The Outlaw's Bride

by Renee Rose

  “‘Night, Mabelle.”

  He leaned his head on his arm, watching the lovely young spitfire attempt to get comfortable. He wanted to move even closer, offer his shoulder as a pillow, his arms as protection. He wanted to soften the blows life had given her. But he could not. He would have to settle for escorting her to Cheyenne.

  Chapter Four

  In the morning they ate the rest of the boiled eggs and packed up, getting back in the wagon shortly after dawn. He spread the folded blanket from his bedroll across the wooden seat, because, even though she had deserved the spanking, he did not want her to suffer any more than necessary.

  She flushed when she saw it and sat down, taking the reins and urging the horses forward.

  “Thank you,” she murmured after a stretch.

  He gave her a small smile.

  By noon Cheyenne appeared on the horizon, and he stopped her when they were about a mile out. “This is where I leave you,” he said, climbing out of the wagon, and removing the lead ropes from Bean and Jim’s mare.

  Mabelle hopped out and stared at him, her hands on her hips. She looked feisty again, the softness of the night before erased in the glare of day.

  “Just ride straight to the sheriff’s office and claim your reward,” he instructed her.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Yep. You know. You could have made this trip without me just fine, too. You have nothing to worry about. You can hire some help with that bounty in your pocket, too.”

  She looked at him, her mouth twisting a bit. “I cannot hire a man to help out when I live there alone. It would not be proper.”

  Right. She would have to take her help in the form of a husband.

  That thought made his fists clench at his sides.

  He marched over to her, grabbed her shoulders and yanked her body against his, kissing her lips with a bruising ferocity. “Make sure he takes good care of you,” he said gruffly when he pulled away.

  Pulling Curly’s gun belt out of the burlap bag where he had stowed it, he replaced the bullets in the six shooter, and strapped it around her waist. “Remember what I told you. Don’t point it if you’re not willing to shoot.”

  She nodded. He crushed her lips under his again, plundering her mouth with his tongue. She lifted onto her toes, her small hands on his chest, returning the kiss with such sweetness it nearly wrenched his heart in two. He broke away, stroking her cheek wistfully with his thumb and turned without another word.

  She watched him with a bewildered look as he stalked to Bean and mounted, tipping his hat before he rode off.

  #

  She might have cried had it not been for the kiss. She certainly would have cursed the outlaw Sam Pride for the liberties he had taken with her—taking down her drawers and whipping her. Holding her on his lap and making her feel for the first time in months. Cupping her bare bottom in his hands and igniting a flame of desire she never knew existed. She would have hated him for the rest of his life, shortened though it may prove to be.

  But somehow his assault on her lips at parting gave her a glimpse into his heart. She had seen passion and pain through the cracks in his gruff exterior. He cared for her. It was enough.

  She made a clicking sound with her tongue and urged the horse team forward, her fears about what she would face in Cheyenne also dissipated with the kiss. Sam told her she would be fine. She trusted him. Holding her head high, she rode into town, hitching the wagon right in front of the sheriff’s office, as he had instructed.

  She pushed open the door and strode in. “I have come for my reward,” she said with all the bravado Sam believed she had.

  Leading the Sheriff out to the wagon, she reported the names of the outlaws she brought.

  “And how, exactly, did you come by the Curly Jones gang and manage to kill all three of them?” the Sheriff asked, eyes traveling to the holster at her waist.

  She lifted her chest. She considered telling him she had shot them herself, loving the idea of making history as the first female gunslinger, but straying too far from the truth could be trouble.

  She explained how the outlaws had showed up at her ranch, changing the story to three men, instead of four. “They were playing poker and it got ugly, the three of them shot each other dead, right at my table.”

  The sheriff folded his arms across his chest. “They shot each other?” he said doubtfully.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is Sam Pride?”

  Her breath hitched. “Pardon me?”

  “Sam Pride. He robbed a stagecoach with these three last week. Where is he now?”

  She shook her head, shrugging. “I didn’t see anyone but these three,” she lied, her heart thudding like a drum. “But this bag here has all the things they stole from that stagecoach, so you can just return them to their owners,” she said, picking up the burlap bag of pocket watches and eyeglasses and money Sam had given her. He had taken the bag of pistols himself.

  He gave her a long, hard look. “Takes a few weeks to collect the reward. You want to wait here for it, or do you want it sent to your bank?”

  She hesitated. She certainly could not wait for it, and she did not want to come back. But Frank owed the bank a heap of money. She sighed. Easy come, easy go. “Send it to the bank. I’ll go make arrangements right now. Can you tell me where to find it?”

  The sheriff gave her directions and had his deputies unload the dead men from her wagon. She walked down Main Street until she came to the financial institution, where she went in and arranged for Frank’s debts to be paid with the bounty.

  “Your brother-in-law owed six hundred and forty-two dollars,” the white-haired banker informed her, looking over his spectacles. “That will leave you with one hundred and eight left over. Would you like an advance on the money?”

  She sat up straight. “Really? You would give me an advance?”

  “The bounty money is as good as guaranteed. I can give you sixty dollars now, and you can pick up forty next month. I keep the eight for letting you take it early.”

  She nibbled her lip, wondering what Sam would say. Would she be a fool to borrow her own money?

  “Deal,” she said. She did not want to make this trip again and sixty dollars would get her the supplies she needed.

  He handed over the money and she pulled her wagon up to the mercantile shop, buying the basics like flour, cornmeal, coffee, salt, kerosene and nails. She eyed the fabrics behind the counter. In the window they displayed some pre-made dresses of the latest fashion—the kind she had worn back in Virginia, with the soft bustle in back.

  “How much is the blue dress in the window?” she asked, on foolish impulse.

  “Fifteen dollars.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Stupid, she knew. She had nowhere to wear it, no one to see her in it. But Sam had awakened something in her and she craved the femininity the dress represented.

  She paid for the goods and the shop boy loaded them into the wagon for her. Climbing in, she drove the wagon out of town. Dusk approached and the idea of sleeping alone in the plains did not appeal to her. Remembering an inn/boarding house on the outskirts of town, she drove there and arranged for a room to spend the night.

  Outside the stable, she unhitched the wagon the way Sam had showed her. Trying to project confidence to the horses, she spoke encouraging words and stroked their necks, then led them into the stable for hay and water.

  She did not pay attention to the sound of an approaching rider and when a lanky man swaggered in with his horse, she just gave him a brief nod.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” he said.

  “Good evening.”

  He hitched his horse beside hers, blocking her way out. “You traveling alone?”

  Her hand went to the belt around her waist, but she remembered Sam’s warning not to aim a weapon she did not plan to use. “None of your business,” she said tartly.

  She tried to step past him, but he sidestepped, blocking her way. �
�Heard you brought in the Curly James gang today.”

  Her fear ratcheted at hearing he knew about her. “They did not give me the reward money,” she said quickly. “It takes weeks to arrive and it goes straight to my debt at the bank, anyway.”

  He gave her an arrogant smile. “Oh I’m not interested in your money, Miss Lawson. I’m interested in finding Sam Pride.”

  “I told the sheriff, I don’t know anyone named Sam Pride!” she said, her voice sounding shrill.

  He took a step toward her and she stumbled back against the stall. “Nobody believed your little story about Curly and his gang shooting each other. So that means you’re lying. You lied about that and you’re lying about Sam Pride, as well.”

  “What’s it to you?” she demanded.

  He gripped her upper arms and pinned her back against the wooden wall, his fingers digging into her flesh. The horses shifted nervously, probably sensing her fear. “I’m the bounty hunter around here, Miss Lawson, and a Pinkerton Detective to boot. I make it my business to know about outlaws.”

  She tried to shake off his grip. “Well, I am not an outlaw, mister, and I do not take kindly to being manhandled by you,” she said, struggling against his hold.

  “Just tell me the truth, and I’ll be on my way, Miss Lawson.”

  From out of nowhere, a figure sprang out behind the Pinkerton man, shoving the barrel of a pistol into his jaw.

  “Let the lady go and I might let you live,” Sam growled.

  #

  About five miles out he had doubled back, thoughts of the difficulties Mabelle might have on her own crowding his head until he no longer cared whether the law caught up to him, he needed to make sure his woman made it home unharmed.

  His plan had been to observe from afar. Perhaps shadow her back without her knowing he followed. But when he had seen the bounty hunter follow her from town, his hackles had been raised.

  “Sam!” Mabelle exclaimed, the joy in her expression making him want to scoop her up and carry her into the sunset.

  He kept his gun pressed against the detective’s face, removing both guns from his hip holsters and checking the pockets of his jacket for smaller weapons. “Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered.

  “Easy now, Sam.”

  He shoved the man against the stall where he had pinned Mabelle. “It’s Mr. Pride to you, Pinky.” He yanked the man’s wrists behind his back. “Hand me that rope from his saddle, please,” he instructed Mabelle.

  “Easy, Mr. Pride. I did not come for your bounty, your father’s lawyer hired me to deliver a letter. It’s right here in my jacket,” the man said, nodding his chin toward his breast pocket.

  He secured the man’s wrists with the rope. “Go ahead and look, Mabelle.”

  Mabelle opened the bounty hunter’s jacket and pulled out an envelope addressed to Sam Pride.

  “Open it.”

  She tore it open and unfolded a piece of paper, reading aloud.

  From the offices of Hobart St. James

  My Dear Sir,

  The purpose of this correspondence is to express my sincere sympathy at the passing of your father, Mr. John Hastings, on the 18th day of May of this year. Upon his death, the disbursement of his estate fell to me, his attorney. Please, with all due haste, arrange to arrive for the reading of his final will and testament to my offices on the 22nd of July at 2 o'clock.Your brothers will also be in attendance.

  Sincerely,

  Hobart St. James, Esquire

  “Do you have a father named John Hastings?” Mabelle asked.

  “I suppose that was his name,” he said, a touch of bitterness in his tone. “I never knew him.”

  Mabelle looked at him, her eyes wide and eager.

  He gave his head a quick shake. “Don’t believe it. It’s a trap to get me to Denver. Pinky wants to bring me in alive, and he knows I am not going to let that happen.”

  “You are mistaken, Mr. Pride,” Pinky said, sounding relaxed, despite being trussed like a chicken.

  The poke of hard metal in his ribs caused his head to jerk in surprise. Mabelle had her six shooter aimed at him. “You are going to Denver, Pride,” she said, her chin lifted.

  He stared, poleaxed. What treachery was this?

  “You could use that inheritance to clear your name,” she said stubbornly.

  He rolled his eyes, relaxing. “Put the gun away, Mabelle. Or haven’t you learned your lesson?”

  She shook her head, shifting from foot to foot, but keeping the gun prodding his side. “Oh no, Pride. This time I am prepared to use it. I’ll shoot off your toes to prove it,” she said, aiming the gun in the direction of his feet.

  He jumped back, putting his hands in the air. “Calm down, sugar. I’d like to keep my toes.”

  “Then you’ll be making plans to get yourself to Denver.”

  He shook his head. “It’s a trap.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. I could show up at the meeting as your wife. If there is money to collect, I’ll take it. If it is you they’re after, we will know their ruse.”

  Irritation with her stubborn and ridiculous plan warred with glee over her apparent feelings for him.

  “And what’s your plan with him, Smarty Pants?” he asked, lifting his chin toward the Pinkerton man.

  Her look said she had none.

  “Let’s ride him back to town and put him on the next train to Denver,” he suggested.

  “That’s right,” she said, looking relieved. Then her brow furrowed. “I suppose I have to do it, don’t I?”

  He smiled. “I’ll ride backup. I believe I saw a sign saying there is a 7:10 pm train. If we leave now, we might make it.”

  Mabelle whirled and prodded the bounty hunter with her gun. “You heard the man. Saddle up.”

  “He will just ride away, Mabelle,” he said, amused. “I’ll hitch up the wagon again and we can lay him down in the back and cover him up with a blanket.”

  “Oh,” she said, turning the shade of pink he had come to adore on her.

  He hitched the horses and loaded their prisoner in the back. Climbing in beside him, he trained his gun on the man. “Don’t try anything. I’ve killed my fair share of men, and I have no problem adding you to the list.”

  “That so, Pride? From what I heard, you acted in self-defense.”

  He stilled, surprised. “Where did you hear that?”

  The man shrugged. “Your case has caused Mick Malone a world of trouble. See, he wants your land for his cattle to graze, because of the access you have to water. And even though you’re wanted, the judge won’t let him have it, not till you’ve been convicted in a court of law.”

  Mabelle craned her head to look over her shoulder from the driver’s seat and they exchanged a glance. Did he have a chance of getting out the hangman’s noose? Maybe with the right lawyer, as she had suggested?

  He instructed Mabelle to hitch the horses near the train depot, but far enough away to avoid too much scrutiny as they pulled the bound Pinkerton agent out of the back. He untied his wrists.

  “Listen to me, and listen closely. Miss Lawson will have this gun of hers pointed at you at all times. You will walk up to the counter, purchase a ticket to Denver and get on the train. If you try anything funny—anything at all, Mabelle will shoot your toes first, then your balls. She’s not a killer, but she is feisty and if you test her, you’ll probably never walk again. Got it?”

  “I’m telling you, Pride. I’m not the enemy. I came here to deliver my message and my job is done.”

  “Then you won’t mind headin’ back home, now will you?” he said, giving him a shove. “We will bring your horse to you in Denver. Mabelle, put your hand on his arm, like he’s a gentleman, but keep the other one on the gun at your hip.”

  She nodded, looking more than capable to handle a job he ordinarily would not allow a woman to do. He followed them, slipping behind the building to keep an eye without being where the Pinkerton agent could call him out.

&
nbsp; The minutes dragged on, Mabelle standing beside him at the ticket counter, the Pinkerton man talking to the agent and looking up and down the track. The conversation went on too long, and he began to sweat. What could they be discussing? Had the train been delayed? The trip cancelled?

  Mabelle looked up and down the tracks, then scanned the crowd, as if looking for him. His pulse raced. Did she need help? Why hadn’t he given her some kind of signal? He cursed himself for putting her in danger this way. What kind of coward was he, anyway, sending a woman in to do his job?

  At last the conductor handed Pinky a ticket and he exhaled. Now, if only the train would arrive.

  #

  A trickle of perspiration dripped down her ribs as she stood holding the elbow of the imposing detective. He seemed relaxed, as if he did not consider her or her pistol a real threat, which did not bother her so long as he got on the train and off the trail of Sam Pride.

  “How do you know Mr. Pr—”

  “Do not say his name here,” she hissed, cutting him off.

  “All right. Where did you make the acquaintance of the gentleman with whom you are traveling?”

  She hesitated, not sure whether she should share any information with the man. “He rescued me from the Curly James Gang,” she said.

  “How did you happen upon them?”

  “I did not happen upon them, they happened upon me, barging in at my ranch without welcome.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Did Pri—your friend—arrive with them?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, not sure what to say. She had never been a clever liar.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

  She stiffened.

  “From what I understand, he rescued the stagecoach passengers from death when Curly James robbed them. Seems he was a reluctant member of their gang?”