Sterling's Way (Lawmen & Outlaws)

by Leone, Sarita

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Other Books You Might Enjoy

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Sterling’s Way

  by

  Sarita Leone

  Lawmen & Outlaws Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Sterling’s Way

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Sarita Leone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by RJ Morris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Cactus Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-324-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-325-4

  Lawmen & Outlaws Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Vito, always.

  Chapter One

  Wyoming, 1874

  Splinters of wood flew into the air as gunshot ricocheted off the motionless stagecoach’s weathered doorframe. Jack Sterling grabbed his dusty brown Stetson and lowered his head just as a second shot whizzed through the cabin. A fast breeze stirred beside his ear. It was a close call—too close.

  He would have cursed his bad fortune had he not been so intent on keeping his life. With a scowl meant for Lady Luck, he looked at the two other occupants of the ill-fated conveyance.

  Miraculously, the white-haired gentleman had the good sense to keep his head as low as he could given the girth of his midsection. The snub-nose revolver he held in a death grip was old, but it appeared ready for action. The big question was whether or not its owner could shoot as well as he could duck. That remained to be seen.

  No time to dwell on what can’t be helped. Acid ripped at Jack’s gut, the way it had for weeks. That, too, was something he couldn’t change, so he swallowed hard and hoped he and his gut would survive the afternoon intact.

  He shot a gaze at the other passenger. She was easy on the eyes but seemed to have more looks than sense. A lock of hair, the color of Kansas wheat after a rainstorm, had escaped her bonnet and hung in a wispy tendril beside her face. Another time, he might have been tempted to sweep it off her neck, but now definitely was not that time. The roses blooming on her cheeks made him want to wipe a lazy fingertip across the creamy complexion but he swallowed that urge, too.

  He had to remain focused if any of them were going to get out of this situation alive.

  “Get low unless you want to lose your head,” Jack growled. Holding one hand tight on his Peacemaker, he stretched the other out and put it on the back of the woman’s neck. He pushed her head down, keeping pressure on her until her body was nearly prone on the coach’s floorboards. Instinctively he placed his body halfway over hers, putting himself between her and the coach door. It was a stupid move—if he wanted to live, that is—but then he had made a number of less-than-logical decisions these past weeks. What harm could there be in adding one more to the growing list?

  Another burst of gunfire came at them from a dense stand of pines to the left of the rutted track. Judging from the angle of the shots and the way the dead coach driver sprawled near the front wheel, the most accurate shooter was somewhere in those trees. The other fire had been cover fire, designed to add to the confusion and, possibly, find a random target.

  Jack had been in enough gunfights to know he only had three options.

  He could kill or take captive the men who wanted the stagecoach’s cargo. There looked to be only the two men, but one could never tell. A third—the deadliest—might be hiding anywhere, waiting for Jack to pick off the obvious two before the last filled his belly with lead.

  He could hold them off. Wait it out. Help might come in time to take care of the two outlaws who had them pinned down. Then again, help might take hours to arrive. His gunbelt would be emptier than a creek bed in July long before then.

  The third option was out of the question. He had survived too many tough times to get killed by a couple of stagecoach bandits.

  “My grandson went for help.” Beside his ear, the man’s voice was startlingly steady and firm. “My Patrick, he’s a good rider. He’ll get to town and bring help back, I know he will. We’ve just got to have faith.”

  Although he kept the volume low, Jack felt the weight of the older man’s words. An image of a pulpit, the man’s white mop forcefully nodding to punctuate a sermon, flashed through his mind. Vaguely he recalled hearing some talk about a preacher coming to Brown’s Point.

  His suspicions were confirmed when the man switched his handgun to his left hand, then held out his right. Jack glanced out the window. All was quiet, almost eerily so, but manners had been hammered into him from his earliest days, so he took his pistol in his left hand. They shared an abrupt handshake before returning their weapons to their shooting hands.

  “Henry James Godsworth.”

  “By any chance, are you the new preacher?”

  Trapped as they were in a driverless stagecoach by armed robbers, it seemed an unlikely place to begin a conversation but Jack had tentatively decided option two was his best bet. Who knew? Maybe the little grandkid rode like the wind, and was even at this very minute holding a lollipop in one hand and leading a group of deputies to their aid with the other. At any rate, there was little else to do beside wait for the thieves to make their next move. It was as good a time as any to learn who shared his makeshift prison. Besides, the possibility he might be in need of a holy man’s services sometime in the near future was a distinct one. It wouldn’t hurt to get on the man’s good side.

  “With a name like Godsworth, would I have any chance of being anyone else?” The preacher slapped his thigh. With a wide smile, he looked deep into Jack’s eyes. “And you are?”

  “Jack—” Before he could finish, Jack felt the body beneath his shift, and he remembered he still lay prone over the woman’s form. She wiggled her rear end, pressing against his hips as she attempted to slide out from under him. The sensations, as well as the faint whiff of lavender coming from her, chased rational thoughts from his head. Even if the preacher had pressed him, it was doubtful Jack could provide his last name in introduction.

  A muffled voice entered the conversation.

  “I hate to interrupt your getting-to-know-you moment, but I’m being squashed down here.” Jack shifted his weight slightly onto his elbows, keeping his head down so as not to have it blown off his neck while she wriggled from beneath him. Then, she rolled onto her back. “That’s better,” she said, adjusting the lapels of her no-nonsense gray
traveling jacket.

  Much better, Jack thought. He stared down into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

  Once he had crossed the Atlantic Ocean during the summer, when the sun was brightest and the ocean sparkling like a treasure chest of gemstones. During the long, dull days at sea he had read or walked the decks, the only two respectable amusements open to a young man traveling on his own.

  Mostly, though, he stared out into the water, captivated by undulating hues of blue and green he had not thought possible. The memory of the ocean’s beauty had been tucked into a corner of his heart since the trip, a private treasure that grew fainter with the passing years. Now the memory was rekindled, the sight of those turquoise and aquamarine waters brought fully to life in the wide, clear eyes staring up at him.

  Jack was unprepared for the stranger’s effect. He had counted on experiencing any number of unusual moments, even being slammed by the odd twinge of guilt during his ride for justice, but he had never dreamed he would feel anything like what hammered at him now. Like riding flat-out on the fastest steed—with his eyes closed and his arms spread wide. Excitement, the heart-stopping, devil-may-care variety, mingled with something else, something he hadn’t felt since he was a boy in knee pants.

  It took him a second to realize why his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. The pounding in his ears, tripping of his pulse and the thought his whole world had tipped sideways when he wasn’t looking could only be attributed to one thing—fear. It wasn’t something he was proud to own, but it was the icy truth. The possibility of falling headfirst into the dreamy blue eyes scant inches from his was as real as the fear he’d felt standing on the ship’s deck. He had struggled to control his trepidation as he had stared into the ocean’s murky depths but, in the end, he hadn’t been able to overcome his anxiety. Jack had never learned to swim, but he had enough brains to recognize a threat when he saw one.

  Fortuitously, all fear of drowning in the woman’s enchanting gaze came to a screeching halt before he made a fool of himself. Lady Luck appeared just in time.

  “There! Riding over the hill—it’s Patrick. Looks like he’s got three men with him, at least. That’s my boy! I knew he would save the day!”

  The preacher sounded prouder than a man of the cloth ought to, but Jack didn’t figure it was the right time to bring up the Seven Deadly Sins. He was too intent on watching the skirmish taking place at the edge of the trail. The deputies had jumped from their horses, taken shelter behind boulders and tree trunks, and fired several shots at the stage robbers. After the tense moments inside the stagecoach, the action unfolding outside was almost anticlimactic. In no time, the two assailants were handcuffed astride their horses.

  The carriage shook as the older man shoved himself onto the bench behind him. He slid his pistol into his vest pocket, exchanging it for a snowy linen handkerchief. Using the fabric to blot his brow, he chuckled. “Just like I told you, wasn’t it? My grandson is one of the go-to-est fellows this side of the Mississippi. If there’s something that needs doing, Patrick’s the man for the job.”

  “Excuse me, but may I get up now?” Her voice was as silky and smooth as her cheeks, and far more cultured than any Jack had heard in a long time. His mother had been a refined woman, but she had been gone for so long the sound of her voice was but a whisper in his memory.

  Jack holstered his weapon and pushed himself up in one motion. Then, he reached out a hand to help the prone female. She looked at his wide, calloused palm for a long moment, as if assessing its cleanliness, before she put her gloved hand in his. Her touch was as dainty as a butterfly’s, but as he helped her rise Jack saw steeliness in the blue eyes.

  So, there is more to this damsel in distress than meets the eye. He hid a grin, not wanting her to think he was laughing at the sight of her indelicate position.

  “Thank you.”

  She sat on the bench opposite her traveling companion, leaving Jack the option of either sitting beside the older man or settling into the space beside her. The choice was easy. Jack sat, and hid a second grin as she reached out and swept her full skirt into her lap.

  “You’re welcome.” Jack waited while she smoothed her skirt, watching like a child at a magician’s show as she straightened her pristine white gloves before touching a reassuring hand to the firmly tied bonnet ribbons beneath her chin.

  When she didn’t make a move to fix her hair, Jack cleared his throat. He felt the other man’s gaze drilling a hole into the side of his head but he kept his gaze on the lady—for it was abundantly clear she was a lady. Her actions and calm demeanor convinced him of the fact. At the sound, she met his gaze and he glanced pointedly at the lock of dangling hair. Had he not known his assistance might earn him a slap on the cheek for his trouble, he would have swept the hair off her face.

  “Oh!” She turned toward the coach’s far side and ministered to the errant lock.

  “Yessir, I knew my grandson would bring help fast.”

  Footsteps approached the coach. Jack glanced out and saw the deputies, so he turned the handle and pushed open the door. He scanned the tree line, searching for a youngster, but didn’t find one.

  Confused, he turned to the preacher. “Mister—uh, Reverend—”

  “Pastor,” the man supplied. “Pastor Godsworth is fine. Preacher Godsworth will do as well.”

  In these rugged parts, the man was more apt to hear the latter but Jack was not from around here so he said, “Thank you, Pastor. So, where is the boy? Your grandson—I don’t see the little guy. I’d like to thank him for bringing help the way he did.”

  The door on the opposite side opened. A hearty voice filled the small space. “Grandfather, are you all right? And you, Miss Marsh, are you intact? I rode as hard as I could but I worried the scoundrels might harm you both before I got back. Are you both spared?”

  Pastor Godsworth pulled the man inside the carriage and embraced him before answering the barrage of questions. Keeping an arm around his grandson’s shoulders, he waved away the other man’s concern with his free hand. “We’re fine, my boy, just fine. The good Lord above saved us—with a little help from this fine man, a gift of divine providence if ever I met one. Isn’t that right, Miss Marsh?”

  “Why, yes. This, ah, gentleman came upon the scene and, without any thought to his own safety, rushed to our assistance.” Miss Marsh turned and faced Jack, a grateful smile twitching up the corners of her rosebud lips. “How ever will we thank you? Why, we don’t even know your name, do we, Pastor?”

  “No, we don’t.” The pastor slapped his grandson’s broad shoulder with a wink. “At least, not all of it.”

  Jack’s brain barely had time to register the fact that the preacher’s “boy” was a grown man—a man whose gaze had been pinned on the young woman across from him ever since he’d been welcomed by his grandfather. The attraction was clear but Jack wondered if it was mutual.

  The musing was lost when a deputy leaned in and asked, “Everyone all right here?”

  “We are, sir. Thank you for enquiring.” Miss Marsh answered softly. She bestowed a small smile on the lawman.

  A wild, irrational stab of jealousy tore through Jack but he quelled it. There was no time for entanglements, and jealousy was energy wasted that could be better used to accomplish his goal. A goal that he had not come closer to achieving, despite his best intentions and efforts. If only the stagecoach hadn’t been under siege when he had come upon it… But there wasn’t time for recriminations or regrets. Not now.

  “We were just trying to learn the identity of our hero.” The pastor gestured to Jack, bringing everyone’s focus to the same point. “This kind stranger found us helpless and under fire, but he didn’t give a thought for his own safety. This brave fellow made his way into the coach and single-handedly held the robbers at bay. We will be forever in your debt, Mr.—what is your name, sir?”

  “Jack Sterling. And there’s no need to thank me, any of you.” Jack warmed beneath his dusty hat. The c
arriage felt close and he would have jumped out into the open air had there not been deputies at both door openings. “I just found you all in a tight spot, and did what anyone would have done. It’s no big deal, really.”

  “Pretty darn lucky for everyone, you riding up on the stagecoach unexpectedly like that.” The deputy spat a stream of tobacco juice to the ground, punctuating his statement in true cowboy fashion.

  For an instant, Jack went cold inside. Then he realized there was no way the deputy—or anyone else, for that matter—could know why he “happened” on the coach the way he had.

  Luck? It had nothing to do with Jack’s presence.

  He had come prepared to rob the stagecoach. If it were not for his own bad luck, he would have been able to do so—without having to save it instead.

  Chapter Two

  Had anyone told socialite Kristen Marsh she would step onto the muddy, rutted road before the Brown’s Point Stagecoach Station and be grateful for the chance to fill her travel-weary lungs with dusty, hot air—redolent with the scent of horse manure, no less—she might have laughed herself silly over the preposterousness of such an idea.

  The irony of her situation was not lost on her as she narrowly avoided a smelly deposit left by one of the six horses still attached to the coach.

  Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any messier.

  Pulling her skirt high enough off the ground to ensure some measure of cleanliness, she took a rather large, unladylike step and ascended to the wide wooden walkway in front of the building. A fleeting mental image of her mother’s horrified reaction to Kristen’s small leap onto the walkway made her smile. The motion wasn’t anything she had learned at the prestigious Boston Academy for Young Women, but it served a purpose. A glance down at her hem made her glad for the improvised leap.

  She was in a new land—or at least a new-to-her land—and a move this big called for a few adjustments. It wasn’t enough to simply change her name. No, if this plan was to work she would need a whole new identity, one that was so far removed from her real self, and her former life, that no one would suspect who she was—or why she was hiding. Bounding onto the boardwalk like a common fishmonger’s wife was a small jump by comparison to the leap of faith she had taken when she left all she knew and loved behind her.