Every Girl's Dream

by Cheryl Pierson

  He tried to get up on the seat beside his uncle, scrambling to turn him over. “Uncle John!”

  Outside the coach, wild whoops and calls filled the air. Ezra Talbot began to sob.

  Sheena pulled herself up from the floor of the coach, fear knotting her stomach. Two shots were fired nearby, and through the window, she saw the body of the shotgun rider pitch from the seat onto the ground. The coach came to a stop.

  A face appeared suddenly in the window, dark and cruel, eyes burning with hatred. Sheena gasped, recoiling in horror against the seat. The savage yanked the door open, calling to the others in his guttural tongue.

  “Oh, dear Jesus, protect us,” Sheena whispered. She and Ezra Talbot were surely as doomed as the others. Every thought fled but that of survival. She had not left her home, turned her back on everything she knew, to lose her baby to these murderers.

  As the stocky warrior forced his way into the coach over John Talbot’s legs, past Ezra’s incompetent flailings, he grasped Sheena’s wrist to pull her out.

  Reaction overcame her. She fought him with a wildness she hadn’t felt since the day Richard Purl had…taken her. She kicked out at him, her fingers curving into claws, raking the side of his face.

  But he was too strong for her, pulling her from the inside of the coach as if she were a feather. When he yanked her close to him and leapt to the ground, she bit his shoulder fiercely.

  He gave an angry cry, jerking her head back by a handful of hair. Behind her, Ezra Talbot pleaded for his life. Sheena heard laughter from the warriors, and then, one last gunshot.

  She held her captor’s glare for a long moment, unwaveringly. She would not cry. She would not. “You…bastard.”

  The Indian smiled, very slowly, but he still held her tightly close to his body. He lowered his head, and Sheena stood helpless to fight him. His eyes were the same as Richard Purl’s had been. She couldn’t endure it again. The world began to spin around her, the sounds becoming farther and farther away. And then, there was only blackness.

  ****

  Cal Chandler had gotten an even later start leaving Brush Creek than he’d intended. Two nights earlier, he’d ridden to Carthage to meet with a wagon master who was putting together a wagon train heading into Indian Territory, or beyond. He’d wanted to hire Cal—at half the rate he’d normally pay. “Since you’re Injun an’ all,” he’d said.

  Cal had stood up to leave, and the wagon master had taken umbrage. There had been a scuffle, and, Cal had spent the better part of the night in the Carthage jail. He’d ridden back into Brush Creek yesterday at dawn, and had eaten a quick breakfast at the back entrance of the hotel before he’d headed to the telegraph office.

  The ticket master doubled as the telegraph operator in Brush Creek, and the place was already open, doing business. He couldn’t help remembering how the young woman had startled him in her flight from the wooden building. Her green eyes were wide with embarrassment in her urgent need to get outside. Why had he followed her? He’d humiliated her, just by being there, by bearing witness to her sickness. But she’d been so utterly, achingly alone. What choice had he had?

  When he’d asked about her husband, she’d raised her chin and looked him right in the eye. “I have no husband,” she’d told him. She shouldn’t be alone.

  He’d thought of little else ever since that moment. Those forest green eyes, the defiant set of her head, as if she meant to take on the world…and her being alone in it.

  If he’d managed to finish up his business in Brush Creek a little earlier, he might have ridden along with the stage. The shotgun rider, Hank Lee, was a man Cal had known for many years. He’d confessed over a cup of coffee the last time they’d met up that he was thinking of resigning his post with the stage company. The money was good, but the danger was high.

  Cal was headed back west now, a day later than he’d intended. His mind was full with memories of the trembling smile the girl, Sheena, had given him. She had been beautiful. Scared. What had happened to her man? Why was she traveling alone?

  He shook his head to clear it. No matter what, Hank would be glad to have the extra firepower he’d bring with him, Cal thought, when he managed to catch up. They couldn’t be much farther ahead.

  He wasn’t so lost in his thoughts that he could ignore the prickle at the back of his neck. He didn’t stop riding, just veered off the main track of the trail and into the tree line. He slowed his horse to a walk, his senses raw with his need to pinpoint what was causing his uneasiness.

  He turned his head, scanning the dappled noon-day sunlight through the trees. Nothing amiss. Then, he heard it. Far in the distance, the crack of a Winchester, then another. It would take longer if he kept to the trees, but it would be safer. He wouldn’t be able to help anyone if he was dead.

  The stage. His heart hammered against his breastbone. Sheena was on that stage. As he neared where the sound of the gunshots had come from he heard snatches of laughter and talk. Talk that made his blood run cold.

  He was half Comanche. Not fluent in other tribal languages, but he knew enough Kiowa to understand what was being said. Everyone had been killed. As he came through the trees, he could see for himself. Hank’s body and that of the driver lay on the ground on each side of the stage. A young man lay sprawled near the back wheels of the stage, his blood pooling beneath his head. Another passenger lay half in, half out of the stage door—a man old enough to be the boy’s grandfather.

  Then, he saw her. His heart froze, missing a beat, until he saw the rise and fall of her breathing. One of the warriors held her, looking down into her face questioningly as he trailed his fingers through a strand of her hair. He looked up and called to one of the others, who hurried over.

  Gently, they laid her on the ground, speaking to one another as they lowered her.

  There were six of them, Cal noted. Four were occupied with freeing the horses from the stagecoach. If they got Sheena back to their camp, he’d never be able to free her. He sighed, hoping they’d bargain. Hoping they wouldn’t shoot him on sight.

  Slowly, he rode down from the top of the hillside at a lope, watching for the glint of a gun barrel. He held his hands up as he approached, riding over to where Sheena lay on the ground, the two men kneeling above her.

  “Hey,” he called in greeting.

  “Hey,” the stocky warrior responded, coming to his feet.

  Cal searched his mind for the right words in Kiowa. He pointed to Sheena, then laid a hand over his heart. To his surprise, the warrior spoke to him in English.

  “This woman is yours?”

  Cal nodded. “Yes. She is my wife.” The claim was natural, easy on his lips.

  The warrior gave him a skeptical look. “What will you trade?”

  “You have already taken enough,” Cal said coldly. “Horses. Trinkets. Coins…Lives.”

  After a moment, the warrior glanced at the other Indian he’d called over, as if to gauge his opinion.

  “She carries our child,” Cal said, pressing him.

  “Yet, she does not travel with you.”

  “She cannot ride a horse. She’s too far gone.”

  The barrel-chested warrior nodded, motioning for the other man to leave them.

  Cal’s body hummed with trepidation. He glanced around, trying not to appear anxious. His palms tingled. The way this man looked at Sheena told him he may not give her up without a fight. The longer he delayed, the longer the Kiowa had to think about it. And in this case, thinking could only be a bad thing for Sheena, and for him.

  He dismounted, letting his confidence show rather than the uncertainty that plagued him. He strode toward where Sheena lay and knelt beside her.

  Her pulse raced beneath his fingers as he laid them at her neck. She’d opened the top buttons of her high-neck blouse to keep the heat at bay. Her long hair was twisted up into a bun at the back of her head, tendrils of it escaping like silken flame around her pale skin.

  Beautiful.

  Her ey
elids flickered and began to open, and Cal moved so he would be the first thing she saw.

  “Hi, honey,” he murmured. “You sure gave me a scare…Are you all right?” He smoothed her hair back, warning her with his eyes.

  “What’s going—”

  “Shh. It’s all okay. We’ll ride into Lowell’s Ridge and get a room for the night.” He glanced up at the Kiowa. “Much obliged. We’ll be leaving now.” He helped Sheena up, supporting her as she leaned against him. Cal turned, hating to put his back to the other man in order to get Sheena to the horse.

  “Wait.” The Kiowa’s voice stopped him, and he turned to look back.

  A smile curved his thick lips. “You forgot this.” The Indian walked a few steps to where Sheena had dropped the bag in her struggle. He bent to pick it up, thrusting it forward. His black eyes mocked his words. “Your…possessions.” His gaze lingered on Sheena as he spoke.

  Cal took the bag with a nod and moved toward the horse again.

  “They—they k-killed—” Sheena began, but Cal stopped her swiftly.

  “Sheena, don’t say anything.”

  He threw the handle of her valise around the saddle horn, and Sheena looked up into his face. Her chin trembled, but determination burned in her green eyes. “We’re just riding away?”

  He smiled down at her with what appeared to be newlywed tenderness. “As quickly as possible.”

  She stiffened. Cal bent to lock his fingers together, making a stop for her as she grasped the saddle horn. He boosted her up to the saddle, then swung up behind her.

  The Kiowa leader had already turned away, calling to his men.

  Too complacent.

  Cal felt…something. His back tingled as he waited for the stinging burn of a shale arrowhead. He risked a glance backward, and saw the Kiowa leader’s stare heavy upon him.

  “Sheena, hold on tight.”

  “The baby—”

  “I know, sweetheart. We won’t ride hard any longer’n we have to. Lowell’s Ridge is only about four miles away.” A very long four miles.

  She nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry, Callen.”

  “No call for that.”

  “You came for me.”

  He smiled at that. There was a small amount of disbelief in her tone, overshadowed by a huge amount of wonder. Who wouldn’t come for her?

  “You could be killed because of me,” she said softly, as if she had only just realized it. She laid her hand over his, and in that moment, he wondered if dying for her would be worth the twenty-seven years he’d lived so far.

  His heart jumped at her touch, then steadied. But as he risked another glance back, he saw exactly what he’d feared. Two of the braves were mounting up, and they weren’t riding the opposite way. “That still might happen,” he murmured.

  He leaned forward, trying to protect Sheena with his body as he slapped the reins against the horse’s side, urging him into a lope, then a full-out run.

  The Kiowas were close behind them. There must have been dissension among them. The leader had seemed content to let him take Sheena and ride away. One of the others must have disagreed with that decision.

  Cal reached to pull his revolver from his holster.

  They were strangely quiet, he thought.

  The first bullet cracked from behind them, and Cal reflexively bent lower. The bullet whined past his ear like an angry bee.

  Sheena gasped. He fired off a shot and got lucky. One of the warriors screamed in agony and fell from his saddle. But the other rode low, hanging onto the side of his mount. And he kept right on coming.

  The next bullet sang over Cal’s head. He concentrated on eating up the miles to Lowell’s Ridge. Riding double was slowing them down considerably. Sheena’s body was tense beneath the shelter of his own. Fragile, but strong. Delicate, but determined. His hand splayed over her stomach, holding her close, cradling her from the jarring of their wild ride.

  A whoop from behind them accompanied the crack of a rifle, and this time, the Kiowa warrior’s bullet found its mark. A bolt of fire seared through Cal’s right shoulder, and for a minute, the pain was so strong he almost sawed back on the reins. But at his harsh curse, Sheena glanced up at him, her hand instantly clamping tightly over his. The reins were still wrapped in his fingers, but Sheena kept her hand on his, reminding him to let the horse have his head and continue their flight for freedom.

  “Hang on, Cal!”

  The pain was so breathtaking he could do nothing but nod his understanding.

  “Dammit!” she cursed. That almost made him smile, but the agony in his shoulder surged up and stole his breath again as the horse’s hooves pounded the ground below.

  The road was not much more than a trail, and where it narrowed, branches reached out to scrape and snarl in hair and clothing, scratching their faces as they blindly rode toward safety.

  As they broke through the brambles and low limbs into the clearing on the other side of the wooded section of road, Cal glimpsed the steeple of the church, then in a moment, the rooftops of houses.

  He glanced behind him to see the Kiowa had stopped. He was taking careful, deadly aim with the Winchester he held.

  “Christ,” Cal muttered. “Keep down, Sheena.” He maneuvered the horse quickly to the left, just as the shot sounded, and the bullet flew past harmlessly. When he looked back again, the warrior had disappeared.

  He let his breath out in a rush. “He’s gone,” he muttered in Sheena’s ear, and felt her relief as her body sagged against him.

  ****

  They drew up in front of the small mercantile. Several men who had been standing on the wood-planked porch rushed over. As Sheena slid down from the saddle, one of the men reached to steady her.

  “We need a doctor—Indians—” Her words tumbled out, as disorganized as her scrambling thoughts.

  None of the men moved.

  “He’s hurt—shot—”

  They looked at her as if sizing her up…and not liking what they saw.

  “Indians, huh?” One of the men asked. He spat into the dirt. “Looks to me like he got what he deserved. From one of his own.”

  Sheena’s palm itched to slap his face. “They weren’t ‘his own,’ mister.”

  Another of the men took a step forward. “Different tribe, maybe. But…still Injun.” He smiled, wiping tobacco drippings from his mouth. “Now, sugar, there ain’t no need for you to be upset. You come along with ol’ Wes. We’ll find us a good time—”

  Sheena took a deep breath, desperately looking around her for help for Cal. From behind her, Cal’s gun clicked, and the man looked up, his greasy smile disappearing.

  “Touch her and I will blow you to hell.”

  He put his hands up, backing away. “Easy, hoss, I ain’t after no trouble.”

  “You boys disperse,” a cold voice said from behind Cal and Sheena. Sheena turned to look up at Cal. He seemed to relax, but didn’t holster the gun.

  The group of men separated as a tall, lanky man with a battered badge stepped into Sheena’s view. He didn’t speak for a moment, his silent glare sending the group hurrying in different directions.

  “Callen,” he murmured finally. “How in the hell are you?”

  “Bleedin’, Michael.” Cal slipped the pistol back into the leather holster, grimacing at the pain the movement caused. “Sheena, Sheriff Mike Allred. Mike, Sheena Mc—”

  “Sheena Chandler, Mr. Allred,” Sheena interjected, quickly putting out her hand. “Very nice to meet you—and thanks for what you did. My husband’s in need of a doctor—”

  “Husband? Uh…sure. A doctor. Cal? That’s your usual state of affairs isn’t it, every time you head in to Lowell’s Ridge.” Allred’s grin was wide, his uncertainty still evident. “Livvie Colter still has a good rate on rooms and serves the best meals in town.” He smiled wryly. “And she’ll have both our heads if you don’t land over there and let her fuss over you some. Head on over there, and I’ll send Doc your way when I find him.”<
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  “Thanks, Mike. Then you’ll want to see to the passengers on the stage.”

  Allred’s grin fled. “What happened? They hurt?”

  “They’re dead. Along with the driver and rider.”

  “Jesus,” Allred said bitterly. “How many?”

  “Just two. An older man and a youngster.”

  Sheena’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded. “Ezra Talbot and his Uncle John.”

  “Hank Lee was riding shotgun,” Cal said quietly. “I didn’t know the driver.”

  “Shit. Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.” Allred let out a long sigh. He gave Cal a long look. “I’ll walk down to Livvie’s with you before I go look for Doc. I’m not sure you’re gonna be able to stay in the saddle. Don’t want you fallin’ on your new bride, here.”

  Cal nodded, his lips set in a grim line. Sheena looked up at him. Despite his pain, she could read a mixture of questioning and admiration in his expression. No doubt, he wondered what her game could be, carrying on the pretense of being his wife. Why had she done it? She turned away from his scrutiny, walking beside Sheriff Allred. They made their way to the end of the small Main Street and turned toward the left, past the saloon.

  A rambling, two-story house with a yard and a white picket fence set alone, apart from the other smaller dwellings. A wide, welcoming porch surrounded the lower floor, with colorful flowers in pots on either side of the door. It looked like…a home. Sheena’s heart constricted. It was grand and yet lovely in a simple way, all at the same time.

  “This is where we’re going?” The words tumbled out before she thought.

  “It’s the best place,” Sheriff Allred said, a note of pride in his voice.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  They stopped just outside the gate, and Cal dismounted stiffly. A muted groan slipped past his lips, and Sheena reached to lay a comforting hand on his back. He tensed at her touch, letting his breath out slowly.

  Sheriff Allred loosened the saddlebags and took Sheena’s valise from the saddle horn. He walked ahead of them, the saddlebags thrown over his shoulder. He lifted the brass knocker, letting it fall heavily in rapid succession.