Rocky Mountain Rose (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 3)

by Lee Savino

  Still she couldn’t stop her lower lip from trembling as she asked, “You looked for me?”

  “From California to Texas. As soon as we found you gone, I rode out.”

  “He took me north,” she said, regaining some of her composure. “Made me drink whiskey and lie down in a wagon. I woke up in Denver.”

  “I know. I was there long after you were gone. For a red-headed child, you were hard to find.” He smiled, but there was no mirth in it.

  She nodded, feeling her attitude steal back over her, gathering it around her like a cloak. “I knew Mary would want to come looking for me.”

  Pain flashed across Lyle’s face, as if she’d struck a blow. “Rose...” he began.

  “I know she’s dead,” Rose said quickly.

  Lyle fell silent, but his eyes were filled with pain.

  “One of Pa’s partners told me. He had kin in Florence that knew of Mary Wilder.”

  “I wanted to tell you,” Lyle said after a long while. If Rose wasn’t mistaken, his eyes were shining with tears. “I wanted you to be there. For us to be a family.”

  “She wanted that too,” Rose whispered. Her hand went to her throat as if it could smooth away the lump that had formed there. “How…how was she?”

  “In the end?” Lyle sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. Rose felt a sympathetic pang; it was obvious he was reliving old pain, but she had to know. Her whole body leaned forward, waiting to hear of her beloved sister’s final moments.

  “She was happy,” he said softly. “She was always singing, or humming, even in the end, when her lungs gave out. She spoke of you every day. I knew she thought of you, because even in sleep she whispered your name.”

  Rose blinked hard. There were no tears in her eyes; she hadn’t cried in years, but pain burned behind her lashes and spread through her body. A sound started low in her throat, a haunted cry that started soft and grew louder until her ears were ringing with it. She took a few, stumbling steps away from Lyle, then her legs weakened and she started to fold up in pain.

  “Rose!” Lyle was at her side, catching her before she fell and lifting her in his arms. As he moved to the bed, she turned into him, closing her eyes and pressing against his shirt. He smelled of rain and leather, wood, smoke, and wild, and she felt herself snuggling deeper into his strong chest. Under her ear, she could hear his beating heart. It called to her, rising over the broken keening that rang in her ears, until she realized her cry was all in her head, but his heartbeat was real.

  Lyle sat on the bed with her in his arms, tucking his chin over her head.

  “I knew I would find you,” he whispered. “Mary made me promise. The thought of you alone out there…I would’ve looked for you until the day I died.”

  She nodded against his chest, unable to speak, but wanting him to know that she heard.

  He lifted her, laid her on something soft. She felt the blankets go over her and then a gentle hand on her hair.

  “Sleep now, my wild rose.”

  *

  A few hours before dawn, she started awake. A dark shape moved in her room, and she sat up, shrinking back into the shadows. Her fingers reached for her Nell, but the gun wasn’t near her. She was still clothed in her corset and petticoats. As her eyes took in the room, she remembered.

  “Rose?”

  Lyle stepped into the light of the window.

  “What’s going on?” she croaked.

  Moving to the sidebar, Lyle poured her some water and brought it to her. “Doyle has men out looking for you. He knows you’re still here, and you’re going to run. It’s not safe for us to leave right now.”

  She stared up at him, groggily trying to understand.

  “It’s all right, Rose. Get some sleep.”

  Too tired to argue, she nodded and handed back the cup. She watched his long, dark form stalk to the door, where he took his seat and leaned back, pistol at ready.

  Lying back down, she tried to doze off, but the thought of a man—Lyle Wilder, no less—guarding her door at night was strange enough to keep her awake, mulling over it.

  He said he would help her. But what did that really mean? Would she travel with him, like she had with her father, dancing and helping him win at cards, turning over every coin she made and hoping her earnings were enough to keep him from whoring her?

  Rose felt the cold stealing over her, and she shook under the covers, forcing her eyes shut. She’d only slept a few fitful moments when she felt Lyle’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Rose? You were crying out.”

  In response, she shivered.

  “Damn, you’re cold.”

  A pause, and then she heard his coat drop to the floor before his weight hit the bed. She curled into herself, eyes closing tight as she felt his warmth seep into her. He rested his hand on her hip, his breath tickling the back of her neck. A part of her insisted she protest, but the rest of her was warm and comfortable, and soon she fell fast asleep.

  *

  When Rose woke again, Lyle was gone. Her body ached, her blood moving thick and sluggish as it always did in the morning. She blinked in the bright morning light, trying to dislodge the grit behind her eyelids, the evidence of a long night. She didn’t even want to think about what had happened. All she knew was that, before Lyle returned, she wanted to be long gone.

  Her vow of amnesia worked until she padded across the floor and picked up her white stage dress. The spots of blood stood stark against the pure cloth, and she knew it did happen. Sam really was dead.

  Casting about, she found her trunk and dressed quickly, then reloaded Nellie. Her money was sewn into the stitches of her skirts; she took the time to gather it all and tucked it safe in her bodice. It would be enough to get out of town. Pulling a few items into a bag, she snuck out of the hotel, finding the back stairs Lyle had carried her up last night. He was a strong man, to climb them without pause.

  She remembered how he held her, how the gentleness in her blue eyes made her heart ache. What would it be like to have a man in her life who would look at her that way? Who would hold her every night and wake her with a kiss? If she closed her eyes, she could still feel Lyle Wilder’s arms around her, see his beautiful profile watching over her in the darkness.

  No. She would not think of him.

  Tugging her bag up onto her shoulder, she pushed her hair out of her face savagely and stomped away from the building. The smell of fried onions and potatoes wafted through the alley, but Rose kept hurrying on. There was no time for breakfast if she was to find a horse, or a wagon ride before noon.

  When she stepped onto the main street, she realized her first mistake. Men stood on the street, pulling horses and talking. One by one, their heads whipped around as one as she walked by. Women weren’t a common sight in Colorado Territory, much less pretty redheads.

  Cursing her telltale hair, she hurried down the boarded sidewalk. One man stepped out to accost her, and she met his gaze boldly. She’d learned early; never show fear. Most men would take cues from her and pounce only if she showed weakness.

  She reached the end of the sidewalk and her luck ran out. Two men, muscled and ugly, stepped onto the porch and blocked her way.

  “You’re Rosie May,” one said.

  She tried to push past them, but they caught her in a grip, dragging her back. One ripped her sash, and her Nelly fell out with a clatter, only to be kicked away. Helpless, Rose’s first thought was to shout for Lyle, but when she started to cry out, one attacker slapped her. Together the thugs manhandled her down an alley and into a building she hadn’t seen since she was with Mary.

  At this hour of the morning, the bar was empty, though it still smelled of beer and unwashed bodies.

  Rose’s cheek throbbed where the man hit her, but she struggled a little as they dragged her up the steps. She would’ve gotten another blow, but one of the thugs stopped his partner.

  “Don’t mark her,” he said. “She’s Doyle’s now.”

  A chill went throug
h Rose’s body as she recognized the name of the man who had peddled her sister’s flesh.

  They pushed her into a small, dark room, and all of a sudden, Rose was a little girl again, hiding under her sister’s bed while their drunken father raged, and then, later, listening to the sounds of the men Mary entertained so they’d have food to eat the next day.

  Sinking down onto the floor, Rose put her head into her arms and rocked back and forth.

  After a while, the image of Lyle rose unbidden behind her closed eyes. Tall and dark, handsome as an angel and wicked as a devil, he was the prince Mary had believed would save them. It had been years since Rose had allowed herself to think on it, but there, in the dark, she prayed for her hero to come.

  Doyle’s men left her in there for hours, no doubt to wear her down. Noises started to seep through the doors as night fell and the saloon filled up. Rose took to pacing, checking every crack and corner for a way out, and finally forcing herself to stand in the middle of the room and do breathing exercises for her voice.

  Finally, the door burst open, and the men dragged her, cringing, into the light. At the end of a hall, one thug held Rose while the other knocked on a door.

  “Enter,” a voice intoned. Rose recognized the familiar timbre as if it belonged to the devil himself. Five years, and there were two men she hadn’t forgotten. One was Lyle, the fallen angel. The other waited for her behind the door.

  Her captors pushed her into the center of a room, and she straightened her clothes, schooling her face into a haughty expression.

  A man with a black mustache waited for her at a desk, writing by candlelight. His slick hair and fine suit didn’t fool her; this was Beelzebub in human form, known in this town as James Silas Doyle.

  Time had been kind to him. Doyle looked lean and strong, with healthy dark hair on his head and face. Almost handsome, if it weren’t for the evil in him. Rose barely suppressed a shiver, and forced her spine straight, as if she’d spent an afternoon in leisure, rather than as a captive in the dark.

  Doyle smiled. “Miss May? Or should I call you Rosie?” He didn’t bother to rise, but waved a hand for her to come forward. When she didn’t move, one of the henchmen grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to his boss, before stepping back to guard the door.

  The man behind the desk smiled at her as if she’d come to visit. “Drink?” he offered, lifting a decanter on his desk and starting to pour two glasses.

  She shook her head.

  Doyle shrugged and toasted her. “To the lovely Rosie May. Quite a show you had last night.”

  It was her turn to shrug.

  Toying with his glass, Doyle cocked his head, studying her. “I hear it went quite well, up until it turned rowdy. One of my men—my right hand man actually—lost his brother in a brawl.”

  “It’s a dangerous world,” Rose said, lifting her chin. “I lost a friend, too.”

  Doyle glanced at one of his men. “Is that so? Someone else died?”

  The henchman shrugged. “Just the molly at the piano.”

  “A Miss Nancy,” Doyle chuckled. “And Rosie May. Must have been one hell of an act.”

  “Are we done here?” Rose asked, letting their mocking comments about Sam slide even as her eyes shot daggers.

  His eyes narrowed at her over his glass. “I must say, my man was intent on seeking you out for revenge. You may have heard of him: Otis Boone, deadliest shot in the Territory. I managed to talk him into sparing your life until I spoke to you. Out of the kindness of my heart.”

  Rose’s lip curled.

  “I could pay him off for you,” Doyle continued. “But I’d need some sort of return on my investment.”

  “I’m not a whore, Mr. Doyle.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Who said anything about whoring? I have a saloon; you know how to dance...” He spread his hands as if offering her a pile of treasure. “Wouldn’t it be nice to settle down in one town and make some real cash? The men who pour in here from the silver mines, they’d pay anything to see a fine woman’s ankles.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Doyle’s expression hardened. “This isn’t an offer I make lightly. A man out there wants you dead, and I’m the only one standing in his way.”

  “No,” boomed a voice at the door. “I am.”

  The two henchmen moved, one grabbing Rose, and the other whirling, reaching for his gun. Both stopped when Lyle stepped in, a pistol in each hand aimed at the thugs. “Doyle, let her go.”

  The man behind the desk didn’t even flinch. Rose couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the two dark haired men. Both were tall, powerful, with their gaze locked in combat, two predators sizing each other up before they fought to the death.

  “Now, you look familiar.” Recognition lit Doyle’s eyes. “Wait.” The man looked from Lyle to Rose and back again. “I know who you are. You stole away my redhead...what was her name?”

  “Mary,” Rose blurted. “She was never yours.”

  “And you’re the sister,” Doyle went on as Lyle shot Rose a look, warning her to keep silent. “What a lovely reunion.” Doyle chuckled. “You’re taller than your sister. Blossomed into a beautiful Colorado rose.”

  “I’m not going to say it again,” Lyle spoke. “Let her go.”

  Doyle leaned forward, losing his joking manner. “Who is she to you?”

  “She belongs to me.”

  Rose felt a pang go through her, not of pain but some other strong, aching emotion she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Hope.

  Then the thug’s grip dug in, and she whimpered.

  Lyle’s jaw tensed. “Unhand her. She’s mine.”

  “Oh ho!” Doyle sat back. “Moving through the whole family, are you? Lucky, lucky man.” He then addressed Rose. “You know Mary’s dead.”

  She nodded, trying not to flinch.

  “If my Mary’s dead, then the debt she owed passes on.” Doyle turned to Lyle and pointed at Rose. “To her.”

  “She never was your Mary,” Rose spat. Doyle glanced at her, and she regretted speaking. His look made her skin crawl.

  Lyle spoke. “It’s over, Doyle.”

  “What will you give me for her?”

  “Your life.”

  Doyle’s eyebrows went up disbelievingly, and Lyle nodded to the open window behind the desk.

  Doyle twisted to look. “Is there something I’m supposed to see?”

  “Across the street,” Lyle explained casually. “My brother has a room, and his window is open.”

  They all looked out the window, and Doyle stiffened.

  “Yep, that’s him,” Lyle said softly. “The man with the rifle trained on you. Maybe you’ve heard of him...Jesse Wilder? Some call him the best shot in the Territory.”

  Turning back, Doyle snorted. For a man with a gun on him, he was as cool as a snake. “That’s not saying much.”

  A gun fired, and a bullet snuffed out the candle on Doyle’s desk. The thug holding Rose jerked down, bringing her with him. There was nothing but harsh breathing in the room until Doyle struck a match and relit the candle. His men were all rising to their feet, looking warily at the window for the threat.

  Rose shivered at his look of hate. He and Lyle faced off, but it was clear who had the upper hand.

  Finally, with a short chop of his hand, Doyle barked the order. “Let her go.”

  Rose staggered forward, and Lyle caught her, pulling her towards the door. Doyle watched them go, black eyes burning in the dim light.

  “Watch your back, Wilder. That’s twice now you stole from me.”

  *

  Rose and Lyle wasted no time rushing out of the saloon. Lyle pushed her ahead of him, covering them both with his pistols. They headed down another alley, twisting and turning until Rose had no idea where they were. Finally, Lyle opened a door and led her into a boarding house from the back, and into a room smaller and meaner than the last.

  He closed the door, and before she could say anything, pulled
her into his arms.

  “My God, Rose,” he breathed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  She stiffened at first, then, as she felt his warmth and scent envelop her, she finally felt she could breathe. For a moment, she melted into him, enjoying his solid arms around her and firm chest under her cheek.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Your gun,” he said, releasing her enough to look at her face. “Jesse found it in the mud. It was near Doyle’s; from there it was only a matter of time.”

  He drew her in a second time, then kissed her forehead and set her back a pace.

  “You all right?” His blue eyes searched over her.

  Normal Rose would have a sharp response for that question, but right now she could only nod.

  “Good. I’m going to see that you stay that way.” His hands squeezed her arms lightly before he released her.

  Mouth dry, she nodded again.

  “I brought some of your things so you can change.” Lyle held up a bag. “Do it quickly. We leave tonight.”

  Rose stared at his offering. Her own bag, with all her favorite possessions and money were all gone. She had nothing.

  “Come on, Rose,” Lyle encouraged gently. “We need to move.”

  She took the proffered pack, and he started to turn away. “Wait.” She caught his hand. “We can’t leave. Not without burying Samuel.”

  “Rose, that will take precious time we don’t have. Otis Boone wasn’t at that meeting, but once he finds out what happened, he won’t be happy Doyle lost his chance at revenge.”

  “I know,” she whispered. A day in a dark room, and a confrontation with the most evil man she knew drained all her attitude from her. She rested her hands on Lyle’s chest, half leaning on him as she pleaded. “I can’t leave Sam. Please, Lyle. He was the only family I had.”

  Lyle cursed.

  Three sharp raps sounded at the door, and Lyle moved to open it, still looking unhappy.

  Jesse walked in. “Ready to go?”

  Lyle jerked his head no. “Change of plans. We spend the night here and collect Sam’s body in the morning.”