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

  She was in trouble. He knew it, but he could do nothing, not stuck here behind bars. Which meant it was time to escape. Somehow.

  An image of the doc’s hands sprang to mind. Picking pecans from their hard hulls would explain the ragged fingernails. If he dared to lay one of those dirty hands on Lucy …

  Eyeing the lock on the cell, Sam casually worked his way closer to it as Margret Frederick returned, pushing her way inside the jailhouse door with Gus Wiley following immediately after.

  “Well, Margret, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you again so soon?” The sheriff bobbed his head around as if looking for hidden treasure.

  “I’m not here for you, gunslinger.” She lifted the basket she held, which didn’t contain the hoped-for pie. Just as well, considering any accompanying dessert would likely have been shoved into the clueless lawman’s face. “I’m here with real bandages to take care of your prisoner, since you haven’t bothered to send for the doc.”

  “Dadgum it, Margret, I sent for him! I did!”

  “He shore did,” Gus echoed. “Right after he had Jasper send a message to the Texas Rangers.”

  “Is it my fault Doc chose this particular time to go digging for gold like everyone else in this addle-brained town?”

  Sam tested the cell door as Margret turned up her nose. “Give me the key or you’re never tasting my cooking again, and the next time your coon dog finds its way into my kitchen, I’m feeding him to my boarders.”

  Gus and the sheriff both recoiled, and Margret took the opportunity to grab the keys from Sheriff Frank’s desk.

  Narrowing his eyes, Sam eased back and watched. Could it really be that easy?

  “Now see here—”

  “You see here. I’m going to take care of this boy’s wounds. You’re going to look at whatever mail Gus took the time to hand-deliver, and then you’re going to find my niece, else you’ve no claim to that gold star. None at all.”

  Turning the key, she let herself into the cell, closing the door behind her.

  Grumbling all the while, Twitchy-Fingered Frank aimed his rifle in Sam’s direction. “No bright ideas, boy, or the next shot will be fatal.”

  “Yes,” Margret muttered. “But to whom?”

  Sam remained still and watchful as the woman jerked him around a bit, slopping fresh water over him and roughly patching him up again. Uncertain if she was trying to help or maim, he braced against the pain and watched for any opening. The sheriff stayed with Gus, his rifle gradually drifting away as the man became engrossed in whatever news Gus had brought his way.

  “Boy,” Margret said as she gathered her things. “I don’t know who you really are or what you’ve done, but my girl’s out there and she needs you. So go find her and bring her back safe, or I’ll string you up myself.” She laid out a clean shirt. “But put that on first. Modesty and all that.”

  With that, she let herself out of the cell, closing it behind her…failing to lock it before laying the key on the sheriff’s desk.

  Gus had started an argument. Something about hunting dogs versus mousers. The lawman grew animated, finally reaching for pen and paper to draw a diagram to solve the problem once and for all. Sam allowed the cell door to swing open a foot or two and waited. Nothing. Picking up his hat, he sauntered toward freedom, earning the slightest of nods from Wiley on his way out.

  Sprinting toward the barn, he found Dusty holding Stinkeye at the ready.

  “Thank you kindly. I thought you set the Rangers after me.” Sam palmed the reins.

  “Nah.” Dusty handed over Sam’s pistol and Winchester rifle. “I took Admiral out for a run, that’s all.”

  Sam swung onto Stinkeye. “Did you see Miss Lucy? Or Doc Smith?”

  “Thought I saw Doc’s wagon headed down the river way, but I ain’t certain—”

  “Thanks, Dusty.” Sam urged his horse into a full gallop. They had a good lead on him, and Sam wasn’t at full strength. But if he could find them—if he was in time—nothing would keep him from saving Lucy.

  He hoped.

  Sensing Sam’s urgency, Stinkeye extended his stride like a racer pushing to the finish.

  “Come on, boy,” Sam muttered. When they rounded the last bend and the river sprang into sight, Stinkeye gave a final burst of speed…just in time to hear a scream.

  Chapter Ten

  Lucy was willing to sacrifice many things for a story. Ruining her favorite pearl-buttoned boots in a filthy river was not one of them. She kicked and screamed and writhed and prayed, but the doctor flung her over his shoulder like a living fox stole and trudged toward the water.

  “Unhand me, you cad! You yellow-bellied fraud! You murderer!” Her lack of imaginative insults infuriated Lucy.

  Father was right all along. She didn’t have what it took, and for the first time she was okay with that—perfectly resigned to the fact that she’d never write a published story—as long as she could make sure Sam would be all right. Tell him she hadn’t set him up, she believed him, and had even before the crazy killer confessed.

  She loved him.

  “Go ahead, missy,” Ira Moledord said. “Waste your last words calling me names. There’s no one around to hear you.”

  If only she’d known his true name to begin with, she would have realized he was a villain. How could any Ira Moledord not be?

  The doctor let out a laugh far too jolly for their predicament. “They’re too busy getting ready to hang Sam Brazos.”

  They stood on the edge now, the rocky surface tilting at a sharp angle until it met a rush of brown water. Moledord grunted, his muscles coiling. Lucy shrieked louder, kicked harder. And still felt herself falling…falling …

  As Sam watched Lucy tumble from the bank, his heart fell with her. Shouting her name, he leaped from Stinkeye’s back and drove his fist into the surprised doctor’s face. Doc grabbed for his gun too late as momentum carried them both over the edge. The outlaw twisted away as they hit the water. Sam wanted to follow. To take him down. But he lunged for the surface, fighting with his own need for revenge as Doc kicked completely free and was caught by the current.

  Lucy was all that mattered now…and she hadn’t come up for air.

  “Lucy!” The shout came out half-choked by river water and dread. Sam spotted the yellow fabric of her skirt billowing underneath the surface and dove for her. Closing his hand around her arm, he frantically hauled her up.

  As she cleared the water, Lucy let out an impressive imitation of a rebel yell and brandished a small rock. Her hands were bound by coarse rope, her eyes wild.

  Fury rising within once again, Sam grabbed her face and tried to hold her gaze. “It’s me, Lucy. Sam. I’m not going to hurt you.” What had Doc Smith done to her?

  Sputtering, she dropped the rock and swiped at the water running down her face, stark in the fading light. “Is he…gone?”

  “Downriver. I didn’t get a chance to …” Defeat tugged at Sam as surely as the current. But he’d done the right thing. “Are you all right?”

  “I heard the splash, was certain he was coming after me. So I stayed under, tried to find a weapon, my shoe got stuck. I prayed for deliverance, and then”—she panted for breath, gave him a dazzling smile—“and now here you are.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I—I thought you were dying.”

  “Only a flesh wound.”

  “Are you certain we’re not both dead?”

  A smile worked its way across Sam’s face. “Not yet.”

  “Is this where you sweep me into your arms, and we ride off into the sunset?”

  He reached for her hands and freed them from their bonds, holding them a moment longer than necessary. “Has someone been reading more of those dime novels?”

  “Why, I never.” Her nose lifted, but her words were breathy as she patted her ruined curls with trembling fingers.

  Sam laughed and helped her up the steep bank. Emotions churned inside as he scanned the water for signs of the doctor. He�
��d failed in his mission, but he knew the identity of the killer now. Lucy was safe, but why had she betrayed him?

  Or had she?

  He should take off after Doc, but all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms and—

  “This isn’t the way I wanted to do this,” Lucy said, staring at the ground, her hands twisting in her sodden skirts.

  “Do what?” Sam asked, concern drawing the words out. She sounded fine. Prim, proper, with a touch of sass. But he pulled back, turned away, afraid of what was coming. Her confession about the stories she’d written about him? Her reasoning for turning him in?

  “To tell you—” She broke off with a sharp cry.

  Sam whirled to find Gus Wiley standing behind her, a gun pressed to her head.

  The postmaster smirked. “How ’bout you tell me instead?”

  This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Especially not when she’d been about to declare her undying love.

  Lucy tried not to dwell on the irony, considering she might be about to die after all.

  “What are you doing, Gus? You wouldn’t really shoot Lucy, would you?” Sam’s words were terse, frustration evident on his strained features.

  “Shore would.” The cool muzzle pushed harder into her temple.

  “So that’s why you helped me escape,” Sam muttered.

  Lucy cast him a quick glance.

  “Everyone would blame you for her death, after all,” Gus said.

  “But why?” Lucy asked. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to stop playin’ games and tell me where the gold is.”

  The gold? With a shock, it all came back. “You!” Lucy fumed. “You’ve been reading my letters!”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m shore tired of the wild goose chase. Where is the gold?”

  Lucy shook her head, ignoring the weapon. “I can’t believe it. What kind of person reads another’s private mail, anyway?” The anger built until her wet skin was fairly steaming with it.

  “Lucy …” Sam’s eyes warned.

  “No, I will not calm down! This sad excuse for a postmaster has been violating my privacy, and it’s totally unacceptable! If there’s been a crime committed anywhere, surely—”

  “Lucy!”

  “Well, then.” Lucy pursed her lips and lifted her chin in the air. “It serves you right, Gus Wiley, to know there is no gold. I made those stories up. Every. Single. One.”

  Gus hissed in her ear. “I don’t believe you. Tell me where—”

  “Then you’re a fool.” She dared turn to face him, the gun now fastened on the center of her forehead. “There. Is. No. Gold.”

  Gus trembled, his face turning varying shades of red and purple.

  “Lucy …” Sam’s voice was low. Another warning, one that required obedience without question.

  Woodenly, she turned back around, suddenly afraid of what she’d done. The postmaster was a coward, yes. But he wanted that gold, and she’d just taunted him, antagonized him, humiliated him.

  “One more chance.” Gus spit at Lucy’s feet, wrapped a wiry arm around her neck. “Where is it?”

  “I told you—”

  “I know where it is,” Sam said.

  “What?” Gus said.

  “What?” Lucy echoed.

  “There is gold hidden around Ripple. I think I can tell you where to find it.”

  How was that possible? Lucy stared at Sam, eyebrows raised. He looked back, opened his mouth as if to explain, took a step forward.

  “Don’t move!” Gus shrieked. “Not a step closer!”

  Sam held up his hands, empty of weapons. “I can show you where it is. But first, let Lucy go.”

  There was movement behind Sam. A form crawling up the bank.

  “Sam,” Lucy whispered.

  “Not another word out of either of you!” Gus brandished his weapon. “Let me think!”

  The form inched closer, moving toward Sam, who had his eyes fastened on Gus.

  Lucy mouthed, “Behind you,” but Sam didn’t see, completely intent on Gus. On saving her life.

  How could she possibly save his? She was only a writer, and not a good one at that. Someone who had nearly caused Sam’s death and might still. Someone who created misunderstandings and rumors and had nearly ruined this good town without even knowing it. A writer who—

  A writer who always, always carried her lucky fountain pen.

  The figure was closer. Ira Moledord, alive and well…with the glint of a knife in his hand. Lucy carefully reached into her hidden pocket, fishing around until her fingers met cold nickel plating. It was now or never.

  “Behind you, Sam!” she shouted, at the same time whirling to jab the pen into Gus’s scrawny bicep.

  With an indignant yell, the postmaster dropped his gun and clapped a hand over the wound, staring in consternation as Lucy scooped up his weapon.

  “The pen is mightier than the sword?” she offered then glanced over to see Sam twisting a rope around the doctor’s wrists.

  Safe. They were safe. Now she could tell Sam—

  A cloud of dust heralded the approach of several horsemen. The sheriff and a hurriedly assembled posse.

  “Lucy, give me the gun,” Sam said. His jaw was chiseled granite as he held out his hand. “Not on your life.”

  “I’m not going to shoot anyone.”

  Doc Moledord lifted his head, eyes hopeful.

  “Except maybe the doctor. But if you have the gun—”

  “If you have the gun, the sheriff will shoot you. Again.”

  His eyes gentled, and the faintest hint of a smile softened his mouth. “Twitchy-Finger Frank couldn’t get lucky twice, could he?”

  “Fine. Then he’d shoot me. On accident.”

  Gus spoke up from his fetal position. “Maybe you should give it to me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Sam took a step closer to Lucy. “You should leave. Take Stinkeye and get out of the line of fire.”

  “Are you jesting? I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  “Right.” His voice flattened. “Your story.”

  “Not because of a story—Gus broke my pen, after all.”

  The postmaster muttered an angry protest and started to rise. Lucy cocked the pistol and let it dangle in his direction before turning back to the handsome cowboy.

  “Not my story,” she repeated. “Because I love you, Sam Brazos.”

  He locked eyes with hers but shook his head slightly. “I reckon I want to believe you. I love you, Lucy. But the rumors. And back at the barn—”

  “I believed in your innocence even before Doc confessed. I didn’t betray you—I was there to warn you.”

  “Not because of a story?”

  “No,” she said, hoping he was finally getting it. Men could be a bit dense, after all. “The articles I wrote were fake—something to amuse a friend while I searched for a real story to send my father. And you always played the hero. Always.” Lucy glanced at her captive. “Right, Gus?”

  The postmaster grunted. “He was too perfect. I knew he’d turn out to be an outlaw.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Anyway. I love you. I’m staying. And—”

  “Sam Brazos!” the sheriff called. “You are under arrest. Again.”

  Lucy stepped in front of her cowboy. “Ira Moledord, a.k.a. Doc Smith, killed George Keene. Doc Dillehay, too. He confessed to me this evening before trying to kill me.”

  Sheriff shook his head and turned to Mr. Thorp. “Load ’em both in Doc’s wagon. We’ll sort it out at the jailhouse.”

  Sam cleared his throat. “Reckon you’ll want to grab Wiley, too.”

  The sheriff flung his arms into the air, seemingly unaware when everyone in firing range ducked. “What the deuce did Gus do?”

  “He threatened to kill Lucy,” Sam said.

  “Him, too?”

  “He wanted her to tell him where the gold was.”

  “And what does Miss Frederick know about—never mind.” With an e
xasperated sigh, Sheriff Frank turned to his deputy. “Thorp, load ’em all in the wagon. We’re gonna have a full house tonight.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sam stepped into darkness outside the jailhouse, breathing in the air that smelled twice as sweet tonight. His name was cleared, or well on its way. The real murderer locked up inside, being held for his crimes.

  Sam was free. He could go anywhere he liked. Start over fresh. Be anyone. Anywhere.

  Lucy stepped out beside him, shivering in her still-damp clothes but smiling in pure triumph. Sam knew—despite the misunderstandings and his stinging bullet wound and muddy boots—there was nowhere he’d rather be.

  “There’s something I’ve been pondering. How did you know to look for me?” Lucy turned to Sam. “Why did you bother, after what you thought …?”

  “I knew there’d be nothing that kept you from the biggest story yet. Assuming your meddling heart too kind to allow me to bleed out while you pumped me for information, I figured you went to get the doc.”

  Lucy took that in then shook her head. “My ‘meddling heart’?”

  Chuckling, Sam held out his good arm and escorted her toward the boardinghouse as he searched for the right words. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I hear gals like flowers. Poetry. Pretty little baubles.”

  “Most gals. At times.”

  “Like when a man is courting her.”

  “That’s a good time.”

  “Lucy …” He stopped in the circle of light near the door. “Right now I don’t have any of those things.”

  “Do you love me, Sam?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m not most gals.”

  “True.” A smile snuck across his face. “Which is why I have something better to offer.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I’m listening.”

  “Marry me, and—”

  “Yes.”

  Sam blinked. “You didn’t hear the offer.”

  “I was hoping to get to the part where we seal the deal with a kiss. But if there’s more …” She stepped back and gave him a mischievous grin.