Chance Creek Brides (Volumes 1-3 & the Stagecoach Bride)

by Mary L. Briggs

  Charlotte’s horse reared and she lost her hold, a scream escaping her throat as she fell. She hit the ground hard, the impact slamming the air from her lungs. Struggling to catch her breath, she rolled on her back and pressed her hands against her eyes. Aware of the spinning sensation in her head, the muffled echo of Sam’s shout to her sounded over and over in her mind. Slowly, the dizziness began to subside.

  When she opened her eyes, she felt a sense of pain, a dull ache in her body. How long had she been there? Turning her head to the side, she could see Smoke standing near the side of the cabin, his head down in a trough. He raised his nose and glanced at her, water dripping from his chin. The little chestnut was nowhere in sight. Probably long gone after the lightning strike.

  She pushed herself to a sitting position. Sam was lying on his back several feet away, eyes closed. Shattered pieces of wood scattered around him. The slight rise in his chest told her that he was still alive. A jagged gash across his forehead bled freely onto the dusty ground.

  Turning onto her knees, she grit her teeth against the pain that charged through her body as she rose to her feet. Now was her chance to get away. She could mount Sam’s fast horse and be gone. Be free of him. He was a criminal, an outlaw who was planning to hold her for ransom and spoke callously of the man she planned to marry. He didn’t deserve her help.

  Limping, she led Smoke to Sam’s side, gazing down at the handsome face of her captor. This was the last time she’d ever see Sam Anderson, but she would remember him. His cobalt eyes, the nose that tended to flare when he was angry, the dimple on his cheek when he smiled. There would be a poster with his picture on it someday.

  Instead of mounting the horse, she hesitated. Was it the story of the Good Samaritan which made her pause before leaving this man to die– although the Samaritan aided an innocent man, not a robber and a kidnapper.

  Whether Sam was a thief, she was uncertain, but he was certainly a kidnapper, justifying her decision to leave him here in this sandy, forsaken landscape.

  Instead, she dropped the reins and knelt beside him. The bloody gash sent flashes of memory surging across her mind from years before. The sounds of shooting, men's voices filled with pain and anger flooded her memory. The recollection of smoke from gunfire assaulted her nose, as if she were transported to the past, the battlefield of wounded all around her. She shook away the terrors that still haunted her. She had to help him.

  Her hands trembled as she untied the bandana from his neck, her fingers swift with action as she pressed it against the wound on his head. He was so still, his fine-looking features pale and lifeless. Scrambling to her feet, she dipped the cloth in water from the trough, then re-applied it. The dark puddle on the ground gave testimony to the fact he’d already lost a considerable amount of blood.

  A moan issued from his lips, but his eyes remained closed as she tried to doctor his wound.

  Worry stung her thoughts. She was no doctor, but it was obvious he was badly injured. A shaky breath rattled inside her chest. She had two choices. Mount on one of the horses and try to find help, or stay here and help her kidnapper. Stealing a glance at the man lying helplessly before her, she saw the traces of youth in his features, the pain etched upon his face.

  Her eyes searched the horizon and a sigh escaped her lips. There was no decision. She would stay.

  ***

  Tall and lanky, Sam Anderson was heavier than Charlotte had bargained for. Exhausted, she collapsed beside him on the dusty floor, gasping in air to feed her hungry lungs. Wisps of wet hair stuck to her neck in the stale air of the cabin. It had taken the better part of half an hour to drag him inside. Not once had he opened his eyes.

  She rolled on her side and watched his broad chest rise and fall with each breath. The wound on his forehead had almost soaked the bandage fashioned from a strip of her petticoat, but it seemed to have stopped bleeding, for now.

  In his cheeks, she detected a faint trace of pink, a sign of color which eased her concerns. As his pale complexion vanished, she could trace more discernibly his straight nose and strong chin. Unconscious, without his retorts or his gruff orders, he could easily be mistaken for the brave hero on the cover of any dime novel at the general store.

  Anxious and alone, she felt tears fill her eyes, her shaken emotions allowing them to fall down her cheeks in muddy streaks. Wasn't her concern for his safety wasted? Sam Anderson wasn’t a hero; he was an outlaw and she was his prisoner. If not for him, she would be getting married today, starting her new life as a wife and mistress of a home.

  Was Justice concerned for her? Was he agonizing over her disappearance? By now the stage had arrived in Black Well and he would know what had happened to her. A rush of hope flowed through her body, chasing away the pain. He knew she needed him.

  She turned her eyes back to her patient. Despite the sting of Sam Anderson’s sneering comments about her fiancé, Justice’s letters had shown him to be honest and noble, a man of his word. A successful lawyer, a respected man with a promising career as the only attorney in Black Well, Texas. And he would come for her–and Mr. Anderson would be sorry he’d ever seen her face.

  She stared at his solemn expression and motionless form. Panic threatened to overtake her at the idea that he might never wake. She could take the horse and leave, but with no idea where she was, she could ride for days. . .weeks, without finding anyone to help her. And if Justice didn’t come, she might never find her way to civilization.

  She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. The doubts Sam planted in her heart regarding Justice were needless. He was a good man and she did love him. At least she thought so, given the letters and the promises exchanged between them.

  Rolling over on her back, she closed her eyelids, resting the palms of her hands on top of them. In the darkness she could think. She was just tired, that was all. And it would only cause her strife to consider the possibility that Justice had been anything other than honest with her, even as she waited for signs of life from the man who had taken her away from him.

  Sam moaned. Turning back to him, she saw his hand wandering to the bloody bandage.

  She sat up and pulled herself closer, pulling his fingers away from the wound. He held tight to her clasp. “Sam? Can you hear me?” She felt of his forehead with her other hand. No fever. Surely that was a good sign.

  She curled back on her side, her hand still in his grasp. I don’t know how badly he’s hurt, Lord. Please help him. Show me how to take care of him. Show me a way to escape him and find my way safely to Black Well.

  ***

  Charlotte opened her eyes and shivered in the hazy light that shone through the shrunken boards of the cabin. She turned her head to look at Sam. The space beside her was empty.

  Panic exploded in her chest, like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. On her feet at once, she ran through the open door into the still dusty yard. It was empty except for the hat that had been on her head, left behind when she’d dragged Sam inside the cabin. She picked it up and crushed it to her chest, as if holding it near would bring any amount of comfort.

  The wind had died away, along with the storm's presence. Stillness echoed all around her in the barren homestead. Neither Sam nor the horse was to be seen. “SAM!. . .SAM!” She listened for his answer, but the only sound that met her ears was her own breathing.

  He had left her here, after all she had done for him. Had left his captive to perish while he fled to safety–and after she had stayed behind to help him, forsaking her chance to escape.

  Her first impression of him had been right. He was nothing but a lowly, cowardly, bandit. Bitter tears stung her eyes as she realized her sacrifice was made for a man with no heart or conscience.

  Her heart pounded with misery as she moved toward the empty barn, half-hoping there was a chance that a horse was within, the chestnut perhaps seeking shelter there instead of running away.

  She heard something stirring inside. Hurrying forward, she startled a flock of chimney sw
allows into the air around her–the perpetrators of such sound, apparently.

  Crestfallen, her footsteps came to a halt. The interior of the barn was collapsing inwards, leaving only the front façade of an entire building.

  She sank to the ground in despair. The flat horizon stretching before her, framed by the broken timbers, would soon be nothing but endless blackness when night fell. Sam had left her. Left her to die alone in this forsaken country with only a slim chance that she might be saved by a passerby. Someone probably as lost as she if they ventured through this forsaken, lonely area.

  She swallowed hard. Have faith. The Lord wouldn’t just leave her out here to waste away. Anger boiled within her, however, as she tried to pray. How could he just abandon her like this? I’m sorry, Lord. . .but no words will come. Please, please help me.

  A loud rattling and buzzing broke the silence. She held her breath as the sound vibrated through the air again. Slowly, methodically, she opened her eyes. Horror flowed through her, locking her arms in their praying stance.

  The scaly predator, a few feet in front of her, was coiled in a perfect circle, its tale vibrating as its head rose up. A Diamondback rattler, the snake her Uncle Ed had warned her was the most deadly. Only her eyes moved as she followed the rhythmic, in and out of the forked tongue.

  She fought the urge to scramble to her feet and run–a fatal mistake, she knew, according to every dime novel her uncle’s maid, Lela, had ever read aloud to her when she was growing up. Heroines being bitten and heroes sometimes saving them at the last possible second. The bitter irony of this moment was not lost on her. She would die all alone, no hero to save her.

  Charlotte blinked hard as acid flooded her throat. Beads of sweat freely bloomed above her lip. She swallowed and willed her body to stop its intense trembling. Someone, somewhere, had told her that rattlesnakes could smell fear. If that fact were true. . . Please help me, Lord.

  The blast of a rifle made her recoil in shock, even as the rattler’s head splattered and disintegrated in front of her. A loud scream filled the smoky air and she realized it was her own. She felt strong arms catching her as she began to fall into blackness.

  “Miss Turner? Are you OK?”

  She opened her eyes to the blurry image of Sam Anderson’s face. The bloodied petticoat bandage still covered his injury. Deep lines between his eyebrows puckered in worry. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  “It’s all right.” He was smiling, but his voice was shaky. His fingers curled around her elbows as he helped her to her feet.

  "You–you came back," she whispered, her voice quivering.

  “I went to find something for us to eat," he answered. "I came up empty. But looks like you found supper,” he added, glancing at the dead reptile.

  The smile on his lips reignited her fury, the memories of fear and despair from moments before. She jerked her arms from his grasp as she stumbled backwards, away from him. “You left me without explanation–without saying anything. I thought you were gone for good.” Her accusing tone was accompanied by a wave of tears burning her eyes as she forced them back.

  He shrugged as he bent to retrieve the snake. “You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “So you just let me think you abandoned me out here in this. . .this horrid country? And after all I did for you. I dragged your practically lifeless body into the cabin. Cleaned and bandaged your wound. I could have left you for dead. Instead, I saved your life!” She recoiled at the vitriol that soaked her words. But she wouldn’t take them back. He deserved everything she said.

  A gasp escaped her lips as he swung the snake up from the ground. But she willed herself not to take a step back. She would not be intimidated.

  He narrowed his eyes and dangled the snake in front of her. “Looks like we’re even, if you’re keeping score on who saved who.”

  So he had a point.

  Chapter 3

  The soft glow of the oil lamp shone in the dark room, lending a bit of light to the stark interior. Stripped bare, save the lamp, a table, a few kitchen utensils and two cans of beans, the little building had potential. It needed only a few more items. Curtains on the window, chairs for the table, a bed in the corner. And a happy couple to inhabit the cozy space.

  She shivered as she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped the blanket, from the bedroll on Sam’s horse, even tighter around her shoulders and legs. After her fright a few hours ago, she felt she would never be warm again. And maybe never be home again if she couldn’t escape from Sam Anderson. Right now, Springfield seemed a lifetime away.

  His back to her, Sam seemed right at home. The cast iron skillet over the fire sizzled in the quiet. His dark blond hair, sticking above the bandage, was silver in the dim light of the blaze. She smiled. He could be a man content to be safe in his own house, cooking his daily catch. But his wide, muscular shoulders held a tenseness, as if he was waiting for. . something.

  Her stomach rumbled at the smell of the frying meat and the aroma of coffee from the pot on the grate. The very thought of eating the creature that almost sent her to the grave was repulsive. But so was starving to death. And she hadn’t eaten since early that morning.

  Thankfully, she had skipped the meal at the station, although if she had stayed there, sick, none of this would have happened. Better yet, if she’d stayed in Springfield, she would be safe in her own home, her own bed.

  But a chance for marriage had compelled her to leave that familiar place; and now, here she was, spending what would have been her wedding night on the cold, hard floors of this abandoned cabin in the possession of a man whose heart seemed set on revenge. Somewhere, she had made a wrong decision.

  ***

  Sam pulled the skillet away from the fire. “I think it’s about ready. Why don’t you scoot on over here?”

  He may have saved her from certain death, but he was still her captor. “I’ll just eat mine over here, if you don’t mind.”

  He laughed and grinned. “No plates, Miss Turner. We have to share the skillet, once the food is cooler. I’m the cook, and me and the food are staying over here. Best you join me.”

  She pushed herself to her feet. It was one thing to have to choke down the food he made for her, but putting up with his self-righteousness was hard to swallow. “Coming, kind sir.”

  His eyebrows quirked in annoyance. “Look, I know you have no idea what’s going on here, but believe me, I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

  “Safe!” Her laughter echoed off the bare walls. “You and your. . .your gang snatched me from a stage? You're holding me against my will, miles from the man I'm supposed to marry. That hardly seems like a protective gesture." She plopped down on the floor, opposite him and put her finger in the skillet for a morsel of meat. She immediately pulled it back and stuck the burning digit in her mouth. Would he explain any of this to her? Or would he ignore her words?

  “It’s still hot." That was all the reply he bothered to offer, a smile on his lips.

  “Thanks for the warning,” she mumbled.

  He reached over and pulled her thumb from her mouth. “Doesn’t look too bad. I think you’ll live,” he pronounced, his eyes meeting hers.

  She jerked her hand from his. A tingling sensation from his touch darted up her wrist. Along with the aching need to find herself being held and comforted in a pair of arms this strong. But it was Justice's arms she wanted–wasn’t it?

  He stirred the meat around with the knife he’d used to skin and cook the rattler. “I think it’s about cool enough now.” He speared a section and offered it to her.

  She cautiously pulled it from the sharp point and blew on the piece. Don’t think about what it is. Gingerly, she took a small bite.

  His eyes searched her face. “What do you think?”

  She shrugged. “Tastes like. . .I don’t know. But it’s fine.”

  He cut off another chunk for himself and chewed slowly, watching the fire. He put down the knife and picke
d up another handful of sticks he had stacked in the corner. Throwing them on the flames, he took the coffee from the grate and poured hot, brown liquid in the solitary cup. He offered it to her.

  Charlotte took the last bite from her share of the meat and took the cup from him. She took a sip of the hot liquid and cleared her throat. “Why won't you tell me why you're doing this?” she asked. "You kidnapped me and keep hinting what an evil man Justice Fletcher is. You’ve given me no reason or explanation."

  He took the coffee from her and drank what was left, throwing the grounds into the fire before pouring another cup and setting it on the floor beside the skillet.

  “All right," he answered. "I don’t have much hope that you’ll believe me, but I guess you deserve to know.”

  ***

  He fetched the saddlebag in the corner and brought it to the light. Dropping it on the table, he opened the bag and removed a thin stack of newspaper clippings. He glanced at her before he spoke. “We’ll start with this one.” He cleared his throat. “This is from the Des Moines Review, dated September 19, 1872. Married 2 September by Rev. J. C. Johnson, at the home of the bride’s uncle, Marcus B. Collins, Anita Bennett and Justice Fletcher. He dropped the paper and read the next. “Died, March 24, 1873, in a tragic drowning accident, Mrs. Justice Fletcher. She was laid to rest at the West Creek Cemetery on March 25.”

  Charlotte picked up the cup and took a sip before making a comment. “Justice told me that he had been married before. His wife was killed in an accident, just as you read. So what are you trying to prove to me?”