Micah crossed to the stove. “The eastbound stage doesn’t come in until two o’clock, when it’s on time.” He shaved several wood chips onto the glowing coals and tossed a few pieces of kindling on top.
“Two o’clock? But I have to—”
Micah turned. “Sorry, I don’t make the schedule. It will be awhile before the coffee’s ready. You might as well relax.” He measured ground coffee into the pot and ladled water from the bucket.
Rod dropped his bag and drummed his fingers on the back of the chair.
Micah set the skillet on the stove to heat while he sliced strips of bacon. He itched to ask Rod why the sudden decision to leave, but he could guess. “Did you talk to Sheriff Trask?”
“Huh? Oh… he—uh, he doesn’t need me.” Rod strode to the window.
“Really? He told me yesterday he hoped you were still around so you could help him protect the town. In case the Slaters come through here.”
Rod paced back to the chair, where he lowered himself and slumped his shoulders. A defeated sigh slipped from his lips. “You know, don’t you?”
“Know what?”
Rod blew out a stiff breath. “That I’m not a Pinkerton agent—that I made up all those stories.”
Micah couldn’t claim surprise, but a twinge of sympathy for his cousin took him unawares. “Let’s just say I suspected as much.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? Most men would challenge something they thought wasn’t true.”
Millicent hadn’t hesitated to point out Micah wasn’t like his cousin, and that truth had hurt at the time. Now, with Rod’s observation, understanding awakened. Micah wasn’t meant to be like his cousin or “most men.” If he were to fulfill the purpose for which God put him on this earth, he was supposed to strive to be as much like Jesus as humanly possible.
Micah crossed the room and sat to pull on his boots. “Questioning the validity of your claims wasn’t up to me.” He rose and returned to the stove. The coffeepot still hadn’t begun to boil. “How’d you get shot?”
Rod leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hung like a hound dog caught in the chicken coop. “Shot myself accidently while I was cleaning my gun.”
Gabby hurried down the boardwalk toward the bank. She wanted to catch Harold Linquist before he went home for lunch. She clutched a jar of Mama’s plum preserves, knowing Mr. Linquist enjoyed them every bit as much as his wife did. She hoped the gift might put the bank president in a generous mood.
She stepped through the double doors of the bank and glanced toward Mr. Linquist’s desk in the corner of a partitioned-off area. The portly gentleman sat shuffling papers and jotting notes. Gabby glanced at the clock. A quarter till twelve. She smiled a polite greeting to Mr. Nolan, the bank teller, and arched her brows in a silent inquiry, pointing to the desk. The teller nodded and continued serving his customer.
Gabby approached the bank president and cleared her throat. Mr. Linquist glanced up, and his thick jowls broke into a smile. “Miss Gabby, my Bessie said you’d be stopping in.” He craned his neck. “That wouldn’t, by any chance, be a jar of your mother’s plum preserves, would it?”
“Good morning, Mr. Linquist, and yes, Mama knows you and Miss Bessie like her preserves.” She handed him the jar and he smacked his lips.
“I’m going to take this home for lunch.” He motioned to the chair opposite him. “I understand you ladies are sponsoring a book drive. Tell me about it.”
Halfway through her explanation of the missionaries’ need for schoolbooks, Mr. Linquist’s face paled and his mouth dropped open. His eyes grew round, his gaze fixed behind her.
She turned in her chair and stared down the barrel of a gun.
Micah tucked two replies to Sheriff Trask’s telegram into his pocket as he strode down the boardwalk. Up ahead, a man he didn’t recognize stood, half inside and half outside the door of the bank with his gun drawn, looking furtively down the street.
Micah froze for the space of a heartbeat, and then he ducked into the alley and peered through the branches of a scrubby bush. No, his imagination hadn’t played tricks on him. The man disappeared into the bank and closed the door.
Micah’s pulse raced and his breath hitched. He ran to the building beside the bank and barged into the Land Office. The clerk, a short gray-haired man, dropped a stack of papers.
“Thunderation, Micah. You scared me outa ten years—” The elderly man scowled. “Whatsamatter?”
“Quincy, go tell the sheriff the bank is being robbed. I saw at least one man with a gun.”
“No kiddin’?” Quincy’s eyes bulged. “I’m a-goin’, Micah.” The clerk started for the door.
“Tell Trask I’m going to the back door of the bank.” Micah glanced around and spotted a shotgun perched on a rack over the door. “Is this loaded?” He grabbed the weapon.
Quincy pointed to his desk. “Shells are in the top left drawer.” And he ran out the door.
Micah yanked open the drawer and grabbed the box of shells. He shoved two into the chamber of the gun and stuffed a handful into his pocket. Should he have told Quincy to fetch Rod as well? Rod’s earlier confession portrayed him as a storyteller, not a lawman, but Micah wasn’t a lawman, either. He wasn’t even a very good shot, but he had to do something. There were innocent people inside that bank.
He ran down the alley and around to the back of the bank. Before trying the door, he stood on a crate to peek in a high window. There were two gunmen. Micah recognized both Slaters from their Wanted posters. One pointed his weapon at Mr. Linquist while the banker turned the lock on the safe. The muffled voice of the other Slater barked orders. Three other people—two men and a woman from what Micah could see—crowded into a corner while the second brother held them at gunpoint. One was Mr. Nolan, the teller. Micah recognized the second man as an area rancher.
The Slater guarding the trio turned and spoke to his brother. When he did so, Micah’s line of vision connected with the woman.
His heart seized. Gabrielle.
Where was the sheriff? Micah stepped off the crate and crept to the corner of the building. He scanned the street and boardwalk in front of the bank. No sign of Trask. What if there was a third outlaw, who’d waylaid Quincy?
He couldn’t wait. Desperate prayers fired from his heart to the throne of heaven beseeched God for help. The thought of a gun pointed at Gabrielle sent lightning bolts of outrage through him. He returned to the bank and cautiously turned the knob of the back door. It twisted easily. Silently. Micah breathed a prayer of thanks.
Praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak and thus announce his presence, he cracked the door until he could see through a narrow slit. One of the Slaters grabbed a canvas sack and pushed Linquist into the corner. The second yanked Gabrielle’s arm and held her against him, his gun to her head as he spat out orders for the others to stay put.
Fury and fear roiled through Micah, and sweat dripped down his face. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his throat tightened. God, protect her. Both Slaters moved toward the front, the one holding Gabrielle leading the way. Micah eased the door open, stole up behind, and swung the butt end of the shotgun with all his strength into the side of the closest outlaw’s head. The man crumpled to the floor.
When the second gunman spun around, Gabrielle screamed and stumbled, pulling her captor off balance. Micah thrust the barrel of the shotgun into the face of the second Slater. Barely controlling his rage, he growled, “Let her go. I don’t miss much from this range.”
The coward dropped his gun and raised his hands. Sheriff Trask kicked open the door, gun drawn. He cast a wide look, taking in the scene, his brows arched in surprise. A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. “Well done, Micah.” He took both Slater brothers into custody. “Let’s go, you two.”
Micah laid the shotgun aside and reached for Gabrielle, enfolding her in his arms. She trembled against him, silent sobs wracking her entire frame. Micah tightened his embrace. “Shh, it’s over. You’re safe
. I’ve got you.”
She raised her tearstained face, and he thumbed away the moisture from her cheeks. Hiccups shuddered through her. “I was s–so fr–frightened.”
He brushed a lock of tear-dampened hair from her eyes. “So was I.”
He led her to a chair and asked Mr. Linquist to bring her a glass of water. The bank president clapped him on the back and pumped his hand, declaring him a genuine hero before scurrying after the water. The other two men thanked him for what he’d done. A dozen more people poked their heads in the door to see what all the ruckus was about.
Mr. Timmons from the newspaper talked with Mr. Linquist and jotted down the details of the holdup. Timmons grinned. “Next week’s headline will read ‘Whitley’s Own Hero.’”
Micah pulled away from the knot of people and returned to Gabrielle. He knelt beside her chair and took her hand. “Are you quite certain you’re all right? Did he hurt you? Should I summon the doctor?”
“I’m just fine, Micah… now.” She leaned against him. “But you didn’t have to go to so much trouble to be a hero, you know. You’ve been my hero for a very long time.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “After I take you home, would it be all right with you if I asked your father for permission to court you?”
A tremulous smile wobbled across her lips. “Yes, Micah. Oh yes.” She laid her head against his chest. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Connie Stevens lives with her husband of forty-one years in north Georgia, within sight of her beloved mountains. She and her husband are both active in a variety of ministries at their church. A lifelong reader, Connie began creating stories by the time she was ten. Her office manager and writing muse is a cat, but she’s never more than a phone call or e-mail away from her critique partners. She enjoys gardening and quilting, and one of her favorite pastimes is browsing antiques shops, where story ideas often take root in her imagination. She is a proud Marine mom and has been a member of American Christian Fiction Writers since 2000.
The Archaeologist’s Find
by Erica Vetsch
Dedication
To Heather Vetsch, who loves all things Egyptological as much as her mama does.
Chapter 1
New York City
1898
I’m late, I’m late, I’m late, Mother’s going to kill me, I’m late!”
Skirting a couple strolling through the Grecian statuary exhibit, Alicia Davidson glanced at the watch on her lapel and winced. The third time this week she would be late. Her mother would have a conniption—albeit a perfectly controlled conniption.
Alicia clutched her sketchbook and folding easel under her arm and anchored her hat with her other hand, trotting through the galleries toward the front entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her heels clicked and clacked on the marble floor, echoing off the high ceiling. At least there weren’t a lot of patrons to have to navigate through this late in the afternoon. With her mind on her mother’s frown, she began formulating an apology and explanation for her tardiness. Rounding a display case of Macedonian pottery, muttering to herself, she collided with a wall.
A wall of muscle.
Papers flew, her easel clattered open, sprawling like a newborn colt across the floor, and she bounced and landed on her backside. Teeth still rattling, she looked up at what she’d hit.
“Have a care.” A dark-haired young man steadied himself against the display case. “Watch where you’re going. I spent all morning organizing those plans.” His papers settled around her like rustling snowflakes.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Alicia propped herself up on her palms. “You ran into me.”
“Oh, for the love of falafel.” He rolled his eyes and righted the glasses slipping down his nose. “I don’t have time for this.”
“And you think I do?” She pushed her hat off her forehead and studied the man looming over her. His black curly hair fell over his brow, and his tweed jacket fit his broad shoulders well. Cavalry twill pants disappeared into knee-high scuffed leather boots. He had excellent bone structure, high cheekbones, strong jaw, deeply set blue eyes, well-defined brow ridge.
Her fingers itched to draw him.
“Let me help you up.” He reached down for her hand. Rough calluses engulfed her fingers, and he yanked her upright with little ceremony, eliciting a yelp. He stopped short, bending a piercing blue gaze on her. “You’re not injured, are you?”
She righted her hat again and took a steadying breath. “No thanks to you. Are you always this… physical? I’m not a bag of meal to be thrown about.”
His brows came down, and he studied her as if she were a specimen in a jar. Frowning, she turned away from his scrutiny and began gathering her scattered possessions. He stooped beside her, grappling with her easel. The legs clacked and slapped, jutting out, eventually conking him on the head before he let go and it clattered to the floor again.
“The infernal instrument is possessed.”
“It isn’t made to be manhandled.” She picked up the wooden contraption, efficiently snapping the folds into a small bundle. “It requires a light touch.”
He scooped up an armful of papers, scowling. Alicia snatched one of the pages from his grasp. “That one’s mine.” She studied the pen-and-ink drawing, looking for damage.
“Everything’s jumbled together. We’ll have to sort them out, and now I’ll be late for my meeting.” He jammed his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Again.”
“You’re not the only one with a timetable, you know. You’ve made me late, too.” She laid her drawing on a nearby bench and scouted out a few more that had come to rest against a plinth holding a hammered gold Grecian necklace display. Smoothing each sheet, she tucked them into her portfolio. Aware that the man had gone still, she turned.
He held one of her drawings at arm’s length, studying it. A fluttery feeling jumped around her heart, and her pulse quickened as it always did when someone saw her work. She wanted to snatch the page from his hand and hide it away from judgmental eyes.
“Hmm. This is actually quite good. But there should be two feathers here, not one. This is the cartouche of Seti I.” He said it as if any imbecile should have known.
She looked where he pointed. “But I copied it faithfully from the exhibit. I’m sure there was only one.”
“Yes, well, that’s what happens when a businessman is put in charge of an Egyptology exhibit. Mr. Yoakum wouldn’t know Tawaret from a tapestry needle. The artist he hired to re-create the hieroglyphs of Karnak had no eye for detail. There are multiple errors. I’ve mentioned it several times, but he refuses to have the work redone correctly.”
They gathered up the rest of the papers, exchanging his charts and plans for her sketches and watercolors until they had them properly sorted. He glanced at each of her drawings before he handed them over. “You seem to have a preponderance of Egyptological subjects here. I thought all young artists yearned to be Rembrandt or Michelangelo. Aren’t you more interested in copying the masters than drawing canopic jars?”
Alicia shrugged. “I like drawing lots of things.” She slipped the last of her papers into her case and tucked it under her arm.
“There you are. The meeting starts in five minutes.” A tall, lean man in a broadcloth suit approached them. “Really, Max, meeting times are not approximate. I have a schedule to keep.” His pencil mustache twitched like a rat’s whiskers. “I don’t have time to wait while you chat up one of the local art students. And you, young lady, don’t you have somewhere to be? You shouldn’t be trailing your skirts here in the museum fishing for compliments and looking to land some man’s attention. Females playing at being art students are the bane of this building, giggling and traipsing about, anything but serious about art and only intent on landing a man.”
Alicia’s cheeks flamed, and her palms went damp. She didn’t know whether to slap the man’s impertinent face or slink away. She lifted her chin and gave him her best
haughty glare. “Good day to you, sirs.”
“Wait.” The one named Max reached for her elbow.
She backed away before he could touch her, wrapping herself in what was left of her dignity. “Good-bye, sir.”
What had started out as a lovely day for Alicia had turned decidedly sour, and dinner that evening saw no improvement.
“Are we back to this again? I just want to be left alone.” Alicia’s fork clattered to her plate, and she yanked her napkin from her lap and throttled it. “Grrrrr.”
“Really, Alicia, is all this drama necessary?”
Mother’s cool tone and ever-present control jabbed at Alicia, making her want to do something drastic, like hurl her cut-glass goblet into the marble fireplace. She’d tried so hard to remain composed, but her mother could drive a turtledove to violence. Lately, every conversation they had veered toward the same infuriating topic.
“Mother, I’m merely expressing my feelings on the matter.” She took a sip of her water, set the glass out of immediate reach to lessen the temptation, and curled her fingers in her lap. “While I appreciate your efforts on my behalf—”
“No, I do not believe you do.” Mother arched her perfectly shaped eyebrow, and with the deftness of a surgeon parted snail from shell before popping the escargot into her mouth. She chewed carefully before blotting her lips with her napkin. The fact that she had interrupted Alicia midsentence showed the extremity of her feelings on the matter, and Alicia knew better than to speak again until her mother had finished. “You are our only daughter and heir. The matter of your marriage is paramount this season. It is, after all, your third since your debut. If you don’t marry this year, people will talk. They’ll think there’s something we’re hiding that makes you an undesirable match. New York society has been blessed with several possible candidates among the young men, and it is up to us, as your parents, to select the most suitable.”
The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons Page 39
