The Prince's Pea

by Caroline Lee

  Then she’d looked away and the pendejos had yanked the wagon out from underneath him and he’d gotten busy dying. Until he’d swung back around and seen her pointing a rifle at him, and knew—knew—she must be the angel of death Abuela used to talk about, only she’d come for him disguised as his best friend from childhood.

  It was really kind of laughable, and as soon as he finished coughing up his lunch, he’d have a good long chuckle.

  Assuming he lived through the next few minutes, that is.

  Her quick actions in saving his life had seriously pissed off the men who’d been trying so diligently to end it. With a growl, the man who was left holding the end of the rope lunged for Micah, and pulled him up off the ground by the back of his shirt. For Micah—who wasn’t a small man, and who hadn’t been thrown around since Sam had left the orphanage and Micah had become the oldest boy—all this manhandling was getting a little old. It was enough to make him forget Abuelo’s teachings about peace. Peace was all well and good, but some things could occasionally be helped by a solid punch to the nose.

  Or a long-barreled rifle, brandished by a beautiful woman.

  “Put him down!” She was sweeping through the crowd, that rifle against her shoulder like she was born with it. “Drop him, or the next one is going through your throat.” It didn’t sound like an empty threat. It sounded like a sincere promise from a woman who could slice a half-inch rope in half from a hundred paces.

  Dios mio! Forget the angel of death—this woman looked like an avenging angel, sweeping among the killers and the angry mob. Didn’t she realize what was going on here? Didn’t she realize how quickly a group like this could turn? Holding a loaded weapon—Pea hadn’t shown any interest in firearms, had she? It couldn’t be her—was no guarantee of safety. Most of these men held loaded weapons, and just because they weren’t pointed at her, didn’t mean they couldn’t be.

  Right now, the only thing keeping her safe was their incredulity and her brass. He wasn’t the only one she’d surprised the hell out of by shooting that rope and saving his life. But even as the man behind him released his shirt, Micah knew his life being spared wasn’t guaranteed. All she’d done by shooting that rope—who is she?—was prolong the inevitable, and put herself in their sights too.

  “No,” he croaked, stumbling forward a step. Get back! He wanted to yell, but lacked the breath.

  She, being a woman, ignored him.

  “You’re lynching this man?” Her imperious tone demanded an explanation. She really did sound like the little girl who’d confronted him all those years ago, finding fault with his name, of all things.

  “ ’S Draven!” One of the men behind him shoved Micah in the back, causing him to stumble another step. “Bastard deserves to die! We’re jus’ protectin’ ourselves, if’n he’s here to kill one of us.”

  It took a moment to work through the man’s garbled speech, and then Micah just barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. They were going to kill this Draven preemptively, that was it? So they were basically admitting they had reason to fear a bounty hunter. What kind of crimes had they committed?

  When Micah saw the way one of the woman’s unfortunate eyebrows lifted incredulously at the same realization, his lips quirked in amusement.

  She noticed, and her lips thinned in response. Because she thought this was too serious a matter to laugh at? Well, he had the right to laugh at his own death, and if she didn’t get out of here, she might have cause to laugh too.

  “That’s not Draven.” Her tone was cool.

  Of course he wasn’t Draven. This time he did roll his eyes, because he’d been trying to tell these pendejos that. He’d been in the middle of telling them that when they’d hit him over the head with what was apparently a sack of lead, and then again when they’d yanked the wagon out from under his feet. He wasn’t Draven.

  Whoever this Draven was.

  Of course, these men weren’t likely to listen to his avenging angel any more than they listened to him.

  “Shut yer mouth, girl, you don’t know nothing. That’s Draven, lookit his eye.”

  My eye? Micah’s bound hands—wonder if there’s any chance someone will cut me free?—inched towards his right eye socket, but he forced them down. The wound had itched something fierce for the first six months, but in the two years since he’d been shot, he’d gotten used to the pull of scar tissue, and the pitying stares from others.

  Sounds like this “Draven” had similar problems.

  “I am looking at it.” The woman hadn’t lowered the rifle, and Micah found himself wishing she would, so he could see her entire face. “That’s how I know he’s not Draven.”

  “Draven’s eye’s all messed up.” The man shoved Micah again, but Micah braced himself and didn’t move. “Just like this son-of-a-bitch’s.”

  “No,” her voice was as steady as her aim. “Draven only has one eye. Everyone knows that.”

  Silence met her announcement, and then someone from the mob spoke up. “That’s what I heard too.”

  Other voices chimed in. “Yeah, missing his right eye.”

  “Ripped out by a bear, I heard.”

  “Torn out as part of a heathen ritual by them Injuns down in Colorado.”

  “Nah, he lost it in a knife fight with Bloody Bill Murphy.”

  “It got shot out in a brawl, is how I heard it. Down in Noelle.”

  Micah found himself holding his breath as the mood of the mob changed from angry to speculative. But it was too good to last. The man behind him—the man still holding the end of the rope, the ringleader—shoved Micah again.

  Dammit, this was getting old. A beating, fine. A lynching, alright. But he’d better quit smacking me like I’m a misbehaving kid.

  The ringleader wasn’t easily distracted from his purpose. “What makes you the expert, lady?” he sneered at her.

  “Because I know Draven. He’s darker, his hair is longer, he’s much older, and the entire right side of his face is mauled.” Well, she sure made this Draven sound appealing, didn’t she? “This gentleman”—her eyes flicked towards Micah, but the gun stayed steadily pointed at the ringleader—“Is Mr. Micah Zapato, a leather-worker and shoe-maker from Everland. He’s not a bounty hunter, although he did receive that scar on his face when he was a bystander in a showdown between a hunter and his bounty two years ago.”

  How in the hell did this woman know so much about him?

  “Zapato?”

  The ringleader grabbed Micah’s shoulder and swung him around. Micah wasn’t a small man, but his knees were still weak from his almost-hanging, and he stumbled into his captor.

  “Zapato?” he repeated. “You a Mexican?”

  No, but he might as well be one. As a kid he’d been picked up in Denver by Abuela and Abuelo Zapato, who were collecting kids for their orphanage. They hadn’t built the home ‘til they got to Everland and had settled down, and that’s when all the kids took on their last name.

  He didn’t know who he was, so he might as well be Mexican, especially if this Draven wasn’t. “Si, Señor,” he managed to croak out, trying his hardest to look Mexican. How does one look Mexican?

  The ringleader glared suspiciously at him for a moment, then clucked with disappointment. “We got us a damned Mexican, boys! Draven ain’t a Mexican!”

  He shoved Micah again, but this time, Micah let himself be shoved. Anything to get out of here sooner. He was fairly certain his hands would be numb for days. Probably won’t be able to do a damned thing with that pigskin leather. If the order was even really waiting for him, as the pig farmer had promised. Maybe once Micah had been grabbed by the lynch mob, the farmer had figured the order had been canceled.

  All the more reason to get out of here.

  He stumbled away from the ringleader and the tree, the noose still dangling around his neck. And the men—all of them—did nothing to prevent him leaving. In fact, the not-quite-an-angry-mob-anymore actually backed away as he took a few more step
s towards the woman with the rifle.

  The woman who, even as he stepped closer, backed up. Logically, he knew she was only doing that so she could keep the ringleader in her sites. Illogically, he wondered why she didn’t want to be around him.

  Who was she, and how did she know so much about him?

  And then he stumbled to a stop in front of her, and he knew. She still hadn’t dropped that rifle, and she still kept her cheek pressed against the carved mahogany stock. But behind the rear sight, her pea-green gaze flicked to him, and he knew.

  He felt something tighten in his chest, which had nothing to do with being hanged.

  Those eyes had haunted him for two decades. And above them, a pair of eyebrows which were no longer the angry bushes of childhood, and had mellowed into something thick and elegant and…regal.

  Under his regard, she slowly lifted her cheek from the rifle’s stock, and he caught his breath. Dios mio, but she was beautiful! Her skin was still so pale it was almost translucent, her hair still black as midnight—only now it was tied up under one of those fancy traveling bonnets, instead of the braids he remembered—and her chin still pointed pertly. But those eyes—and those eyebrows—declared her identity.

  He lifted his bound hands in front of him, the wrists pinched by the half-inch rope and his palms pressed together. Still, as well as he could, he wiggled the fingers of his right hand. It’s really her.

  He cleared his throat, but his voice still croaked a bit when he said, “Hello, Pea.”

  And when she frowned at him, he managed a laugh.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pea.

  Good heavens, how had she forgotten that ridiculous nickname? He’d given it to her on the day they’d met and had called her that for all of the months they’d clung to one another in that over-crowed New York orphanage. Of course, she’d been the one to give him his nickname, so she supposed it was fair.

  Pea. That name—and his smile—brought back so many memories. It had been over twenty years, but she’d never forgotten her best friend. Never forgotten the way his hugs made her feel safe, or the way he laughed at her attempts at seriousness, or the way he’d always made her feel better.

  She wanted to throw her arms around him, to feel that comfort once more…but she couldn’t. Not now, not until they were both safe.

  Instead of giving into the desire to lunge for him, to cut his bonds and to help hold him up, she kept her rifle pointed at the man under the tree. He’d been the man at the station, the man bragging about how he was going to hang the infamous Draven. Luckily, her words had convinced him and the crowd Micah wasn’t to be feared, and they were starting to disperse.

  When she reached the man who still held her rifle case, she deliberated. Should she take the time to put away her rifle, and rely on the Prince .32 rimfire pistol hidden in the front drape of her skirt to protect them both on their way back to the train station?

  No, better not risk it. “Micah, can you carry my valise?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the men under the tree.

  He grunted in response, but bent to lift up the bag. Knowing she could support the rifle in one hand for a short amount of time, she reached out and shut the case without looking at it, then grabbed the handle.

  Then, moving as one, she and Micah backed away from that haunted tree and headed towards Dilbert’s train station. She needed to buy two tickets to Everland, and could only hope the return train was coming sooner, rather than later. Micah couldn’t afford to linger here.

  He didn’t say anything as they hurried—or limped, in his case—through town, but she kept her eye on him. It might’ve taken four men and three whiskeys to subdue him, but he’d eventually succumbed. The skin around his left eye—opposite the horrible scar—was already purple and puffy, and there was blood at the corner of his mouth from a split lip. Who knew what other injuries he sported? Judging from the way he favored one leg, he probably needed a doctor.

  Would they be able to get to one in time? Would the mob find them again? Would he last until she got help?

  When they reached the station, she halted long enough to crouch and carefully put away her beloved rifle. Her pistol would be enough protection for now, even if she wasn’t as good of a shot with it.

  When she stood, Micah was slumped against the rail, his bound hands limp in front of him. Unconsciously, she reached for him, desperate to help, to lift him up. But she stopped before she made contact, when she remembered why she’d been looking for him for so long. Turning the motion into a gesture at the station, she cleared her throat.

  “I’ll go in and get two tickets out of here. And see who has a knife large enough to cut through that rope.” His hands must be numb by now.

  But he shook his head in utter exhaustion. “I can’t, Pea.” His voice was hoarse, and she ached for his pain. “I can’t—”

  “Go on?” she finished for him. “You can, Micah. You have to.” She glanced once more towards the west, afraid she’d see the mob come flowing back into town any moment. Neither of them would be safe until they were on the train. “I’ll help you. Lean on me.”

  She reached for him, but he stumbled back. Despite his exhaustion, his bruises, his blood, he managed a small smirk, which must’ve hurt like the blazes. “No, Pea. I mean, I can’t yet.” Each word sounded like it was being wrenched out of his wounded throat. “I came to Dilbert for a reason.”

  His words cut through her frantic worry, and her brows dipped in concentration. Why had he…? Oh yes, the leather. “Your order of pig leather for the new saddles out at the Volkov ranch. Of course he would prefer the European style, wouldn’t he?”

  His snort was barely audible. “One of these days, you’ll tell me how you know all this, right?”

  Because it was her job to know. But all she said was, “One of these days.”

  He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he exhaled heavily instead. He looked very much like a man who’d been beaten and hanged ought to look.

  Frowning slightly at that thought, Penelope nodded. “I will go get our tickets, and you will wait here in the station while I make sure your order has been delivered. Deal?”

  His brows rose, but the movement turned into a wince. “You sure? I can—“ A cough cut him off.

  “No, you can’t,” she said flatly. “You can barely stand. Come on.”

  It took everything in her power not to reach for him, to help him up onto the train platform. Instead, she picked up her rifle case and valise, clenching her hands around the handles in an effort to calm her heartbeat and her worries.

  He was here, with her. He was safe. She’d done it. Her mission was almost complete.

  Later, she had to help him onto the train. His knee had locked up—he said he’d twisted it during the fight—and his hands were still clumsy from being tied up for so long. She told herself their history together was the only reason she found herself longing to take his hands in hers, to rub some feeling back into them, to comfort him.

  But she suspected it would be a lie.

  Instead, she focused on getting him into the train. And once they were seated side-by-side on the bench seat inside the train, she unwrapped the food she’d bought on her hurried return into Dilbert to make sure his pig leather order was loaded onto the same train. The porter had been surprised—indignant, even—to have to deal with her, but she brooked no nonsense, and once he agreed to her request, she tipped him an extra few dollars for his help.

  He’d looked surprised, and she’d nodded firmly. She might not be a beauty, but in her experience, men could be handled with a firm tone and complete confidence…and a few extra coins.

  One thing she was very good at was managing men.

  Now, she spread the napkin on her lap, peeled off her gloves, and held up one of the apples to him without meeting his eyes. Instead, she kept her focus on his hands lying limp on his thighs.

  Such large hands! She never would’ve thought Micah would grow into such a large man.
His life hadn’t been easy since the Zapatos had found him, but everything she’d discovered told her it had been a fulfilling one. Micah’s hands were crisscrossed with old white scars and fresher nicks, and he had calluses on the pads of his fingers. They were working hands, in a way she hadn’t expected.

  What would it feel like to be held by them?

  She shivered at the thought, not entirely in revulsion. No. No, she tamped down on that thought.

  Men had no place in her life. Especially this one, who would bring so much more trouble than she wanted or needed.

  She was happy as she was, with a job and a home and a place of her own. Once she began to daydream about being held by a man, about being safe with a man…that man then had control over her, over her thoughts.

  And she was in control of herself, thank you very much.

  It wasn’t until he shifted slightly on the hard bench that she realized he hadn’t taken the apple she’d held out to him. Mastering her breathing—stop thinking about him as a man! He’s just Micah!—she dragged her gaze to his face.

  He’d propped his head against the window, and rocked gently with the train’s movement. His scar covered the side of his face facing her, the brow-bone destroyed in the point-blank shot which had nearly killed him when his brother-in-law had faced off against El Lobo to protect Rojita. The rest of his face was covered with signs of his most-recent altercation, and her fingers itched to smooth away that pain too.

  Those lovely dark eyes of his were closed, and he looked…he looked remarkably like the little boy she’d fallen half in love with, so long ago.

  “Micah?” she asked gently. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  With what looked like an all-over sigh, his eyes opened slowly and focused on the apple in her hand. Then his wry glance flicked her way. “No thanks.” He swallowed heavily. “Don’t think I could manage to chew it.”

  One of his hands twitched, as if he wanted to rub his jaw, and she saw the bruising under his dark stubble. Poor man. An apple would be difficult if he’d been kicked in the face, as she suspected.