by Lisa Cooke
“Could you have shot him?”
“No,” she replied without hesitation.
“A word of advice: never point a gun at a man unless you know you can pull the trigger.”
“Oh, I could have pulled the trigger. I just couldn’t have shot him.”
Should he ask? “And why is that?”
“I don’t have any bullets.”
Dyer leaned against the rail to help support his suddenly buckling knees as he watched her walk away. In order to save him, the woman had pressed an empty gun into the back of a very dangerous man. Had Johnson turned on her, he could have killed her in an instant, and Dyer would have been unable to stop it.
He wasn’t sure if it was the bravest thing he’d ever seen or the most foolish, but either way, it made his stomach drop.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Texas Deck was usually the best place to catch the river breeze, and today was no exception. Lottie stepped into a shady spot and leaned against the rail to enjoy the view. They would be in St. Louis by tomorrow evening, and the tournament was the day after that. That left two days for her to prepare and pace and fret herself silly.
“Aren’t nervous, are you?”
She jumped at the unexpected sound of Newt’s voice.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, joining her at the rail.
“I think I’m still a little edgy because of what happened last night.”
“You needn’t worry about Dyer. He’s capable of dealing with the likes of Johnson.”
“I’m sure he is. It’s just . . .” Lottie stopped speaking when she realized Newt’s attention was elsewhere. His gaze narrowed, and he brought his hand quickly to his eyes to shield them from the sun as he studied the river.
“What is it?” She could see nothing in the muddy water that should cause such concern. No animals, no trees, no bodies. Then the river gave up her secret, and the Belle groaned and dragged to a stop.
“Mudflat,” Newt said, heading toward the back of the boat. Lottie hurried behind him.
“Surely the captain will be able to back off the flat.”
“Don’t think it will make much difference if he does.” He came to a stop at the back of the boat, just above the paddle wheel.
“Why not?” She stopped beside him to watch as the big wheel frothed the muddy water for a few seconds more, then stopped. By this time, several of the other passengers crowded around the rails, pointing and chatting nervously about the situation.
“Looked like the flat goes across the river. He’d have no place to take her if he could get off,” Newt answered.
The decks of the Belle creaked and shuddered as the steam engines fought to reverse the paddle. The large red wheel strained for a few moments before it finally stopped completely with a burst of steam. The captain alerted the crew by ringing bells from the wheel house, and the workers on the lower deck shouted to each other as they released the pressure and shut back the engines. She prayed they’d be successful. Stories of boilers exploding and killing boatloads of passengers ran through her mind.
“Gentlemen,” Captain Woodruff’s voice carried over the confusion. He stood at the foot of the steps leading to the wheel house and waited for the crowd to still. “There’s no need to be concerned. We’re stuck, but we’re safe.”
“Stuck?” one of the men shouted. “What the hell do you mean, stuck? We have to get to St. Louis!” The crowd chimed in with agreement.
“There’s nothing I can do about that. The water is down, and we’re just going to have to hope it’s raining upriver, and we’ll float free. We’ve still got almost three days until the tournament.”
Woodruff headed back up the steps as the crowd dispersed, grumbling as they did.
“What are we going to do?” Lottie turned to speak to Newt, surprised to find he no longer stood behind her, but was across the deck in deep discussion with Dyer. She wasted no time in joining them.
“Get your things and be back here as quickly and quietly as possible,” Dyer said, ushering her to the steps that led to the cabins.
“Why?”
He leaned over and lowered his voice. “We’re jumping ship, but we don’t want someone else to beat us to the yawl boat.” He rushed away from her before she had the chance to question him.
The pitifully small collection of her possessions fit easily into her carpetbag, especially since she’d returned the short satin dress to Sally. She wished she could take the time to thank Sally for her help and bid her farewell. But Dyer seemed to think they needed to hurry, and now was not the time to question him.
By the time she returned to the deck, he was ready and waiting. Dyer took her valise and ushered her to the lower deck, where Newt stood casually guarding the partially lowered yawl boat. A quick release of the pulleys dropped the boat to the water, and in a matter of moments, they were on their way to land. Shouts from the decks of the Belle reached their ears at the same time they arrived on shore.
Newt chuckled. “I believe the others have noticed our departure.”
Several men crowded on the deck, gesturing toward them—and not in a gentlemanly way. “Oh dear,” she said. “Should we return the boat?”
Dyer hopped out of the boat and pulled it up onto the land. “Why? So they can beat us to any horses that may be between here and the next town? Or maybe so we can have more to compete against at the tournament?”
He was right. Their best course of action was to get as much of a head start as possible, though it seemed unsporting. She absently reached for her locket, then lowered her hand. There was nothing she could do to retrieve her necklace now, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still save her father.
“Well, Miss Mace?”
“Well . . .” She turned her back to the Belle. “What are we waiting for?”
Taking Dyer’s hand, she stepped gingerly out of the boat, careful to avoid the mud at the river’s edge. Newt followed, and the three shoved their way through brush and bramble until they discovered a road about half a mile inland.
Lottie’s gown and shoes had not been made for traipsing through the woods. Broken twigs and briars tangled in the hem of her gown and petticoats. The buckle of one shoe was either loose or broken, and the per sis tent tickle at the base of her neck caused her to suspect a spider’s web was caught in her hair.
“Wait.” She dropped onto a fallen log by the road to repair the damage.
Dyer stopped at the sound of Lottie’s voice and turned back to face her. What was she doing now? They had a lot of ground to cover before nightfall, and any delay at this point could cost them dearly.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
She picked at the twigs in her hemline. “I seem to be carrying part of the forest with me.”
He knelt in front of her, flipping back the hem. There were indeed an assortment of sticks, leaves and briars collected under her skirts, but those were not what caught Dyer’s attention. Her slender ankles and calves were scratched and bleeding, and one shoe was loose, its buckle completely missing.
She shoved down her skirt. “Mr. Straights! That was not in the least appropriate.”
Dyer glanced up at Newt. “We have to find a horse.”
“I’m fine!” She swatted at the back of her neck. “Once I remove these sticks, I can keep up with the two of you.”
He removed her broken shoe and held it up for her to see. She jerked it out of his hand and bent over to put it back on her foot.
“I may not be able to walk as quickly,” she mumbled. “But I’ll keep up.”
He sighed and stood, turning his back to her. “Come, Miss Mace. Don’t dawdle.”
“Come where?”
He held his hands out to his side. “Climb on.” He heard a tiny gasp.
“Surely you don’t expect me to ride you like a horse?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Step up on the log and get on my back. We don’t have time to waste.”
“Might as well do it,
Lottie,” Newt said. “There’s no changing his mind when he gets like this.”
Dyer wasn’t sure what Newt meant, though it didn’t matter since it convinced Lottie to climb on his back. It took a few moments to adjust her skirts so he could hold her legs, but soon they headed north. Newt carried their valises, and Dyer carried Lottie.
Within a mile, they came across a clearing with a small house a few hundred feet off the road. Smoke curled from a chimney at one end of the shack. A scrawny dog lay in the dirt outside the porch near a pile of firewood in need of splitting. A little man, even scrawnier than the dog, rocked in a chair near the door.
Dyer allowed Lottie to slide off his back. “Stay with her,” he said to Newt as he ignored her protests and headed toward the farmer. Fifteen minutes and twenty-five dollars later, he returned with a five-dollar donkey.
“Fine piece of horse flesh you procured for us, Mr. Straights.” Newt patted the donkey’s flank, stirring up a cloud of dust. It was bad enough the old timer had taken advantage of their circumstances. Newt’s added amusement wasn’t making things better.
Lottie scratched behind one of the big floppy ears. “I think she’s lovely.”
“Would you like to know her name?” Dyer asked.
“No!” she blurted then cleared her throat. “I’m going to name her Sugar because she’s so sweet.”
Lottie seemed pleased with her decision, despite the fact Sugar chose that exact moment to fart like the jackasses of her ancestry. Lottie’s cheeks tinged pink.
“She doesn’t smell so sweet,” Newt said.
“I was referring to her disposition. Besides, it’s good to know she doesn’t have colic.”
Dyer chuckled and lifted Lottie’s sweet ass onto the back of the other. He was proud of himself. He didn’t make any more comments about Sugar’s lack of colic, despite her rather noisy gut and the obvious embarrassment it caused Lottie. She refused to make eye contact or comment as Sugar farted her way down the road toward St. Louis.
And Dyer said nothing.
Somewhere along the way, he must’ve become a saint.
Lottie had never been so glad to set her foot on firm ground as she was when they finally stopped for the night. Dyer helped her from Sugar’s back and led the donkey away to tie her for the night . . . downwind, of course. Gathering some branches from a few pine trees, Newt arranged the boughs into a makeshift bed. He pulled a bedroll from his valise, and Dyer removed one from his own. Within a few minutes, they shared some bread and cheese by a crackling fire built more to keep away wild animals than for heat.
“How far do you think we are from St. Louis?” she asked, grateful to be sitting on a soft blanket rather than on a bony donkey.
“Not sure.” Dyer placed some wood on the fire and returned to sit beside her. “Hopefully we’ll be there in time for the tournament.”
A branch snapped in the darkness. Dyer jerked his head in the direction of the noise and froze.
“Probably Newt bringing more wood,” he said, but his concerned expression didn’t fit with his statement. Another snap brought him to his feet, and Lottie’s heart jumped into her throat.
“Newt?” he asked.
No answer. Dyer gestured for Lottie to stay quiet, then reached across the blanket for his gun holster.
“Don’t do it, Straights.” The unmistakable click of a cocking gun stopped Dyer’s hand.
Abe Johnson stepped out of the woods and into the light of the fire. His drawn gun pointed directly at Dyer’s chest.
“What do you want, Johnson?”
“I want my money, you son of a bitch.”
“You’d kill a man for a hundred bucks?”
Johnson took aim at Dyer. “I’d kill you for a whole lot less than that.”
Dyer raised his hands. “I’ll give you your hundred bucks if you’ll take it and leave.”
Johnson shook his head. “I’m not talkin’ about the money you cheated from me the other night. I’m talkin’ about how you swindled me three years ago.”
“I don’t even know—” Dyer started.
“You do!” Johnson shouted, his hand shaking with rage. “You took everything I had in a game in Memphis, and you don’t even remember it, you son of a bitch!”
Lottie gulped and dared a glance toward Dyer’s gun. It was close enough to reach if she dove for it, but Johnson might shoot Dyer if she moved.
“I don’t remember the game,” Dyer said, “but I don’t cheat. If I beat you, it was fair and square.”
Johnson took a step toward them. His glazed eyes riveted on Dyer. “I lost everything I had.” The gun quivered in his hand, his voice turning guttural. “Now it’s your turn.”
Suddenly, Newt threw a chunk of wood into Johnson’s hand. Dyer grabbed Lottie and rolled with her behind a log. He grabbed his gun and jumped to his feet just as shots fired.
She peeked above the log to see Newt and Dyer run into the woods on Johnson’s trail, but they soon returned empty-handed.
“Did you find him?” Lottie asked.
Dyer walked over and kicked the logs away from the fire to extinguish the flame. “No. But don’t worry.”
“What do you mean, ‘don’t worry’? There’s a crazy man with a gun out there trying to kill us.” How could she not worry about that?
He raised his head to look at her. “He wants to kill me.” He stomped the embers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Those words coming from any other man wouldn’t have meant much. But they hadn’t come from any other man, and she’d seen enough of Dyer to know he would protect her, crazy man or not.
He walked over to speak quietly to Newt, then turned to her and said, “Sleep.”
She curled up on the makeshift bed and closed her eyes so he wouldn’t chastise her. But there was no way she would ever sleep after what had just happened, despite his orders.
Dyer didn’t allow his tired body to relax until daylight lifted the darkness of the forest and Newt stepped back into the campsite.
“Still no sign of him?” Dyer asked.
Newt shook his head. “There’s blood on one of the trees where he ran. We must’ve nicked him.”
Dyer nodded and pulled himself to his feet to stretch the kinks out of his muscles. He glanced toward Lottie. She hadn’t moved all night. He knew that because he’d watched her . . . more than he should have and less than he’d wanted to.
“Do you want to wake her or just stare at her?”
Newt’s wiseass grin hit Dyer the wrong way. “I’m not staring at her.” He wasn’t staring at her, really. Just keeping an eye on her. Lord knew somebody needed to. He walked over and shook her shoulder. “Miss Mace?”
She rolled to her back and let out a tiny “Hmmm?” as she stretched like a cat and opened her eyes.
“We need to get on our way if we’re going to make it in time for the tournament.”
“Oh!” She sat up abruptly as maelstrom of curls sprang from her pins.
He wanted to touch them but every time he did, something happened, and Newt was watching like a hawk. Dyer stepped away and allowed her to make the adjustments women always made in the mornings. He wondered why they bothered. The tousled look was much more appealing to his way of thinking.
“Well, damn it.” Newt stepped back into the clearing from the direction of the jackass. Unfortunately, he stepped back empty-handed.
“What?” Dyer didn’t know why he bothered to ask. The answer was obvious.
“Evidently our little lady is an escape artist.”
Lottie hurried over beside them, still poking pins into her hair. “You mean Sugar?”
Newt nodded. “She’s gotten loose.”
“Or maybe that horrible Mr. Johnson stole her.” She lowered her hands and looked up at Dyer as though she expected him to go chasing after them.
“Pray tell, Miss Mace, why would Johnson steal a jackass?”
“Why, to escape, of course.”
Dyer nodded his head as
he tried to picture one 250-pound jackass riding another. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “I doubt Johnson stole Sugar.” He walked away, but not without adding, “Though he might have eaten her.”
She gasped. “You don’t think . . .”
“I’m kidding.” He grinned and handed her a piece of cheese. “Our biggest concern right now, however, is not the fate of your farting female friend.”
“What is our concern?” She accepted the cheese and waited.
“We have to figure out how to get you to St. Louis.”
“We’ll walk.”
Well, hell. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Miss Mace, in case you’ve forgotten, your shoe is broken.”
She looked down at her feet and sighed. “I suppose I could take it off.”
“I suppose you could, but that wouldn’t help our dilemma any.”
He motioned for her to sit on a log while he knelt in front of her to examine her shoe. She gingerly lifted her hem, careful to keep her calf covered. It seemed ridiculous under the circumstances, but if it made her feel better, so be it. He set her foot on his thigh to look at the bedraggled shoe more closely. Her hem slid up her leg enough for him to see the dried blood still caked on her skin. It bothered him more than it should have.
“Newt?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there any water in the canteen?”
Newt brought it over and handed it to Dyer. “Some.”
Dyer un tucked the shirttail from his pants and tore a strip from around the bottom. He poured some water on the fabric and wiped it against her cuts.
“I’m all right.”
Her protest would have been more effective if she hadn’t winced. He probably would have been more effective too. He stopped and looked at her face, locking gazes with her, and for a moment, he forgot to speak.
Then he forced his mouth to work. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she mouthed, and suddenly the soft curve of her calf felt painfully intimate in his hand.
Newt cleared his throat. “Can you fix the shoe?”
Dyer blinked and forced his attention back to the damn shoe.
“Sure.”
