Beautiful Bandit (Lone Star Legends)

by Lough, Loree

  “No need to get your dander up,” Mack drawled. “Y’all just keep right on helpin’ yourselves to everything we’ve got. Think of us as the three monkeys—we didn’t see or hear a thing.”

  “That’s right,” Liam agreed. “And if the Texas Rangers ask questions—an unlikely event, since we don’t plan to seek them out—we won’t speak a thing, either.”

  Levee looked up at her husband, unable to decide which surprised her more, the fact that he’d opened his mouth, or that he’d opened his medical bag. In one beat of her hammering heart, his hand disappeared inside the bag. In the next, his puny revolver was dangling from his fingertips. “I think you boys should—”

  One shot rang out, and even before its echo fell silent, Liam fell to the ground in a heap. “No-o-o!” Levee wailed. “Why-y-y?” Dropping to her knees, she cradled his head in her lap, wishing for the first time since graduating from the New England Hospital for Women that she hadn’t earned a degree in nursing, because one look at the bloody wound in the middle of his chest told her that, although he wasn’t dead yet, he soon would be.

  “I—I wanted to—give them—the gun,” he sputtered, “to prove we—could be trusted—”

  “Hush, now,” she whispered, kissing his cheeks and combing the dark curls from his forehead with her fingers. “Shh.”

  Mack threw his Stetson to the ground. “Of all the….” He kicked the hat. “Did you hear what the man said? He’s from Boston, for the luvva Pete. He meant you no harm. Why, I doubt he could’ve hit the broad side of a barn with that peashooter of his, even if he’d tried!”

  “Looked to me like he was aimin’ to shoot,” one of the men said in his defense, “an’ nobody takes aim at Frank Michaels.”

  The rifleman cursed under his breath. “Thought I tol’ you to shut up, Tom.”

  “Both of you shut up,” Frank snarled. He touched a finger to his hat brim and aimed a steely stare at Levee. “My apologies, ma’am. And, to prove my sincerity, we aren’t going to kill you. You have my word on that.” A grating chuckle passed through the red and black fabric of his bandanna. “At least, not today.”

  His implied threat hung on the parched air as Levee looked into her husband’s ashy face. “Fight, Liam,” she urged him. “Hang on—stay with me! You promised that, as soon as we were settled, we’d—”

  His eyelids fluttered open, and an enormous, silvery tear leaked out of the corner of one eye. “S-sorry, Levee,” he rasped, grabbing her hand. “S-sorry….”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Liam. You’re going to be fine.” Oh, please, God, let it be true! “Just fine, do you hear me?” No sooner had the words passed her lips than his body shuddered once, and the fingers that had been squeezing hers went limp. A trickle of blood crept from the corner of his mouth to his chin. Then, with one ragged breath, he was gone.

  A swirl of raw emotions roiled inside her, and, like a cyclone, lifted her to her feet. These horrible men had murdered her husband, but she acknowledged the part she had played in his death. If she hadn’t put her graduation ahead of their wedding plans, they would have had a house, and maybe a child or two, to keep Liam’s boredom at bay. Maybe with a family to occupy his time and fill his heart, he wouldn’t have reacted with such enthusiasm to that article in the Boston Globe bemoaning the lack of medical professionals in Mexico. She’d agreed to travel through this godforsaken country to help him achieve his dream because the Good Book and the dictates of society told her that her place was beside her husband. Well, she had no husband now, thanks to her own self-centeredness and these heartless killers. She watched, helpless, as the thugs helped themselves to Liam’s hard-earned savings, as Frank tucked Grandpa O’Reilly’s gold pocket watch into his vest, as his men carelessly poked through her small suitcase in search of jewelry.

  Almost from the moment they’d left Boston, Levee had been afraid. Afraid of ghastly-looking bugs and wild animals, afraid of the unrelenting wind and the dry, desolate land that seemed to stretch on forever. Afraid of outlaws and bandits she’d read about. Distraught and anguished, she was beyond fear now. With her fists balled at her sides, Levee marched up to the leader’s horse.

  “You killed my husband for no reason, and you think a phony apology will make things right? You’re—you’re a lunatic, Frank Michaels, and so are these so-called men who ride with you.” Levee swiped angrily at her traitorous tears. “Hiding behind your masks—why, you’re nothing but cowards, that’s what! Heartless thieves and—and cold-blooded killers. You’d better shoot me good and dead, right here where I stand, because, the very first chance I get, I will report you to the Texas Rangers!”

  Her hysterical tirade silenced even the chorusing insects and the chirruping birds. Silenced the amused chortles of Frank and his cohorts, too. The men exchanged puzzled glances, and then the one called Tom said, “You want me to plug her, Frank, or d’you wanna do it?”

  Frank rested one leather-gloved hand atop the other on his saddle horn, as if considering the idea. “I gave her my word, and I intend to keep it.”

  Tom snorted. “She’ll probably die of thirst before she reaches the next town, anyway.” Winking, he added, “If the coyotes don’t get her first.”

  She’d been an unwilling eyewitness to what those mangy canines could do to a deer carcass, and in very little time, too. Levee pressed her fingertips into her eyes to block the grisly image, and, when she did, the picture of Liam’s lifeless body took its place. A dozen thoughts flitted through her head. Could she have done something, medically, to save him? Why hadn’t she seen the gunman take aim before he’d fired on Liam? If she had, what might she have done to prevent the shooting in the first place?

  “Coyotes,” she heard the rifleman say. “You’re right, Tom. Not much chance she’ll live long enough to tell anybody what happened here.”

  And then Mack’s enraged voice broke through. “That was uncalled for,” he grumbled. “The poor woman just lost her husband, for the luvva Pete.”

  As if she needed a reminder! Please, Lord, please let this be a terrible nightmare. Let me wake up and realize that—

  A deafening explosion ended her prayer. She wasn’t dreaming, as evidenced by the whiff of smoke spiraling from Frank’s gun barrel—and the ghastly sound of Mack’s body hitting the ground. “No-o-o,” she wailed. “Not him, too! But—but you promised,” Levee sputtered. “You promised not to—”

  “I promised only not to kill you.” Then, he coolly holstered his revolver and faced Tom. “Unharness the team. Now.”

  Frank and his men had ended four lives in little more than four minutes, and then, with four words, he’d dismissed the matter. The howling wind whirled around them, gathering the dust into tiny twisters that hopped across the prairie like jackrabbits. Levee buried her face in her hands, unwilling to let them witness one more moment of her misery. She had the rest of her life for that.

  Life. She almost laughed at the notion. Sitting in the middle of the Texas prairie, waiting for only the good Lord knew what to kill her, wasn’t her idea of life.

  Suddenly, an idea dawned. Perhaps, if she got them good and angry, they’d shoot her, too.

  Levee started hurling insults and slurs, shrieking like a fishwife and waving her arms. But she might as well have been a cactus or a tumbleweed for all the attention they paid her. Infuriated, she picked up rocks and sticks and hurled those, too, yet they continued to ignore her.

  When the stagecoach team scattered in opposite directions, she bit back a sob. As they stuffed their saddlebags full of money, she admitted to herself that they really did intend to leave her out here in the middle of nowhere to wait for starvation and thirst—or hungry coyotes—to kill her. Oh, Father, please let it be the coyotes, she prayed. As painful as that would likely be, at least it would be quick. Until then, she’d have ample time to atone for her sin of selfishness.

  “You’re no better than the coyotes!” she called after them.

  But her words disappeared into their
cloud of dust and gleeful bellows. Hugging herself, Levee sunk to the dirt between the bodies of Liam and Mack and sat on her boot heels, rocking and groaning, groaning and rocking, as she waited for the tears to start.

  But not a single teardrop fell—not for her husband or the baby they’d lost, not for the brave, young cowboy who’d died defending her, not even for herself, alone and afraid, somewhere in West Texas.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed when the sun began to sink behind the horizon, like a golden coin disappearing into a slot. A dark chill blanketed the plains, waking snaky shadows that slithered from bush to scrubby bush. Strange and forlorn moans spilled from Levee, ascended into the blackness, and blended with the cacophony of night birds and bugs and coyote howls.

  By the time exhaustion rendered her silent, the moon was high in the sky, and Levee found herself cuddled up to Liam. And, though his lanky body offered no warmth or comfort, that’s where she stayed, praying that before morning, the Almighty, in His loving mercy, would call her home, too.

  Chapter Two

  December 1888 • Eagle Pass, Texas

  Becky cupped a hand between her mouth and Samantha’s ear. “See, I told you he’s teacher’s pet,” she whispered.

  Her seatmate rolled her eyes and sighed. “Shh, before your whispering gets us into trouble.”

  Levee tapped her pointer on the chalkboard. “Rebecca, Samantha, I’d hate to make you stay after school again.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. O’Reilly,” the girls chorused.

  Levee had done her best to look and sound stern, but her heart just wasn’t in it. In the seven months she’d been in Eagle Pass, she’d developed a deep affection for every one of her sixteen students, from four-year-old Willie Neville to thirteen-year-old Tim Boone. “Now, let’s pay attention to Billy’s story, shall we?”

  The boy picked up where he’d left off in his Parker’s First Reader. “You have seen a picture of a cat and a house.”

  It was Samantha’s turn. “Did you see a sound?”

  “No,” Tim, continued, “I can hear a sound, but I cannot see a sound.”

  As the children took turns reading the lesson, Levee’s mind wandered. It was hard to believe that, just last April, she’d been in Boston, a happily married woman with a baby on the way. And here it was, just halfway through December, and she was a widow, forced to accept the only position available to make ends meet until she could afford the train fare back to Boston. If she hadn’t spent most of her pay on supplies for the children, that’s where she’d be right now.

  You know better, Levee O’Reilly. Eagle Pass feels more like home to you than Boston ever did.

  She perched on the corner of her desk as images of that terrible day on the prairie flickered at the corners of her memory. The stagecoach robbery, those awful men, the gruesome sight of her young husband lying so very still in the dust…. Levee clasped her hands and tried to shake the pictures from her mind with the knowledge that Frank Michaels was dead. Thank God for Kate Neville for firing the shot that killed him!

  “Somethin’ wrong, Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  Levee felt her cheeks go hot. “Of course not, Tim. What makes you ask such a thing?”

  “It’s just, well, you looked powerful mad just now,” the boy said, shuffling his well-worn boots along the floor beneath his desk. “I—uh, we’re finished the page….”

  So much for Reverend Peterson’s assurances that you’d forgive that terrible man eventually. Forcing a smile, Levee glanced at the big, ornate clock in the back corner, which had been donated, along with a huge crate of books, by Matilda Montgomery. With only thirty minutes left in the school day, she saw no point in moving on to the next lesson. “You all did such a wonderful job. Just wonderful!”

  Just as she opened her mouth to dismiss the class, Mack walked through the rear doors. “Howdy, young’uns,” he said, hoisting a brown sack over his shoulder. “Look what your Uncle Mack has brought you!”

  The girls giggled, and the boys shouted, and before Levee could say hello, Mack was surrounded by smiling children. He doled out rock candy, one chunk per palm. He looked so hale and hardy that it was hard to believe what sorry shape he’d been in when the two of them had arrived in Eagle Pass. If it hadn’t been for his will to live, he would have died from Frank Michaels’s well-placed bullet. The morning after the stagecoach robbery, his quiet whimpering had roused her, and she’d removed the bullet and patched him up using tools and tape she’d found in Liam’s medical bag.

  For two long days, they’d limped along the San Antonio Road, and with every painful step, Levee’s hatred for Frank Michaels had mounted. Though it hadn’t been his bullet that had killed her husband, it might as well have been. If not for Mack’s strength and perseverance, Liam’s body would have been food for the buzzards and coyotes. After helping her dig a grave using spokes from a broken wheel, Mack had fashioned a crude cross from the boards of the driver’s seat of the stagecoach—hardly the grave or marker Liam deserved, but a long sight better than the alternative. How could any right-minded person—Christian or otherwise—think it possible for her ever to forgive the outlaw or his men?

  Then, blessedly, a covered-in-dust stagecoach had appeared on the horizon. Levee had heard of mirages and thought that’s exactly what it was. But the driver had stopped and said he was going as far as Eagle Pass, and, since his only passenger was a mangy mutt named Mischief, he’d delivered the trail-weary passengers to town, where they’d both been ever since.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Levee returned Mack’s warm smile.

  “I brought something for you, too,” he said, holding up a thin, rectangular package. “Early Christmas present from me to you.”

  In the months since the robbery, she’d learned better than to argue with this bighearted, stubborn cowboy. “Just let me give them their homework assignment, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Mack made himself comfortable in the seat closest to her desk as she instructed the children to practice their multiplication tables that evening. To the youngest two, who hadn’t yet progressed that far in arithmetic, she said, “Recite your ABCs.” Then, Levee hugged them all and stood on the schoolhouse porch, waving good-bye.

  When she returned to the classroom, she saw that Mack had written “Levee O’Reilly is the prettiest gal in Eagle Pass” across the chalkboard. “Flattering as that might be,” she teased, “you’re not leaving here until you’ve washed that slate clean, Mack Burdette.”

  “All in good time. First,” he said, holding out a package wrapped in brown paper, “you need to open your present.”

  She gawked at the small, flat rectangle. “But it’s nearly two weeks until Christmas!”

  Mack shrugged. “I’ll probably be out at the farthest acres of the ranch by then, rounding up the strays.”

  Almost from the moment Dr. Lane had given him a clean bill of health, Mack had been a ranch hand for the Neville family at the Lazy N Ranch. He seemed born to the work, for in the time he’d been their employee, he had grown lean and tan, and his brown eyes glowed with power and pleasure. Though it made Levee feel conceited and vain to admit it, she knew that his happiness was in part because he’d taken a shine to her. His boyish grin, his impromptu visits, and his thoughtful little gifts for her and her students made it clear he hoped that she’d return his feelings someday.

  But it had taken months to accept her fate as a widow. Had taken months more to decide that she never again would allow romantic notions to sway her from doing what was right. If she’d fought harder against moving to Mexico back in April, Liam would be alive today. And, since Mack had the same persuasive tendencies, she could not—would not—allow her fondness for him to grow into something more.

  Gently, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pried her fist open, and laid the parcel on her palm.

  “You really shouldn’t have, Mack.”

  “Sure, I should’ve. Now, go on, open it.”

  She peel
ed back the brown paper and exposed a bar of chocolate.

  “Imported,” he explained, tapping its wrapper, “all the way from Switzerland.”

  Levee had seen the candies at J. W. Riddle grocery store and knew they cost far more than he could afford. “It’s too much, Mack—really! You should take it back. I’m sure Mr. Riddle will give you a refund, or exchange it for something—”

  He took the candy bar from her hand, opened it, and, grinning, bit off a corner. “Can’t take it back now,” he said around the mouthful, “so you might as well enjoy it.”

  He handed it back to her, and she took a bite, mostly to humor him. “I’ll just save the rest. If I’m disciplined, it might just last until you’re back from ‘the farthest acres’ so you can share it with me.” Levee rewrapped the candy and tucked it into her canvas bag. “Thank you, Mack. But, really, you shouldn’t have. You’re too thoughtful and generous for your own good sometimes.”

  “No such thing as ‘too generous’ where you’re concerned, Levee O’Reilly.”

  And he meant it. She could see proof of it all over his handsome, mustached face, could hear it in his voice. A blush crept into her cheeks, and, to hide it, Levee led the way to the door. “Will you be here for the children’s Christmas pageant? I’m sure they’d love seeing their Uncle Mack in the audience.”

  A strange expression skittered across his face—a look of hope that told her nothing would please him more than to hear her say she would love seeing him in the audience. But it wouldn’t be fair to mislead him. He deserved a woman who’d give him her all, not one who aimed to live out the rest of her days alone. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said from the porch. “Not for all the world.”

  Just as she wondered what in the world to say to that, a rich, baritone voice called out, “Say, Burdette, you gonna stand there jabbering with the schoolmarm all the livelong day?”