by Jo Goodman
"You know him?" Houston asked.
"Of course I know him. He's—"
Ethan felt his breath catch again.
Drew interrupted. "We met on the train. As you're probably aware, her company's quite entertaining."
"Drew?" Michael's brows knit. "Why are you—"
"Don't worry about me," Drew cut in again. "These men don't seem to like reporters and they've found me out. They were sure they could find a newspaperman right off, but I must look more like a parson than I knew. Took them a while to get to me." His smile was self-depreciating. "Hell of it is, my mother wanted me to be a preacher."
"Drew, I still don't-"
"Seems this fellow here and his friend uncoupled the Chronicle cars and the caboose."
"Uncoupled the cars?" Michael couldn't take it in immediately. What Drew was telling her was too horrifying.
"They're dead," Drew said quietly, holding her eyes, willing her to be cautious. "All dead."
There wasn't any more space in the first class car than there had been earlier. Injury was still a possibility but it no longer mattered. Michael dropped in the aisle like a stone.
Chapter 2
In a way it was a relief, Ethan thought. She was out cold, curled and crumpled in the aisle like a dry leaf. For the moment at least she couldn't say anything stupid. Now he could concentrate on the matter of Drew Beaumont. With a little luck he could make it work.
Houston hunkered down at Michael's head. "Get that damn reporter out of here," he barked at Happy, "and take care of him."
Happy hauled Drew out of his seat and pushed him into the aisle. Drew tripped on Michael's outstretched leg and nearly went sprawling himself. Ethan caught him and pulled him upright. "I'll take him out. You help with the lady." He felt the restlessness of the other passengers. A stony stare and a single wave of his gun put all of them back in their seats. "Obie, you watch them carefully. We don't want any heroes. One damned complicating female is enough for any robbery."
"I second that," Happy said feelingly.
Ethan let Drew step in front of him and leveled the barrel of his Colt at the reporter's back. "Let's go." Once they were outside the car Ethan directed Drew to jump down on the steep side of the track. "Keep going. Walk to the end of the train."
Drew glanced back over his shoulder and sneered.
"Thanks to your friends, a shorter walk than it used to be."
"Are you foolish or brave?"
"Neither. Just realistic. You're going to kill me. I've a mind to say whatever occurs to me."
Ethan nudged him when his steps slowed as they reached the rear car. "Keep going. About another hundred feet or so. Stop before the curve. If someone wants to watch I want it said I did my job." He looked around him, feeling the inky night closing in. Could anyone from the train see him at this distance? A witness would be helpful. It could seal his reputation with the others. There were those who still did not entirely trust him.
"That's far enough," he said. "Don't even think of making a break for it or I'll have to shoot you down."
It was an odd thing for him to say, Drew thought, when it was clear the fellow intended to kill him anyway. Drew turned. He could see the last car of the train, the emigrant car, beyond the robber's shoulder. There were faces pressed to the glass in the door, peering out into the night to get a glimpse of the execution.
"What is it you fellows have against some newspaper coverage?" Drew asked. "Some gangs would be grateful for it."
"The James boys perhaps. Not us." Ethan cocked his Colt. The clicking of the hammer sounded unnaturally loud in the still night air. "No one here tonight has any desire to become a folk hero."
"That's too bad. If you'd tell me something about your gang I could write a sympathetic piece."
"Either you're a liar or a man without a single principle. Have you already forgotten your colleagues? How many were in the cars when the coupling was released?"
Drew was shaking with equal parts cold and fear.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Four from the Chronicle. I don't know how many were in the caboose. Their deaths were senseless." Drew's eyes darted nervously. He wondered if he could make a break for it after all. There was sparse covering on the mountainside to his right and a steep, rocky descent on his left. "My friends weren't armed, for God's sake. They were no threat to any of you."
"Not everyone sees it that way," Ethan said. "How many cars did the Chronicle have?"
"Four."
Ethan swore softly. "Did you come on at Cheyenne?"
"Yes."
It did little to ease Ethan's conscience that he couldn't have known about the presence of the reporters. It was a variable that couldn't have been predicted with years of preparation. They had had no such luxury of time in their planning. Ethan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, lowering his Colt slightly. He pulled at his kerchief, letting it fall around his neck and reveal his face.
Drew Beaumont braced himself for the gunshot. When it didn't come immediately, fear made him angry. "Get it the hell over with, you son of a bitch."
"Listen to me carefully," Ethan said calmly. "When I fire I want you to clutch your chest, fall, and roll toward the drop. I'll kick you over the side. You're on your own from there."
"The fall will kill me."
"Perhaps. There's lots of rocky outcroppings where you can gain purchase. I'm not going to push you hard. You probably won't roll more than twenty, thirty feet." Ethan sensed another complaint coming from his hostage. "Look, when you consider the alternative is a bullet through your heart, I think I'm offering you a good deal."
Drew swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this?"
"I have my reasons," he said quietly. "Before you write one word of this for your paper, contact your publisher." Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Are you getting this, mister? Not one word before you contact Marshall. Tell him what happened and let him make the decision of what's to be printed. Don't take it upon yourself."
Drew was about to ask why it was so important when he saw the rear door of the emigrant car open and Michael Dennehy step out. His eyes widened. "Oh God, it's her."
Ethan glanced over his shoulder quickly. She wasn't alone. That he could have dealt with. Obie was following her with his shotgun, chasing after her in his loping stride while she charged ahead like No. 349 herself. "Damn. This changes things."
Drew's eyes widened in alarm. "You don't mean—"
Ethan nodded. "More kick than a mule." He raised his gun again and fired. He watched Drew waver on his feet for a few seconds. Behind him Obie and the woman were approaching fast. "Fall, you stupid bastard! Now!"
Drew's knees buckled under him. It wasn't until he hit the gravel roadbed that he realized he hadn't been shot at all. He rolled closer to the drop and sprawled. He heard Michael scream but he didn't have time to think about it. Ethan's booted foot was shoved in his ribs and the force of it drove him over the side. He slid on his belly, rolled, scrambled for purchase, then slid and rolled some more. Bits of gravel, rock, and snow, clumps of wiry bushes, and a discarded railroad tie, made the journey with him. Something hit him on the head and his vision was suddenly blacker than the night. His last thought before losing consciousness was that being shot probably wouldn't have hurt as much.
Before Ethan could swing around from the drop he was attacked from behind. Michael managed to get her entire forearm under his chin and press it against his throat. For a moment it seemed the impetus of her charge would send them both over the drop. Instead they fell backward onto the tracks with Michael under Ethan. He turned quickly and pinned her down, straddling her waist with his thighs and holding her wrists on either side of her head.
Air had been driven completely from Michael's lungs. It was the only reason she wasn't swearing like the man above her. She stared into a face that was so hard with rage a muscle worked spasmodically in each lean cheek. Now that the cursing had subsided the mouth was drawn flat, the teeth clenched. The chin was strong,
the jaw square-cut and rigidly set. It occurred to her suddenly that she was seeing the lower part of his face for the first time.
But not for the first time. She struggled again to hold onto the memory that would put that face in the proper place. She had seen him before. She was certain of it. But where?
"You killed Drew," she said accusingly. "I saw you."
"I killed him."
Obie stood over both of them with his shotgun. "Lady, you're lucky he didn't kill you, too."
"Perhaps he will when I tell you who I am."
Ethan sighed. "Aw, hell. You just can't keep your mouth shut, can you?"
Michael ignored him. "Drew wasn't just a friend, he was my—"
Ethan clipped her on the jaw.
"Whaddya do that fer?" Obie asked. Michael's head lolled to the side, her eyes closed. Her spectacles rested askew on her face. "Who the hell is she?"
Ethan stood, gave Obie his gun, then pulled Michael to a half sitting position before he bent and lifted her in his arms. "My wife," he said and started walking toward the train.
* * *
Michael woke in pain. The entire left side of her face throbbed. Initially she was disoriented, unable to place her surroundings, the steady movement under her, or the object that was holding her so securely she couldn't move. Several minutes passed before she understood she was traveling on horseback at night and the man who nearly broke her jaw was the same one holding her.
"You're awake," he said.
His tone gave nothing away, she noted. He seemed neither pleased nor upset by the fact that she was conscious again. She turned her head slightly, leaning away from her captor to see the terrain and count her companions. There were three other men on horseback, two of whom she remembered from the train. The robber who had forced the doctor to help her, the one she assumed to be the leader, was nowhere in sight.
The ground they were covering was treacherous, steep and rocky. Patches of ice and crusty snow made the climbing slow and the sudden, sharp descents frightening. The man she rode with had positioned her securely in front of him, her hip wedged intimately between his thighs. The saddle horn bore uncomfortably into Michael's flesh as they rode but beside the pain in her jaw it didn't deserve, and didn't get, a second thought.
In addition to the horses and men there were pack mules. Their braying echoed in the narrow passes when they stubbornly refused to follow the lead. The sound of the flicking whips was chilling.
Michael worked her jaw slowly from side to side, realizing for the first time that it wasn't broken. "Where are we?" she asked.
Ethan didn't answer right away. He wanted to enjoy the silence a little longer. It was his opinion that the mules were more sweetly tempered than the woman in his arms. "Rockies," he said.
She sighed. "I know that. I want to know where."
"Colorado."
She knew that, too. "Is that the best answer I can expect from you?"
"From me or any of the others."
"We're going to your hideout then?"
"Something like that."
His terse, evasive answers were annoying. Michael's hold on the threads of her patience was tenuous at best. "Why am I with you?" she demanded. The effect of her snapping tone was lost as she winced with pain. She tried to raise her hand to nurse her aching jaw and found it trapped by her captor's arm. "May I?" she asked, gritting her teeth as tears gathered in her eyes.
Ethan loosened his grip and allowed her the use of one hand. It was easier to ride when she was unconscious, or at least unmoving. He needed all his concentration to negotiate the narrow passes and ledges and keep himself, his hostage, and his horse upright.
Michael cupped the side of her swollen face. She imagined she would be black and blue for days. "Why am I with you?" she asked again.
"Because I told Obie you were my wife."
"Your wife!" She had meant to scream the words but Ethan was too fast for her. His hand clamped over her mouth and nose and the words were caught in the heart of his palm. The pressure of his hand nearly caused her to faint from pain and lack of air.
"Shut up and listen for a change!" he said with low, rough menace. "You don't need to comment on everything I say. I'm trying to save your miserable life. Don't make me regret it." He felt her resignation in the relaxing of her posture. She shuddered once as she slumped against him. Ethan moved his hand away cautiously and heard her sip the air gratefully for breath.
When the trail widened, Ethan hung back and let the others go forward. There was some good-natured ribbing when the men became aware of what he was doing. It was the most anyone had talked since leaving No. 349.
Ethan didn't say a word until he was certain they could not be overheard. Even then he kept his voice low. "I told Obie you were my wife because it was safer than what you were going to say."
Michael tried to remember her last words before she was cold-cocked. Frowning, she asked, "How do you know what I was going to say?"
"Because, lady, you're about as easy to read sometimes as a headline. You were about to blurt out that that reporter was your colleague." His tone dared her to say otherwise. "Isn't that right?"
She offered a reluctant yes. "How did you know?"
"He told me," Ethan lied. "When you came running out of the train, hell bent on martyrdom, he told me. Begged me to save your life."
"And you couldn't refuse a dying man's last wish."
"Something like that."
His cold, neutral tone grated on Michael's nerves. "You're really an amoral bastard, aren't you?"
Ethan refused to be riled. "If you say so."
They rode in silence a little while. Ethan knew she was crying, but whether it was for herself or for Drew, he didn't know, and didn't care to know. Eventually he gave her the kerchief from around his neck. "Here. Blow."
Michael accepted it, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. When she tried to return it her gesture was acknowledged with a terse, "Keep it." She stuffed it in the pocket of her duster.
"Couldn't you have left me behind?"
"I don't see how. Telling Obie that you're my wife seems to guarantee that you know who I am. I couldn't leave you once he thought you recognized me. It would put all of us in danger."
Michael levered her head back a little and stared at the hard cast lines of her captor's profile. "It's odd," she said slowly, softly, "but it's as if... I'm not sure... as if I do know you."
Trust her to worry an idea to death, Ethan thought, disgusted. He could see now that she was not going to rest until she placed him. "I don't see how that's possible."
"Neither do I," she admitted. She rested her head against his shoulder again, too tired to think clearly or plot her escape. "What do I call you?"
"Ethan Stone." For the first time in hours he smiled. "It sits better on the tongue than Amoral Bastard."
"So you say."
"I think I better have a name for you," Ethan said when she didn't offer hers.
"Mary Michael Dennehy."
"Dennehy," he repeated softly. God, he had wracked his brain trying to remember her last name. "Irish?"
"On my mother's side. County Clare."
"Catholic?"
"Could Mary Michael be anything else?"
"Well, Mary Michael, I think we'd-"
"It's just Michael. No one calls me Mary."
Ethan's lip curled to one side. "It figures."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He didn't answer her. "I think we'd better put our story together before we get questioned separately and come up with sixes and sevens."
"You make it up. I haven't decided if I'm going along with anything you're doing."
Ethan reined in his mount sharply, nearly dislodging Michael from the saddle. One gloved hand slipped around her throat and drew her back where he could look at her face clearly. His lightly colored blue-gray eyes reflected the cool wash of star shine. "You can't possibly be more stupid than I already think, can you? There isn't any choice of
going along or not, not if you want to see the sun rise. Tell me now that you're going to fight me every step of the way and I'll break your neck right here and leave you for carrion."
Michael shivered as much from the whiskey-whispered promise of his tone as the flinty hardness of his eyes.
"Is there anything you don't understand?" he demanded, searching her face.
She replied with a small negative shake of her head.
"Good." He released her throat. "You'd do well to keep in mind that your life doesn't mean half as much to me as my own."
"I'll remember," she said, her voice so small he had to strain to hear it.
"Then you just may come out of this alive." Ethan nudged his horse forward. He opened a few buttons on his leather and sheep's wool coat. "Slip your arms inside. Your hands must be like ice by now."
They were numb with cold but Michael wasn't certain she wanted to be that close to Ethan. Her hesitation was a clear signal.
Ethan shrugged and began to button up again. "Suit yourself."
"No... wait. I am cold. Nearly stiff with it actually."
She didn't feel stiff, Ethan thought as she slid her arms under his coat and around his back. Her movement wedged Michael tighter against him and he was miserably aware of the curve and pliancy of her flesh.
He comforted himself that any female this close to him, practically molded to him, would elicit the same response. It wasn't possible that his body was stirring in reaction to her. He needed to think about something else. Quickly.
"Any loose teeth?" he asked.
Michael had already run her tongue across her teeth several times to assure herself they were intact. She did so again. "Nothing loose."
He tried not to sound relieved. "I clipped you pretty hard."
"Mm-hmm."
"I'll have Detra tend to your face once we get where we're going."
"Detra?"
"She looks after us."
Michael wondered if she might find a sympathetic ally in the other woman. "Who are 'us'?" she asked.
"Try to keep your reporter's curiosity in check," he cautioned. "Everything in good time." Ahead of him he saw Happy McAllister approaching. He gave Michael a warning squeeze. "Happy's coming this way. What ever comes up, follow my lead." He felt her cheek brush his chest as she nodded her agreement.
