The Courageous Brides Collection

by Johnnie Alexander, Michelle Griep, Eileen Key, Debby Lee, Rose Allen McCauley, Donita Kathleen Paul, Jennifer Uhlarik, Jenness Walker, Renee Yancy

  “Out for an evening ride. You’re about to lose the light, though. Find anything yet?”

  “Who says I’m lookin’ for somethin’?”

  Sam gestured to the shovel. Shrugged.

  “Right.” Gus looked down. “I figger you’ve heard the rumor, then.”

  “About hidden gold? Yes.”

  “Well, it’s more’n a rumor, and I’m gonna be the one to find it, shore as shootin’. If you’re figgerin’ on searchin’, you’ll have to find another spot.”

  “Just riding,” he repeated.

  “All right, then.” Gus continued to eye him suspiciously.

  Sam edged Stinkeye past then halted as Gus’s words clicked. Sam half-turned in the saddle and said, “How do you know it’s not a rumor?” If the postmaster knew about the gold, maybe he also had a clue to the killer’s whereabouts.

  Those yellowish eyes narrowed a mite. “Same way I know about the killer hidin’ about these parts. Same way I know about the rustlin’ and the train robbers. Same way I know about you.”

  Sam startled. “And how’s that?”

  “Miss Frederick’s articles, of course.”

  Sam felt pretty certain Stinkeye had trampled his innards. Clearing his throat, he said, “She mentioned me?”

  “Are you accusin’ me of—?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. Only making sure I understood. You’ve seen the articles?”

  “Several of them. Yup.”

  “She wrote about me?”

  “I seen your name, shore enough. Sam Brazos—right there in black and white, clear as day.”

  Sam had heard enough. Thumping his heels against Stinkeye’s sides, he raced back toward town, stewing over what he’d learned. Lucy had written about him, which he’d suspected—but not that she’d named him outright! Although the gold must not have been attached to his name, not if Gus had tried to hide the fact from him at first.

  So what had she accused him of? Had her father’s paper run the story yet? Had she sent the articles anywhere else?

  His location was blown. He’d have to act fast.

  And do what? He didn’t feel any closer to clearing his name than when he’d seen the first wanted poster.

  But Lucy Frederick was toying with him, and he didn’t appreciate it. Not one bit.

  All it took to win Aunt Margret’s cooperation was hinting at espionage. The poor sheriff didn’t know what caused Aunt’s apparent change of heart, but he’d had eyes only for the older woman and her peach pie since they set foot in his office. After waving a hand toward the wanted posters, he didn’t glance Lucy’s way again.

  Aunt played it for all she was worth—batting her eyelashes and even offering Rufus a pat on the head, though she did kick at the dog when it dared raise its nose to test the peach-scented air.

  The stack of papers resting on a broken armchair was haphazard and dusty. Forgotten. Was the town so sleepy Sheriff Frank had let down his guard? Lucy flipped through the posters, trying to disturb them as little as possible.

  The Cisco kid. John Wesley Hardin. There were train robbers. Murderers. Gang members. Wanted dead or alive, with hefty rewards offered for some. So many names and so many crimes. She skimmed the descriptions and studied the drawings one by one.

  “Why, Sheriff, you go too far!”

  Lucy cut her eyes to the older couple. Aunt Margret stood, hands balled at her sides, crumbs around her mouth and slimy peaches on the floor by her feet.

  “I can feed my own self perfectly fine, thank you. If you try a stunt like that again, you’re liable to wake up one morning without a head! Not that you’d miss the brain portion.”

  “Now see here, Margret. Settle yourself! I was just—”

  As they continued to argue, Lucy refocused on the task at hand. By the tone of her voice, Aunt’s patience was dangerously near its limit. Lucy flipped quickly through the next three posters. Then the world began to spin.

  A crude sketch stared up at her, $800 REWARD emblazoned above it. Simple as it was, with a tidy beard and mustache drawn in, she knew that face. Even if she didn’t, he hadn’t bothered to change his name.

  Sam Brazos. Wanted for stealing from and killing his partner.

  Her Sam.

  Lucy shot to her feet, scattering posters across the floor.

  Aunt Margret took that as her cue. “You can keep the pie, Sheriff. You can even feed it to that mangy mutt of yours. Yes, I will insult your dog because he smells like death warmed over with a side of sauerkraut.”

  Lucy frantically scooped together the papers, tucking that particular one in her pocket next to her lucky pen.

  “There’s no call for—”

  Air. She needed air. Rushing outside, Lucy breathed in a lungful of dust. Choking, she hurried down the boardwalk, not bothering to wait for Aunt Margret.

  Sam. A wanted man. There could be no mistake he was an outlaw. The description had read like the man who galloped across the pages of her articles. Blue eyes. Five feet eleven inches. His build, his hair color, his weight. Even the fact that he was considered handsome.

  She stopped dead in her tracks as Sam swung down from Stinkeye’s sweaty back and stormed into the livery.

  Handsome? Yes. Yes, he was. But…a murderer? A thief?

  Forcing her feet onward, she passed Doc Smith, Mr. Thorp, and Widow Aurilla in quick succession, paying no heed to their greetings.

  “Lucy?” Aunt called. The older woman’s shoes clattered against the boards as she hurried to catch up. “What is it, dear? Did you get your story?”

  Lucy’s stomach churned. She’d found a story all right.

  But it was one she desperately did not want to write.

  Back in his room, Sam threw his few belongings into his saddlebags, stopping only to grip his Colt as hurried footsteps approached. When they passed without more than a slight hesitation, he rose and crossed to the window.

  No posse waited outside. Maybe they weren’t coming. Maybe Lucy hadn’t informed the sheriff about all her suspicions, preferring to keep Sam around to provide more story fodder.

  But he couldn’t risk it. Sam refused to hang for something he didn’t do. Worse, he refused to let George Keene’s killer ride free.

  He had to see Lucy once more, had to look into her eyes and ask why. Then he would go. Hide in the hills maybe, wait until things had died down and hope he could pick up the trail of George’s murderer again.

  Or maybe it was inevitable. Maybe he was destined for life on the dodge and should hit the trail south to the border. Live the life of the outlaw she believed him to be.

  Snapping himself out of it, Sam crept to the door and listened. When the hall proved quiet once again, he swiftly moved down the hall to Lucy’s room. Too close to Jasper for his liking, but if anyone disturbed her, she’d have the rest of the house leaping to her defense.

  She was safe.

  Too bad Sam was not.

  “Miss Frederick?” When he knocked on her door, it creaked open slowly, revealing a tidy room, but no Lucy. The desk proved to be the only exception to the neatness, with fancy papers and writing materials strewn about, almost as if she’d pushed aside a pile in frustration. Did one of those papers mention him? Was she composing another imagined crime to pin on the infamous Sam Brazos?

  He was halfway across the room before he could reconsider. The papers on the desk were blank, except for one, half hidden near the bottom of the pile. He tugged it free then nearly dropped it as if burned.

  A wanted poster. For him.

  In Lucy’s room.

  The irritating, nosy, beautiful, endearing redhead who’d half-stolen his heart—she’d been playing him. He’d suspected all along, hadn’t wanted to believe it. But here—here was proof in black and white. His likeness stared up at him on a paper declaring him dangerous, wanted, worth an $800 reward if captured.

  Lucy hadn’t needed the money—just that blasted story.

  And he’d let her close enough to get one. />
  Chapter Seven

  If you boil that spinach any longer, we’re gonna be drinkin’ it.”

  Lucy jerked to attention. The water had turned green, and she pulled the pan from the heat.

  “Gonna tell me what’s troublin’ you?” Aunt Margret asked, not for the first time.

  “No, Aunt.” Not until she decided what to do. She’d hidden the poster in her room, unwilling to have it burn a hole of guilt and grief through her pocket. The sheriff hadn’t seen it, Lucy was certain. Should she show it to him? Confront Sam first?

  But that would give him time to escape…and the chance to add another notch to his gun, unless that was only a dime novel thing. Regardless, the headlines would be humiliating. Something about a novice reporter’s first brush with a real story proving fatal?

  Father would grieve…but he would run that article. She had no doubt.

  “Slice a boiled egg atop that spinach,” Aunt ordered. “Mind it’s a boiled egg you crack open. I don’t want scrambled spinach, and that’s a fact.”

  The eggshells chipped off in tiny pieces, taking bits of the tender egg with it. Broken. Mangled. Like her heart.

  Lucy tried to pull herself together, but it was a hopeless case. Sam couldn’t have committed the crimes the poster accused him of. Not the man she was coming to know. The one with the strong, honest jaw, the helpful hand, the quick compliment, the clear blue eyes that caused her insides to smolder.

  Not her Sam. They were mistaken.

  They had to be.

  But his spot remained empty at the dinner table. Her aunt cast concerned looks Lucy’s direction, and Jasper talked more loudly to try to cajole her into joining the conversation. More talk of gold fever. More rumors that may not be rumors after all.

  She should take notes. Instead, she played with her food, pushing the salty ham around her plate, jumping up to assist Aunt and escape to the kitchen for a few moments to herself. And helping to clean up when Sheriff Frank and Rufus made an unwelcome visit.

  All the while, Lucy kept her mouth closed in a firm line, preventing her from blurting out what she’d learned or asking her aunt for advice on what to do.

  Sam had saved her from unwanted attentions. He’d played the gallant, albeit sarcastic, escort. He’d been a welcome addition to this new place she was to call home.

  She wouldn’t turn on him until he’d had a chance to explain himself. Until she’d looked into his eyes and searched out the truth.

  Once the sheriff had gone and the guests had been seen to, Aunt finally grabbed Lucy’s arm, work-worn fingers holding her in an iron grip. “Look at me, girl. Tell me what’s got you all in a tizzy.”

  Tears welled. Lucy blinked hard then widened her eyes, trying to keep the moisture from escaping.

  “Did that boy go and break your heart? I always figured him for a good man—you can tell by his ears. But if he hurt you—”

  “His ears?” Lucy sputtered out a laugh, teardrops falling at the same time.

  “Why, yes, didn’t your daddy teach you anything? When a man’s ears are—”

  As Aunt continued her explanation, Sam crossed the street outside, his hat shadowing his face. Headed toward the livery stable, no doubt. To go where? To rob some unsuspecting traveler? To rustle steers from Rockin’ R? To practice his gunslinging skills so he could outdraw anyone standing in the way of what he wanted?

  What about her? Did he want her?

  Or was she in his way?

  “Excuse me, Aunt.” Gathering her skirts, Lucy rushed to her room to collect the poster before escaping outdoors. Casting one quick glance behind her, she slowed her pace to a ladylike stroll while her heart fairly burst within her. The folded paper burned through the skin of her hand until she felt the whole town could see it glowing like a scarlet letter.

  Sam Brazos. Guilty of murder and thievery.

  Lucy Frederick. Guilty of being gullible, of hoping against hope, of betraying her journalist ambition, of protecting an outlaw.

  The livery seemed deserted when she entered. Stinkeye stood in his stall, glaring in her general direction.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she hissed.

  “Feeling guilty?”

  Whirling, she spotted Sam lounging on a bale of hay, his back against the wall. His hands were loose, but his gun hung in its holster, strapped to his lean waist.

  “Why should you say that?”

  “Stinkeye looks at everyone like that. Hence the name. So if he’s offending you, I reckon it indicates you feel guilty-like.”

  Of all the nerve. Lucy refrained from whipping out the poster, but she did stomp her foot a little. “I assume you’re dying for a confession?”

  “I’d like to hear it. Yes.”

  “You—” She sputtered and fumed and threw out all the mean names she could think of as he slowly pushed to his feet and moved closer. When she stopped for breath, she saw something in his eyes. Not the amused condescension she’d expected. A hint of anger, yes. But something deeper. Something…sad. Vulnerable, even.

  He was going to leave.

  Her heart caught in her throat. That’s not what she wanted. Not at all. She wanted him to tell her it was a misunderstanding. That everything would be okay. She wanted him to sweep her into his arms and—

  Then he did. Leaned over her, tipped up her chin with gentle fingers, ran his thumb lightly over her lower lip, lowered his mouth to hers.

  Lucy was pretty sure she should be yelling for help, but her mouth was quite occupied. Or maybe beating his chest—the hard planes of which her hands were currently caressing as they slid upward of their own accord. Running away, except her feet had planted themselves firmly, and as tingles raced down to curl her toes, she found herself not wanting to move. Ever.

  Sam pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers. She gazed up at him, her eyes lazily refocusing, mostly on those lips.

  “Lucy …” he began, his voice a husky whisper.

  Then his mouth firmed. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He gripped her wrists and pulled her hands free of his neck.

  What—? Then she saw it. On the ground between them. The wanted poster had fallen to the ground, his likeness staring up at them in a hastily folded square.

  “Wait. Sam …” She wanted to explain why she’d come. Wanted him to explain why the poster existed. But his face turned cold, impassive, and he turned to face the door as rapid footsteps approached.

  “Well done, Miss Frederick,” he said, low and tight. “I hope your story wins what you seek most.”

  Sheriff Frank burst in, pistol drawn and shaky, flanked by his deputy and Mr. Thorp, with more coming behind.

  “Sam Brazos! Yer under arrest!” The pistol shook harder. “Don’t give us no trouble, you hear me?”

  Lucy quaked in her Adelaide boots. They couldn’t take him! He was innocent. She knew he was good. She’d sensed it, tasted it, saw it in his eyes. “Sam?”

  “Get out of the way, Lucy,” he muttered, his fierce stare trained on the sheriff.

  “You heard the man, Miss Lucy,” Mr. Thorp said.

  If she got out of the way, what would happen to Sam?

  Stinkeye reared. The sheriff’s gun hand jerked. Someone shoved Lucy, and she face-planted into a hay bale as the echo of a shot thundered through the rafters.

  Moments later, Lucy surfaced to chaos. Spitting hay and crouching next to the wall, she tried to assess the situation, to stay calm and collected like she was following a lead…like Sam had accused her of doing. She filed away Stinkeye’s pounding hooves against a shuddering stall door. The stable boy’s rounded eyes as he leaned out of Dellarosa’s enclosure, hair askew and lines on his cheek as if he’d been napping.

  Men shouted. Women screamed. Rufus howled. Checkers sat in the middle of the livery, casually observing everything, his tattered tail moving in languid swipes across the floor.

  Then she saw the blood. On the hay near her. On the floor.

  And on the shirt of Sam Brazos as they dr
agged him away.

  Chapter Eight

  She had no time to come up with a plan. All Lucy knew as she raised herself from the livery floor was that she had to free Sam. But first, she had to heal him. How badly had he been hit?

  “You’re not allowed to die, Sam Brazos,” she muttered to no one in particular, her voice cracking.

  After helping Dusty calm Stinkeye, Lucy swept up the wanted poster and tore it into bits as she rode Dellarosa to the boardinghouse. Aunt Margret met her at the kitchen door, arms folded as she watched the townspeople milling around the boardwalk.

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” Aunt said, “it’s probably a bad idea.”

  “I need a gun.”

  “A catawampusly bad idea.”

  “I can handle one. I promise.”

  “Now where would Henry Frederick’s daughter learn to shoot a gun?”

  “Research, Aunt. I’m a writer.”

  “Yes. That you are.” A wry smile twisted one side of Aunt Margret’s generous mouth. “I saw what happened, and I think the sheriff’s being unreasonable, as is typical. There’s a shotgun in my room, under the pillow. Shells are on the dresser, but I trust you won’t be using them.”

  “Likely not. I’m going to fetch the doc first.” Lucy swung down and raced to retrieve the sawed-off shotgun then returned to the kitchen and hugged Aunt Margret.

  “You be careful out there, brave girl,” the older woman whispered in her ear.

  Lucy thanked her aunt and mounted Dellarosa. Minutes later, she eased the mare to a halt in front of the doctor’s house. She marched up to the stoop, the shotgun tucked against her side, not caring whether she presented a ladylike picture as she pounded on his door.

  After all, she had a cowboy to save.

  The stark look Lucy had worn burned Sam far worse than the bullet that tore a furrow through his side.

  She’d turned him in—played him for a story, gave him a Judas kiss, and turned him over to his death when she was through.

  How had he misjudged her so badly?