at the door. His arm shook, making the tip waver.

  He uncocked the gun, letting it drop disconsolately to his side, and he closed his eyes. Mariah's face invaded his mind and a surge of pain poured through him, making his eyes burn the way his hand did. Who could have predicted it would end this way for the three of them?

  You should have, you idiot, a voice said. The minute you put your hands on her on the levee. You should have known then it would all end badly.

  He swallowed hard and looked up into the small, spotted mirror hanging over the washbasin. He hardly recognized the face that stared back at him. The difference went beyond the cuts and darkening bruises that abraded his face. He'd changed. Gone soft, letting his emotions—for once in his life—rule his mind. And look what he'd come to.

  Cursing the fickle vision that seemed to desert him when he needed it most, his mind drifted over the days he and Mariah had shared in the mountains—seeing the flare of anger in her eyes that first day when he'd pointed the rifle at her and sent her somersaulting over her horse's rear; the sparkle of laughter over the porcupine and the burned food; the first moment at the river, holding her in his arms, when he realized he was falling in love with her. Le Diable.

  Slowly, he holstered his gun, listening to the sibilant sound of gunmetal mating with leather. Something on the floor near the door caught his eye. A rust-colored piece of cloth... he must have walked right over it when he came in.

  His heart shuddered to a stop. Yanking his hand out of the water, he crossed the floor in two long strides. He bent to pick it up, but he knew already what it was. Mariah's scarf. The one she'd been wearing tonight.

  Unwrapping it, a folded piece of paper fluttered out and he caught it before it fell to the floor. He shook the missive open with one trembling hand and read the childish scrawl written there:

  THE SPRINGS OF STINKING WATER VALLEY, TONIGHT. HER LIFE FOR YOURS. COME ALONE OR SHE DIES.

  L.

  * * *

  A crushing weight pressed down on his chest and he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, crumpling the note in his hand. Mon Dieu, he'd forgotten all about the bastard tonight after fi
ghting with Seth. He'd let her walk away alone. He hadn't tried to stop her... protect her. Of course. It was the opening that scavenger sonofabitch had been waiting for. Cold, mouth-drying fear gripped him as he thought of LaRousse's hands touching Mariah. Damn him, he thought. Damn his bloody, wretched soul.

  Creed lurched away from the bed, only to be brought up short by the pain in his ribs and hand. The note dropped unheeded to the floor and he steadied himself against the bedstead. Taking a few shallow breaths, his muddled brain cleared.

  Wait. How did he know LaRousse wasn't bluffing? What if she were sitting in her room right now and...

  But how did he have her scarf?

  How, indeed?

  If it were all a lie, there were only a few places she would go. He would check them out first, he decided, fitting his hat on his head and reaching for his capote. As he yanked the door open and slammed out of his room, he took refuge in that small hope.

  The lights at the Benders' house were still on by the time Creed hauled Buck to a stop and slid off. He'd already ridden by Hasty's which was closed up tighter than a drum. Seth's apartment was dark, her room at the hotel, empty.

  Pounding up the steps, he made enough racket to wake the dead. Wade Bender appeared at the door wearing a nightshirt and a frown.

  "Creed-what the hell...?"

  "Is she here?" he asked breathlessly.

  "Dear God, what happened to your—"

  "Is she here, goddammit, Wade?"

  Sadie appeared at her husband's shoulder. "Is who here?" She gasped at the sight of Creed's mangled face.

  "Mariah. Did she come here after—?"

  "We haven't seen her since the party, son. What's going on?"

  "Jesu..." Creed muttered raggedly, his breath clouding white in the cool night air. He cradled his throbbing right hand against his chest.

  "Has something happened to her?" Wade pressed.

  "I don't know... yes... I—I checked her room... she wasn't there. Where else would she go?"

  "Isn't she with Seth?" Sadie asked, confused.

  "No. That's one place I'm sure she isn't." He turned to go, pounding down the steps again.

  "Wait—where are you going? What the hell happened to you? You're not fit to be riding," Sadie called after him.

  Wade followed him down. "Creed, for God's sake..."

  He hauled himself painfully onto the saddle again and reined in the prancing gelding. "LaRousse has her, Wade. I'm going to get her back."

  "What? Are you sure? Let me come with you, Creed. Just give me a minute to get dress—"

  "No. He said to come alone or he'll kill her. I believe him. Don't come after me, Wade. I'm going to get the bastard this time... or die trying." Without waiting to hear his reply, Creed kicked the gelding into a lope and tore down the road.

  Wade turned back to Sadie, ashen-faced, and shook his head. "Dear God."

  * * *

  "This here the place, miss?" asked Pete Loudin, the muscular bouncer whom Desiree had sent along to walk Mariah safely to her destination. He stopped in front of a bustling, saloon-fronted hotel. Light, music, and noise spilled from the drinking house. A pistol retorted from within, causing her frayed nerves to unravel further.

  She looked up at the wooden sign over the hotel stoop: California Exchange Hotel. "Yes, this is it. Thanks, Pete."

  "You want me to come with you?"

  "No. That won't be necessary. I won't be long." He may not even let me past the door.

  Pete nodded and lit a cigarette. Mariah pushed open the swinging saloon doors and bypassed the drinking room. Slipping past the registration desk, she thought back to Desiree's words and prayed she was right:

  "Men are stubborn fools when eet comes to understanding what ze 'eart already knows, cherie," she'd said after Mariah had told her what had happened. "Creed loves you more than 'ee can bear to love. Eet frightens a man as strong as 'ee to be made weak by such a thing. But what 'ee doesn't know, ees your love will make him stronger. Don't let him run from you. Eef you care about him, go to him, quickly, before 'ee gets away."

  Stopping before his door, she noticed it was partly open.

  "Creed?" No answer.

  Pushing the portal with her foot, it swung open. He wasn't there. The lamp was still lit and his saddlebags were beside the bed. A pinkish bowl of water sat on the washstand, a towel carelessly dropped on the floor.

  Tension frizzled up her spine. Something wasn't right. Glancing around the room uneasily, her eyes fell to the crumpled piece of paper on the floor. Picking it up, her eyes scanned the page.

  At first, she didn't understand what it meant. "Her life for yours?" she repeated out loud. "Come alone or she dies. L."The paper trembled in her hand. LaRousse? Pierre Larousse? Did the 'her' in the note mean her?

  Did Creed think LaRousse had her? But how could he believe—?

  Her gaze fell to the rust-colored silk tangled in the gray woolen blanket at the foot of the bed. Her scarf! She felt around her neck. Panic tightened her throat. She'd lost it and LaRousse had picked it up... using it to trick Creed into thinking...

  He was riding right into a trap!

  Clutching the silk and the wrinkled note, she bolted from the room. She had to help him. But how? She'd never find her way to Stinking Water Valley in the dark. And even if she did, how could she fight LaRousse? She needed help.

  Her mind raced over the possibilities. Sheriff Fox was in Deer Lodge until tomorrow. Jesse! But where was he? She didn't even know where he was staying.

  There was one other man. Please, God, she prayed. Let him help me. Let him help Creed!

  * * *

  Seth sat in the dark. Only the moonlight shone vaguely through the waxed muslin windows. It was enough to guide the bottle in his hand to the rim of his glass. The darkness suited his mood. In fact, oblivion would have suited it better. He was working on that.

  "Here's to nothing," he muttered, lifting the amber liquid to the moonlit window. He lowered the glass to his lips as footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs outside his door. Narrowing his eyes, he slugged down the drink and prepared to ignore whoever it was.

  A fist pounded on his door, making him jump in spite of himself. "Seth! Seth, please let me in."

  He scowled at the sound of her voice and tipped the bottle against the glass once more.

  "Seth! I must talk with you! It's me, Mariah."

  He almost laughed. Almost. "I wouldn't have guessed."

  "You are there. Seth, please."

  Standing shakily, Seth crossed to the door, bottle in hand. He opened the door to find her wide-eyed and breathless.

  "What do you want, Mari? Did you come to gloat? Rub it in? Announce your wedding date to my best ex-friend?"

  She bit her lip and brushed past him into the room. He swept his bottle up into the air as he bowed low to her.

  "It's dark," she said, pressing a hand to her thudding heart. "M-may I light the lamp?"

  "Afraid of me?"

  "Of course not. I need to talk with you."

  He shuffled to the chair and slumped down. "A little late for that, don't you think?"

  Fumbling with a match, she lit the kerosene lamp on the table. The wick hissed and filled the room with a soft light. Turning back to Seth, she saw afresh the damage she'd done tonight. His nose, cheek, and mouth were swollen and split. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

  "You're a gutsy one, coming here when I'm not even completely drunk yet." He tipped back the glass and downed the fiery swill with a grimace. "Say what you have to say and get out."

  "Seth, it's Creed," she blurted. "Something terrible has happened."

  His eyes took on an altogether new sort of anger. "Where have you been all night, angel? That's yesterday's news. Too bad Dimmesdale's newspaper isn't ready to go to press for another month. He could have had a field day with our little menage a trois tonight, don't you think?" He swept his hand through the air to indicate the headlines. "WRONGED SHOPKEEPER MAKES ASS OF HIMSELF AT ENGA
GEMENT BASH OVER FICKLE FIANCEE!" he shouted.

  She inhaled sharply and sat down on the chair beside him. "You have every right to hate me. I don't blame you. But, Seth, I... I didn't come here for myself. I came for Creed—"

  He shoved away from the table, knocking his chair to the floor with a bang. "Well, you needn't have bothered."

  "It's not what you think. He's in terrible trouble."

  "Only if he comes near me again."

  She stared at him for a moment, then handed him the crumpled up paper.

  "What the hell is-?"

  "It was in Creed's room along with my scarf. Read it."

  "I don't—"

  "Read it, Seth!"

  His eyes dropped to the paper. He read it and reread it, then looked up at her. "What is this?"

  "L. for LaRousse. Pierre LaRousse. Don't you see? He's laid a trap for Creed with me. Creed thinks LaRousse took me. I was safe all along, but he doesn't know that. Creed's gone there alone. You have to stop him before LaRousse kills him."

  A fleeting look of dread flickered in his eyes before he shuttered the expression. He tossed the paper on the table. "No, I don't. I don't owe Creed Devereaux a damn thing. He can ride into the camp of old Satan himself for all I care and I wouldn't lift a finger to help him."

  Shaking her head, she said, "You don't mean that."

  "The hell I don't."

  She took a shuddering breath. "You're angry. I know you are and with every right. But Creed is... was your best friend. He never meant to hurt you. You must know that."

  His icy gray eyes met hers and he grabbed for the whiskey. "Get out, Mariah. I haven't finished my bottle."

  Blood pounded in her ears. "He needs you."

  "I needed you!"

  Mariah felt the color drain from her face. "Oh, Seth... do you hate me so much you'd let Creed die?"

  He stared at her without a trace of forgiveness in his eyes, then turned back to his bottle and filled his glass with the clear amber liquid.

  She grabbed the crumpled note and moved to the door, shaking her head. "Maybe I was wrong about you, after all. Maybe you can live with yourself if he dies. I know I never can." Turning, she disappeared out the door.

  Seth listened to her footsteps clanging down the wooden steps until the sound disappeared. He closed his eyes and slugged down the whiskey then flung the empty glass across the room. It shattered into a thousand pieces. Just like his heart. Damn them, he thought. Damn them both.