Behind Raleigh, the men began edging for opposite ends of the table.
“I’ll shoot the next man who moves,” Wolfe said.
No one doubted him. They sat very still.
Jessica forgot to breathe as the silence stretched and stretched, plucking at her nerves more savagely than the wind. Then the young man laughed and relaxed again.
“No point getting riled,” Raleigh said easily. “I was just having some fun to pass the time waiting for the stage.”
“Going east?” Wolfe asked.
“West.”
“Next stage west will be along tomorrow about this time.”
“Tomorrow?” Raleigh said, startled. “What about the one today?”
“It’s full.”
“But only you and the girl—”
“My wife,” Wolfe interrupted flatly.
“You’re the only ones on the damned stage!”
“Like I said. It’s full.”
Raleigh’s body tightened again.
“It’ll keep, Raleigh,” said one of the other men coldly. “If the gent with the fancy rifle wants to fight the Indians up ahead all by himself, let him. One less Yankee bastard won’t bother me none. I’ve got better game to hunt.”
Raleigh glanced unhappily at the man who had spoken, but didn’t argue.
“Your friend gave you excellent advice,” Wolfe said to Raleigh. “Here’s some more—stay inside until the stage leaves.”
Jessica didn’t wait for Wolfe to open the door for her. She didn’t want him to have to turn his back on the men in the room. Without a word, she opened the door and hurried across the cold yard to the stage. Not until she was inside did she begin to relax.
Wolfe didn’t. Inside the stagecoach, he kept the carbine across his lap and watched the station with predatory attention. No one came out.
Suddenly the driver’s whip cracked like a pistol shot, the horses jerked forward in the traces, and the stage left the station as though the wheels were on fire.
“Will they follow us?” Jessica asked tightly.
“I doubt it. Their horses are played out.” Wolfe looked from the window to the wife he hadn’t asked for, the young woman who set his body on fire, the delicate aristocrat who was utterly unsuited for the Western land he loved as he had never loved anything in his life. “You’re going to get somebody killed, your ladyship. You don’t belong out here.”
“Neither do you.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“Those men took one look at you and knew you for a stranger.”
Wolfe smiled. “No one west of the Mississippi has ever seen me dressed like this, but I was damned if I’d look like your ladyship’s roustabout. Just as well. Jericho Slater was in that bunch at the stage station. If he had recognized me, there would have been hell to pay.”
“Who is Jericho Slater?”
“One of the few surviving members of Jed Slater’s gang.”
“Why does he hate you?”
“Caleb, Reno, and I did our best to kill every one of them.” Wolfe smiled thinly. “Damn near did. My only regret is that Jericho wasn’t with them at the time. He’s as bad as Jed ever was.”
Jessica frowned. “Why were you fighting a gang of men?”
“Slater made the mistake of grabbing Willow.”
The change in Wolfe’s voice and face when he spoke Willow’s name made Jessica’s breath lock in her throat. Suddenly, she had no doubt that Willow was a woman.
“Who is she?”
Jessica’s stark question made Wolfe glance over at her.
“A woman.”
“I gathered as much.”
“A Western woman.”
“Just what does that mean?” Jessica asked tightly.
“A woman strong enough to fight beside her man if it comes to that, and soft enough to set him on fire when the fighting is over. That’s one hell of a woman.”
Jessica forced herself to keep talking, to find out more about the woman who could make Wolfe’s eyes and voice gentle when he spoke about her.
“Is that why you were so angry with me over our marriage?” Jessica asked in a strained voice. “Were you expecting to marry Willow instead?”
“Not likely. I’d have to take on Caleb Black to do that, and only a fool would take on Caleb Black,” Wolfe said dryly. “He’s an Old Testament kind of man. Not much forgiveness in him.”
“Who is Caleb Black?”
“Willow’s husband, and one of the best friends a man could have.”
Wolfe watched with interest the relief that Jessica couldn’t completely hide.
“I see,” Jessica said. She drew a deep breath before she asked the only question that really mattered to her. “Do you love Willow?”
“Be hard not to. She’s everything I ever wanted in a woman.”
Jessica felt herself going pale. Until that moment she hadn’t known how deeply she had been certain that Wolfe was hers, that he had been hers since he had plucked her from the haystack, that he would always be hers.
She had never expected Wolfe to love another woman. The pain of it was shocking. It took the world away, leaving only a blankness where each heartbeat shook her, making her dizzy.
The stagecoach lurched and bucked over a rough spot. The driver’s shouts and cracking whip vied with the rattling of the wheels to deafen the passengers. For once, Jessica was glad of the violent motion. It made further conversation unnecessary. She braced herself as best she could, closed her eyes, and wondered how she could hurt so much and show no visible wound.
Wolfe gave Jessica a hooded glance. He knew she was only pretending to sleep, for her body was too stiff and she shivered from time to time as though standing in a cold wind. She clearly didn’t have any more questions about Willow Black. It was equally clear that Jessica had no desire to hear any more on the subject of Western women.
With a rather grim smile, Wolfe tipped his hat forward over his eyes, braced his feet on the facing seat, and congratulated himself on finding a chink in the aristocratic armor surrounding Lady Jessica Charteris Lonetree. He had been beginning to wonder if she had one. Her stubbornness had surprised him. He had expected her to give up and return to England long before now. She was accustomed to being waited on, to having endless rounds of teas and balls, to being protected and comforted by everyone within reach of her bewitching smile.
None of that had happened in America. Wolfe had deliberately left her alone. When that hadn’t affected her determination, he had made her go without servants, but that had been harder on him than on her. He would never forget the silky electricity of her hair clinging to him as he brushed it, or the elegant femininity of her back beneath fine lingerie as he buttoned each tiny button for her. Nor would he forget the stab of fear he had felt when he heard her scream, or the relieved laughter that had followed when he found her safe, though held prisoner by her braid.
A girl that helpless won’t last long out here, Wolfe assured himself silently. The West requires a woman with staying power. A woman like Willow.
But it wasn’t Willow’s blond hair and hazel eyes that haunted Wolfe’s thoughts and his fitful sleep. It was a sensuous red-haired elf weeping crystal tears.
3
T HE silence between Wolfe and Jessica wasn’t broken until afternoon, when a young, rather pregnant woman got on board. Her single trunk had been lashed awkwardly to the boot, for Jessica’s trunks took up much of the top, even though Wolfe had decreed that only three would come on the stage with them. The rest had been put aboard a freight wagon destined for Denver.
“Thank you, sir,” said the young woman, as Wolfe handed her into the stagecoach. “I’m afraid I’m more clumsy each day.”
“It’s a difficult time,” Wolfe said, subtly eyeing the girl’s waistline. In the stagecoach’s dim interior light, she looked at least six months pregnant. “Are you traveling alone?”
The kindness in Wolfe’s voice made the girl smile shyly at her hands. “Yes, sir. I co
uldn’t bear being away from my husband any longer. My aunt and uncle wanted me to stay in Ohio until the baby was born, but I just couldn’t wait. My husband is stationed at Bent’s Fort, you see.”
“Then you have an even longer trip than we do. We’re going only as far as Denver.”
The girl sat down thankfully and smoothed her hands over her dress. The costume was as expensive as Jessica’s, and considerably less mussed. The girl looked barely seventeen. She was plainly uneasy at the prospect of the stage ride.
“I’ll sit up with the driver,” Wolfe said. “It will be more comfortable for you.”
“Oh, no, sir,” she said quickly, looking no higher than his chest. “It’s too raw out there for man or beast. Besides, it’s the wilderness that makes me nervous, not you. There are rumors of Indians.” She shuddered. “The thought of those murderous heathens being anywhere near me just gives me the shivers.”
Wolfe concealed his amusement.
“Not all Indians are murderous,” Jessica said. “Some are quite hospitable. I’ve spent time in their camps.”
“You were a hostage?” the girl asked, horrified and fascinated at the same time.
“Hardly. Lord Robert Stewart was a friend of the Cheyenne. We were guests.”
“I’d sooner befriend the Devil as a redskin, and that’s a fact. You can’t trust them.” She smoothed her dress again and changed the subject with transparent determination. “That’s a lovely dress, ma’am. Is it French?”
“Yes. My guardian preferred English styles, but I like the simplicity of the new French fashions.”
The girl looked quickly at Wolfe, wondering if he was the guardian in question.
“My husband,” Jessica added, stressing the word lightly, “prefers no style at all. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Lonetree?”
“There’s little use for silks and foolishness in the West, Lady Jessica.”
“Lady?” said the girl quickly. “Then you’re English?”
Jessica bit back the temptation to correct the girl. “Close enough.”
“A true titled lady?” the girl persisted.
“Not here,” Jessica said. “Here I am Mrs. Lonetree.”
“I’m Mrs. O’Conner.” The girl hesitated. “Lonetree is an unusual name.”
“The true name is Tree That Stands Alone, but Lonetree is easier for most people,” Wolfe said.
“It sounds Indian.”
“It is.”
The girl’s face paled. She stared at Wolfe, noticing for the first time the man beneath the expensive city clothes.
“Dear Lord, you’re a redskin!”
“Sometimes,” he agreed. “Sometimes I’m an over-civilized citizen of the British Empire. Most of the time I’m just a Western man.”
The young Mrs. O’Conner made a low, unhappy sound and began twisting her handkerchief between trembling fingers. She looked everywhere in the coach but at Wolfe.
Wolfe sighed, settled his hat more firmly on his head, and reached for the door of the bouncing coach. When the door was opened wide, he braced himself in the doorway and reached for the luggage railing that ran around the top of the coach.
“Wolfe, what on earth…?” Jessica asked.
“Mrs. O’Conner will feel easier if I’m not inside with the civilized folks.”
With that, Wolfe swung himself up onto the top of the stagecoach with feline grace and moved forward to sit next to the startled driver. The coach door banged shut.
“You’re acting like a complete ninny hammer,” Jessica said, eyeing the young woman coolly. “My Wolfe is more a gentleman than anyone I’ve met in America.”
“My family was murdered by redskins when I was twelve. I was hiding, but I saw what they did to Mother and Sissy, and Mother was seven months along.” The girl’s hands smoothed over the swell of her own pregnancy. “That poor little babe died before he ever lived. Savages. Murdering savages. I hope the Army sends them all back to the devil that spawned them.”
Jessica closed her eyes as nightmares turned and coiled just beyond the reach of memory. She, too, had seen babies born dead. There was a horror in those tiny, still bodies that words couldn’t describe.
Shivering, Jessica pulled her heavy travel cloak more tightly around her body. Wishing she could curl up against Wolfe’s warmth, she did the next best thing. She curled up against the small leather travel bag Wolfe kept inside the coach with the rifle case.
Numbing miles went by. Jessica made no effort to speak to Mrs. O’Conner again. The loathing and fear in the girl’s voice when she spoke of Indians were not subject to reason any more than the aristocrats who spoke of “the viscount’s savage” were amenable to seeing past Wolfe’s Cheyenne mother and bastardy to the man beneath.
Finally, Jessica slept, only to be brought awake by the sound of shots and a high scream of terror from Mrs. O’Conner.
“Indians!” the girl screamed, crossing herself frantically. “Jesus and Mary, save me!”
Jessica bolted upright and yanked open the side curtain while the young Mrs. O’Conner’s screams pierced the interior of the coach. At first Jessica could see nothing but the flat landscape. Then she realized the terrain wasn’t as flat as it seemed. The land was folded gently, providing shelter for men and animals. It also provided ambush sites for unwary travelers. Apparently, a band of Indians had waited in one of those folds for the stage to approach.
“Dear God,” Jessica breathed as she heard rifle fire booming from the low hills.
Wolfe was on top of the stagecoach, exposed to every shot. He could use the driver’s shotgun, but there was no accuracy with such a weapon. It was intended to deter hold-ups, not an Indian attack.
The driver’s whip cracked repeatedly as he yelled at the team, demanding every bit of speed from the big horses. The coach bucked and swayed wildly each time it hit a rough spot on the road, and there were many spots. Jessica braced herself as best she could and stared out the window.
The Indians were a bit ahead and considerably to the left of the coach. They were too far away for accurate shooting. Granted, they were racing closer with every moment, and firing as they came. Even so, Jessica had hunted enough game to realize that the trap—if indeed it was a trap—had been sprung too soon.
Mrs. O’Conner’s screams rose to the point of pain as she began to claw frantically at the door, as though she believed safety lay outside the coach rather than within. When Jessica grabbed the girl’s hands and dragged them away from the door, Mrs. O’Conner turned on her like a wildcat. Jessica’s palm smacked against the girl’s cheek with a force that cut through her hysteria. Abruptly her screams gave way to sobbing. She sank to the floor and hid her face in her hands.
In the silence, Jessica suddenly heard Wolfe’s rough voice and his fist pounding on the outside of the stage. Apparently, he had been trying to make himself heard over the screaming for long enough to lose his temper.
“Jessica, stop that damned screaming and hand me the rifle case!”
The frightened Mrs. O’Conner heard only a harsh male voice demanding something unknown.
“What?” she screamed, her voice so shrill it was almost unrecognizable.
“The case on the floor!” Wolfe yelled fiercely. “Pass it up to me!”
Jessica had already grabbed the presentation case and was shoving it through the window opening. Before she finished, the case was yanked from her hands. It leaped upward as though it had wings and vanished from sight. Bracing herself against the wild swaying of the coach, Jessica looked out the window. The Indians had disappeared behind a fold in the land.
Suddenly a horse burst up over a nearby rise, running flat out. A rider was bent low over the horse’s neck, urging the lathered animal on. The rider was white, not Indian.
A ragged line of pursuing Indians thundered up over the rise several hundred yards behind the man. They fired sporadically, trying to bring down the fleeing rider.
On top of the stage, Wolfe braced himself and sighted down the
gleaming barrel. The Indians were more than a thousand feet away and the stage swayed unpredictably. Real accuracy shouldn’t have been possible under those conditions, even for someone with Wolfe’s uncanny rifle skills.
Wolfe began shooting methodically, picking targets, squeezing the trigger, levering in another cartridge, shifting the barrel to a new target, squeezing the trigger again, ignoring the return fire despite his vulnerable position atop the stage. The man fleeing the Indians was in much more immediate trouble than Wolfe was.
The horse’s pace fell off a few hundred yards from the stage. All that prevented the Indians from closing in for the kill was the withering fire Wolfe poured down on them from his swaying perch.
Praying through clenched teeth, her hands curled into fists, Jessica watched the man rein his horse into a long, shallow curve that brought him up to the stage. When the man was alongside, she kicked the door open and dragged Mrs. O’Conner out of the way.
The rider stood in the stirrups, grabbed the luggage railing with his right hand, and swung himself into the stage through the open door. She realized suddenly that he was a big man, bigger even than Wolfe.
Jessica yanked the door shut behind the man. A bullet ricocheted off the iron rim of a wheel with an eerie whine.
“Obliged, ma’am,” the stranger said. “Might you know if the rifleman up top is getting low on cartridges?”
“Oh, Lord!” Jessica grabbed Wolfe’s travel bag and rummaged quickly inside. “He has some in here. They were one of our wedding presents, like the repeating rifles.”
“Sounds like my kind of wedding.”
Jessica looked up into a pair of tired, yet amused gray eyes. Wordlessly, she held out her hands. There was a full box of cartridges in each. Then her breath came in with a harsh sound as she saw the blood sliding out from beneath the cuff of the stranger’s jacket.
“You’re wounded!”
“I’ll live, thanks to you and your husband. I can’t shoot worth a damn right-handed and I’d run my horse into the ground trying to get free of those Indians.”
Reflexively, Jessica and the man ducked as bullets thudded against the stage. An arrow pierced one of the side curtains and buried its lethal point in the opposite side of the stage where Mrs. O’Conner huddled. The sight of the arrow set her to screaming again.
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