Wilda's Outlaw

by Velda Brotherton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Books by Velda Brotherton

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

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

  Wilda’s Outlaw

  by

  Velda Brotherton

  The Victorians, Book One

  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.

  Wilda’s Outlaw

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Velda Brotherton

  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 Debbie Taylor

  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, 2013

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-714-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-715-1

  The Victorians, Book One

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Cait London, who made my second career possible.

  Thanks so much.

  Books by Velda Brotherton

  as Elizabeth Gregg:

  Goldspun Promises

  Moonspun Dreams

  Brightspun Destiny

  Trail To Forever

  as Samantha Lee:

  Images In Scarlet

  Angel's Gold

  as Velda Brotherton:

  Stoneheart's Woman

  Wilda’s Outlaw

  Prologue

  Rowena Duncan, Her Diary

  May, 1874

  On board The Alabama bound for America

  Longing to be in the arms of my sister’s betrothed is a sin, and certainly an improper wish for a Victorian lady. Only in the privacy of these pages, am I able to admit that the first time I saw Lord Blair Prescott I nearly swooned. In my tiny cubicle at St. Anne’s. That night, I dreamed of nothing but his lips on mine, his hands soothing my fevered longings.

  Alas, I shall never know such pleasures, for he chose my sister Wilda, and because of the bargain struck, we three girls, Wilda, myself, and our cousin Tyra are on our way to America. Wilda to wed Lord Prescott, and Tyra and I to remain under his guardianship until a suitable marriage is arranged for each of us. Now that I have met him, I know I shall never be happy with any other man.

  I can only seek solace in memories of the first time I set eyes on Lord Prescott. Eagerly, we three girls waited in the warm sunlight that poured from a clear blue sky. Masses of blush pink roses, nodded in a fragrant breeze. Filled with hope that such a lovely day was a portent of good things to come, my heart fluttered when Lord Blair Prescott strode around the corner of the gray stonework of St. Ann’s Charity House.

  He presented a tall, lean figure, dressed immaculately in black trousers, a white shirt with three wide tucks in the front, braces embroidered with glass beads, and a silk ivory vest that peeked from beneath a black morning coat. A head of hair so black it reflected blue highlights. A scar along one cheek marked his inscrutable features like a mysterious mask. His full lips, finely drawn nose, and angular cheekbones might have been sculpted by Michelangelo. He is the most beautiful gentleman I have ever seen, except for our dear departed father.

  Why such a man would ever consider betrothing himself to one of us poor orphans is beyond my understanding, but he did. To my dismay, and despite all my flirtatious efforts, he chose my most fair sister, Wilda.

  It may have been her hair, the color of moon glow alight with fire, for mine is pale gold, suggesting there is no fire in me. That could not be farther from the truth. Alas for Lord Prescott, he shall never know such a burning love as mine, for Wilda hates the man, and has done since first she laid eyes on him that day.

  Here in the narrow bunk of this ship, when it rolls madly over seas whipped high by howling winds, I dream I am in his arms, held secure by his love for me and no one else. Reality brings tears I must hide.

  They say it shall take us most of a year to reach the great American West, and what an arduous journey it will be. By ship and boat, by train and stage, we will work our way to Victoria City in a place called Kansas in the untamed West. We are accompanied by the Chesshires, who are merchants and friends of our late parents. Marguerite Chesshire is responsible for Lord Prescott’s interest in us girls, and he remunerates her by paying their passage and setting them up with a shop in Victoria City.

  We go to Fairhaven where Lord Prescott has built Wilda a home that is said to be an exact duplicate of the Prescott castle in Devonshire, only perhaps a bit smaller. Many of those on the ship go to Victoria City, and they carry with them their English heritage. Their silver and crystal, their damask linens and fine clothing, even their sheep and horses. We shall not become Americans, but will remain Victorian English to the very core, or so says George Grant, founder of our settlement.

  I can hardly wait until we arrive on those far shores, yet I do not know how I will bear living in the same house where my sister will soon lie with the man I love.

  Chapter One

  The monster swayed and roared. Wilda clung to its neck, Tyra beside her. With clawing fingers she grabbed her cousin’s arm. All she could think was save her from the beast.

  “Ow, what’s wrong?” The arm was yanked from her grip.

  Wilda rubbed her eyes, took in her surroundings. Tyra sat in the seat next to her massaging her wrist. They were aboard a train, its heartbeat the clickety-clack of the engine’s wheels.

  “I dreamed someone was chasing us and we were astride a monster of some sort.”

  “You scared me.” Tyra rose and leaned across Wilda’s lap to peer through the smoke-smudged window. “I never rode on a locomotive before. It is almost like a monster, isn’t it? Did you ever see so much open space?”

  Beyond the glass a sun-drenched prairie stretched to the horizon, hazed by an endless summer sky.

  Ah, this must be Kansas. At last.

  Wilda swallowed, her throat and tongue parched. Another lurch of the car and she clutched her stomach.

  Tyra’s elbow dug into her lap. “How much longer now? I thought there would be buffalo. I’m hot and tired and thirsty.”

  As for the buffalo, Wilda had no idea, but she could certainly sympathize with the girl’s impatience. They’d departed England over a year ago. At long last they had left behind the ship and boats and wagons and were on a train bound for Victoria City in America.

  “It can’t be far.” She grimaced when the girl continued to squirm and poke at her to get a better look. “Would you like to trade places?”

  “Yes, p
lease.”

  Wilda rose, clung to the seat in front. If the day ever came when she set foot on solid ground, she would never, ever, ever step aboard anything that moved.

  Wheels screeched. Tyra slid behind her, touched her nose against the glass. Still on her feet, Wilda stepped to the aisle seat, glanced up. A masked man filled the doorway, pointing a gun at her. Standing so close, she could reach out and touch him…or he her.

  Still asleep? Still dreaming?

  A startled “Oh” escaped her lips. Her heart raced. Frozen in a hunched position, she peered at him. He wasn’t real, he couldn’t be. Of course she was still dreaming, had conjured one of her cousin’s favorite fantasies of an old west outlaw. A beautiful one, at that, or at least what she could see of him. Above the dusty bandana that covered the lower half of his face, green eyes flashed with amusement, as if he shared a secret with her.

  No one in the car paid him the least attention. Obviously she hadn’t awakened after all, but still slept, not in her room back in Manchester, but on a train in the middle of nowhere.

  How to react to a scruffy outlaw who arrives in a dream? No harm had ever come to her while dreaming, so she might as well play this out. Be calm, speak to him. All she managed was a stiff smile. Odd how her tongue lay numb, her throat dry as a ball of cotton. How silly, for what harm could it do to befriend such a lovely figment of her imagination?

  Bronzed skin crinkled around his eyes, and he lifted the gun barrel to push up the brim of a disreputable, sweaty hat. She imagined he returned her smile, for the skin around those incredible eyes crinkled. He placed a gloved finger over lips she couldn’t see. Winked.

  The outrageous man! She gasped, sneaked another look around. Attempted to shout and alert the other passengers. Nothing came out. Some slept—no doubt enjoying their own dreams—while others gazed out the window. Surely one would glance up, see him. But they didn’t.

  Fine. Dreams being what they were, she'd have some fun. No one paid the least attention to the man with a gun. Not even Tyra, who bounced about and gazed out the window. Weird how real everything seemed. The smell of cinder-laden smoke, the hot wind on her face, the trickle of perspiration down her back, the heavy intolerable weight of her traveling toilette. So heavy she slipped down into her seat, glanced around once again.

  Was he still there? Had he disappeared because she’d taken her eyes off him? Dare she look one more time?

  Holding her breath, she peered through nearly closed lids. No, he hadn’t left. He continued to watch her as if he had all day. A shiver raced up her spine and she offered a gloved hand. With graceful ease, he took it, bent over and gently kissed her bare wrist above the cuff. Though she could not see or feel his lips, he kissed her all right. The heat of his breath flowed through the dusty bandana to coil about her arm.

  Dear Lord. Had the fear of what awaited in Victoria City caused this leap into unreality? In her most secret dreams, had she not dreamt of a royal prince who would ride in and carry her away from her responsibilities? A gallant man who would put a stop to this damnable marriage toward which she traveled with continued apprehension. She had no power to stop it, so perhaps she had dredged this man up from deep in her subconscious. Summoned him to save her when no one else could. But this stranger was no prince, and certainly not a knight in shining armor.

  Before she could consider the questions, bedlam broke out. Women screeched, men shouted, and she twisted to stare at them, to tell them to shut up, to get out of her dream and leave her and the handsome outlaw alone. He was about to do a lot more than kiss her wrist. A second masked man appeared inside the doorway at the other end of the rocking car. Seated near the other bandit, her sister Rowena and her companion Marguerite Chesshire screeched in unison. Neither of them ever grew excited over anything, but they hugged each other and squealed in fear. Looking not at her outlaw, but toward the far end of the car where a bigger, more menacing gunman stood. This one truly frightened her.

  She turned back to the younger man, half expecting him to help. But his demeanor had altered, he dropped her hand as if it were hot and pointed the gun.

  She found her voice amidst the shouting. “How dare you kiss my hand then point that thing at me? If you’re going to shoot me, then please do so and put me out of my misery. I’m hot and tired and have no patience for such tomfoolery.”

  He was nothing more than a lowly bandit. Acting as if his appearance might possibly be the least bit amusing to her.

  Perspiring and miserable under the heavy drape of silk fabric, she glanced at Tyra who stared wide-eyed, mouth open. This was real. Her heart beat so hard in her throat she gasped for air. Shifting, she put herself between the child and the outlaw. Addressed him with a trembling voice: “Aren’t we indeed the brave one? Pointing a gun at a child and an unarmed woman. What would your mother think of such actions? Or were you dragged from under a rock?”

  The bronze skin crinkled and he chuckled. “If you was a filly I’d unhitch you from that garb you’re wearing, give you a nosebag of grain and a good long rubdown. Work out the stiffness.”

  The rich timbre of his voice sent chills to places she was loathe to admit existed in a well brought up lady. Her rebuttal sounded weak. “Not only are you a thief, you can’t speak the King’s English.”

  “Ah, I think you understood me, all right.” Despite the intimate behavior, he remained watchful of his companion, who worked his way up the aisle, ordering the travelers to deposit their valuables in a very disreputable hat.

  Tyra clutched her arm. “Real outlaws. With guns. Are they going to shoot us? Are you going to shoot us?” She bounced to her feet, addressed the laughing one with more excitement than fear.

  Shoving Tyra down between the seats, Wilda studied the outlaw closer. He might be no dream, but she was right about one thing. He was no prince either, with that sweat-stained hat, scuffed boots and threadbare clothing. A rip high on one leg of his pants revealed a patch of skin. To keep from staring at it, she roamed her gaze over the half-masked face to the threatening pistol, the low-slung leather holster, the wicked knife on his belt. Even in this wild west of America, he couldn’t be accused of wearing fashionable attire.

  To add to the insult, this ruffian continued to mock her while pointing his weapon at her friends and family. Obviously, it was his job, for he made no attempt to take any valuables from those near him.

  Drawing back her shoulders, she struggled for something to say. “I hope you aren’t coward enough to shoot us.”

  “I’m still thinking of putting you out of your misery.”

  The peculiar American accent took some deciphering, while he continued to stare at her as if she were a sweet in a bakery window.

  The moment between them stretched out like string slowly unwinding from a huge ball. Behind her, the other outlaw barked sharp orders as he moved along the aisle, appearing much more dangerous than “her” outlaw. Strangely enough, she found herself less afraid than intrigued, which could prove to be foolish. Truth be told, either of these dreadful men could easily shoot to kill and smile while he did it.

  “Wilda, can I get up now?” Tyra tugged at her arm.

  “No, stay right where you are.” She dare not take her gaze off him. No telling what he might do. Did this sort of man ravage women? She trembled, her knees threatened to buckle.

  The possibility wrapped her in terror. Had they journeyed all the way from England and undergone such hardships only to be killed in this foreign place?

  Her outlaw leaned down toward her. “Ma’am, I’d surely appreciate it if you’d hand over your valuables.” His sensuous drawl and the obvious double meaning of the words agitated her temper.

  Shivering at her own temerity, she lifted her chin and met his gaze straight on. “If I did possess anything of value, I would not ‘hand it over’ to you, sir. Have you decided if you are going to shoot me like the brazen, fatherless coward that you are?”

  His eyes hardened. “Not many get away with calling a man t
hat.”

  “Some, I suppose are reluctant to speak the truth with a gun in their face. Tell me, is it the word coward or bastard that disturbs you so?”

  His jaw worked and he stepped close, raised the gun as if to hit her.

  “Go ahead. Prove what I'm saying.” She wanted to stand so as not to be looking up at him, but dare not for fear she might faint from the heat and fear.

  “What in thunder you jawing about?” the other outlaw shouted at her back. “Let’s get this done and over with, ’fore this blasted train makes it all the way to Fort Hays.”

  Beside her Tyra struggled, and Wilda clutched at her, terrified the child would twist free.

  The floor underfoot jerked, throwing her outlaw off balance and he clutched at the seat, gloved hand coming down on hers. Recovering, he kept up the repartee. “Only a fool would shoot someone as lovely as you. But I might just drag you off here by the hair and take you with me.”

  A rising temper fueled her bravery. “You just try and you won’t ever get a moment’s sleep again.”

  A sharp command from the other outlaw jerked her back to reality, and she pulled away from the insolent one’s gaze. Around her women clutched their mouths, men flexed their knobby hands into fists, sobbing children hid behind their mother’s skirts.

  Here she sat in the midst of such havoc, engaging in a war of words with this upstart in what obviously was no dream, but very real. But she’d seen worse on the back streets of London. Much worse. And had always handled herself quite well, thank you.

  Once again the other outlaw interrupted. “I’m gonna tell you what to do, and you’re all gonna do it, if you want to live.”

  Time to take a look at this one. Unkempt brown hair and muddy eyes above a bandana that looked like it had been doused in a pig sty before he wrapped it around his lower face.

  “I’ll have your rings, jewelry, watches and cash,” he bellowed. “Put ’em in here.” He extended a hat that made her outlaw’s look as if it had just come from a millinery, and continued to collect jewelry and purses. In his presence women cried and trembled, men cowered.