Flint Hills Bride

by Cassandra Austin

  And had Berkeley found anything for her to eat? He was sure they hadn’t stopped any place up to this point and had passed up Kinney’s ranch. There had been no food in his saddlebags when Berkeley stole his horse. There was probably nothing in the sheriff’s, either. Emily, almost certainly, hadn’t eaten before she rode out to find him.

  It was his fault that she had fallen into Berkeley’s hands. He should have made sure she was awake and understood that he would be back. She must have awakened to find him gone and believed he had abandoned her again.

  He prayed he would get a chance to make it up to her. He didn’t trust Berkeley to take care of her the way he would.

  Emily let another piece of ruffle slip from her fingers.

  “What the hell was that?”

  He had turned at precisely the wrong time. “What was what?” But was there really any use pretending?

  Anson swung around and grabbed her horse’s halter so there would be no escape. “Get down,” he demanded.

  She did as she was told. He dismounted, gathering the reins to all three horses, then walked to the tiny white flag. “I don’t think this accidentally tore off your riding skirt,” he commented as he tied the horses to the tough stalk of a dried sunflower.

  “No,” she said, sounding more courageous than she felt. What would it take to spook the horses? The stalk wouldn’t hold a frightened horse. But stranded with Anson afoot didn’t seem like much of an improvement over the current situation.

  “You’ve been leaving a trail for that deputy friend of yours, haven’t you?”

  “If the wind didn’t blow it away, yes.”

  He stormed toward her, and she thought for a moment he might strike her. He seemed to make an effort to control himself. “You know, Emily,” he said, exuding the dangerous charm she had once found so attractive, “I’ve wondered if that deputy got to you. I know women aren’t particularly faithful creatures. But you see, it doesn’t matter. You work just as well as a hostage as you do a partner.”

  Emily forced herself to hold her ground. She watched him pick up the bit of ruffle. He considered it, considered her and even looked back the way they had come as if he expected to see more flags every few feet. He needed to make a decision.

  And so did she. If she could get one of the horses, preferably her own gelding, she would ride back the way they had come. Perhaps she would be lucky enough to reach Jake before Anson caught up with her. And if she didn’t?

  Anson turned to her with a cold smile. “Give me the rest of these,” he said, waving the bit of cloth.

  “That was the last.”

  He started toward her. “I don’t believe you. But if it is, we can just make some more.”

  She turned to run, but he caught her, spinning her around. He tossed aside her cloak, leaving her gasping at the shock of cold air. One hand closed around the front of her blouse. “Are there any more?”

  “Yes. In my reticule.”

  He snatched it away from her waist, breaking the strings. She hated herself for giving in so quickly, but she couldn’t stand out in the cold for long. The moment he let her go, she snatched up her cloak and drew it around herself.

  “My, my,” he said, withdrawing a handful of ruffle. “You were prepared. Now, how to use this to lead the deputy astray.” He tossed her another grin.

  She knew the moment he came to a decision. She only hoped he would brag about his plan so she might have a chance of spoiling it.

  “You, my dear, will wait here. With your horse.”

  Her surprise and pleasure must have shown on her face because he laughed. “Don’t get excited. You won’t be going anywhere.”

  He grabbed her again, forcing her hands behind her back. He tied them quickly with his handkerchief. “Please, have a seat,” he said, giving her a shove.

  Emily regained her balance and carefully sat down on the ground. It was cold and damp. “What are you going to do?” she asked. She had little confidence that he would answer her.

  “You know, I haven’t taken the time to see what our friends were carrying.” He found a length of rope in Jake’s saddlebags. He used it to tie her ankles together. In the other saddlebags, he found some bread and cheese.

  “Imagine,” he said, unwrapping it. “This has been here all along.” He took a bite, brushing away several crumbs.

  Emily’s stomach rumbled noisily, but she wouldn’t beg for food. She gave him a level glare.

  With a muffled chuckle, he turned back to the horses, leaving her gelding and leading the other two away. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, mounting the black and leading the mare.

  She watched him ride away at a canter. Before he dropped into the next valley, she saw a bit of ruffle drift to the ground. A false trail, she thought. He would drop markers for a ways then double back and change direction. And she wouldn’t be able to drop anything else; he would watch her too closely.

  She strained against the knots that bound her, succeeding only in knocking herself off balance. She lay on her side, fighting tears.

  “Well, I was wanting a rest,” she said aloud. The sound of her voice calmed her a little. Jake would find her, she told herself. Anson’s plan wouldn’t fool him. She tried to believe it.

  Emily wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Anson rode back to her. He returned without the black and offered no explanation for its whereabouts. He merely dismounted, untied the rope that held her ankles and helped her to her feet. He untied her hands and, with an awkward shove, helped her into the gelding’s saddle. He used the rope to retie her hands to the saddle horn. “We’ll be moving a little faster now,” he told her.

  As he mounted the mare, the strain of his wound was finally beginning to show. Or perhaps he had injured himself further when he was pushing her around. She watched him closely for more signs of exhaustion, forgetting her own.

  In spite of what he had said, he walked the horses for nearly a quarter of a mile, before setting them at a canter. They would leave more shallow tracks, she supposed, thus insuring that Jake followed his fake trail. She wanted to cry in desperation, but the job of keeping her balance left her no time.

  Anson kept them moving, walking the horses only occasionally, until nearly dark. He spotted a farmhouse beside a creek and pulled up. When Emily was alongside he untied her hands. “I don’t imagine you’ll try to run off now,” he said. “That—” he pointed toward the house “—is the nearest food.”

  Emily tried to glare at him but was too exhausted. She rubbed her wrists instead.

  “You are my wife, by the way. My wound was an accident. We need food and shelter and will be on our way in the morning.”

  “With any money they might have in the house.” It was out before she thought, but she wouldn’t regret it.

  “So you know about that, huh? If you had come through a little better with your brother’s money, I wouldn’t have had to do it.”

  “You could be halfway to Denver by now, Anson. You’ve been going from house to house taking everyone’s savings. The house we passed up at noon, you could have been there three days ago.”

  He gave her an odd look as if he thought she had gone crazy.

  She explained. “You spent Saturday night with the Garveys, the folks with the obnoxious son. They gave you directions to the Kinneys. You could have made it by Sunday noon, but you decided to roam all over the territory robbing everyone instead.”

  “So you were right behind me, were you? That’s what I suspected. That’s why I changed direction. Now, shut up. You give me away to these people, I’ll kill them and you.”

  He started forward, jerking the gelding’s reins.

  A grandmotherly woman met them at the door. She hollered to her husband who came to see to the horses. “You poor children, you must be freezing.”

  She ushered them inside where they both collapsed into chairs near the fire.

  “Ma’am,” began Anson, his voice quivering with exaggerated fatigue. “My wife a
nd I would be pleased to accept your hospitality for the night And some food if you have any to spare.”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “I’ll bring you some bread to hold you while I make some soup from what’s left from supper.”

  The woman went through a doorway into the back of the house. From where she sat, Emily could watch Anson as he scanned the room, looking for hiding places, no doubt. She vowed not to let him out of her sight.

  In a moment the woman returned with a plate of sliced bread and a crock of butter. She set it on a table across the room, and Emily moved to take a seat there.

  “My name’s Bertha,” the woman said. “My husband’s Alfred Hoover.”

  “Emily—”

  “Wilson,” interrupted Anson. “Andy and Emily Wilson, that’s us.” He rose but took his time walking toward the table.

  “Good to meet you,” Bertha said. As soon as she returned to the kitchen, he did an aboutface, gliding quickly to a set of shelves near the fireplace.

  Emily was torn between her hunger and her need to protect this innocent couple. She lifted a slice of bread from the plate, her eyes on Anson. As long as he didn’t find anything, she needn’t interfere, she reasoned. Still, how was she to stop him if he did find something?

  The immediacy of that worry ended when Mr. Hoover came inside. At the sound of the door latch, both Anson and Emily spun toward it. The man eyed Anson curiously, perhaps wondering why he was standing near the shelves instead of sitting at the table. He glanced at Emily, and she was afraid he read guilt in her eyes.

  Anson let out a loud groan and, holding his side, staggered to the nearest chair. “Perhaps you or your wife would be willing to take a look at this wound,” he said.

  “Good God, man, what’s wrong?” Alfred was quickly at his side, helping him out of his coat.

  “I had a little accident,” Anson said, his breathing labored. Emily turned away, more disgusted by his act than the sight of his bloody shirt.

  “I was trying to show the missus how to fire a gun, and the fool girl shot me.”

  Emily glanced back to find Alfred turning to look at her. She supposed she should have tried to look guilty now, but it was too much to muster on the spur of the moment. She averted her eyes and raised the bread to her mouth.

  “She tried to wrap it up a little,” Anson continued. “That was early this morning.”

  “You just sit still,” the man said. “It looks like the bullet passed through the flesh on your side. I don’t think there’s any more damage than a nasty gash. I’ll get some bandages and fix you right up.”

  “Much obliged,” Anson murmured.

  Hearing the description of the wound made Emily feel close to fainting. She fought it. She had to eat. For her own sake and for her baby’s.

  Alfred returned in a few minutes with bandages and a bottle of whiskey. Emily didn’t watch, but it sounded like more whiskey was going inside Anson than on the wound. The man probably thought Anson was in terrible pain. If he was, he had hidden it well all day.

  Emily ignored the men’s conversation and concentrated on eating the bread very slowly. She had finished two slices and was wishing for a glass of milk when the woman returned with two bowls of soup. She hurried back to the kitchen for coffee and Alfred helped Anson to the table. Emily was grateful that Alfred had provided him with a clean shirt.

  Anson brought the bottle along and took several pulls on it as he ate. He entertained the Hoovers with extravagant lies about himself. Emily was reminded of evenings out with Anson and his friends. It seemed incredible that she had found his boisterousness so amusing then.

  When they had finished eating, Anson and Alfred seemed content to remain at the table and continue their conversation. As long as Alfred was present, Emily deemed it safe to leave Anson. She gathered up a stack of dishes and followed Bertha to the kitchen, easily interpreting Anson’s warning glare.

  In the kitchen she helped Bertha wash the dishes, wondering all the while if she should tell her about Anson. But what could the woman do? Anson had threatened to kill these kind people if she gave him away. The best thing for them would be for her and Anson to move on in the morning, leaving them none the wiser and, preferably, none the poorer.

  But that wasn’t the best thing for Emily. She wanted to find Jake and tell him she was a fool to have ever thought she loved Anson. She hadn’t known what love really was until she had fallen in love with Jake. She longed to tell him how much she wanted him to be her baby’s father.

  “You look so tired, dear,” Bertha said, interrupting. Emily’s thoughts.

  She nodded. “It’s been a long day. But I feel so much better for having eaten.”

  “You and your husband can have our bed, if you would like.”

  “The floor by the fire is fine for us,” Emily protested, not liking the thought of the old couple on the hard floor.

  “There’s still a bed in the loft, if you think your husband can make it up the ladder.”

  If he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be the wound that stopped him; it would be the whiskey. Somehow being alone with him in the loft seemed more revolting than in the spacious room below. Still, in the loft he wouldn’t be able to search through the couple’s belongings.

  With a sigh, she realized it wasn’t up to her. Regardless of what she might decide and tell her hostess, Anson would make the choice.

  By the time they rejoined the men, Anson had made considerable progress toward the bottom of the bottle. She found herself wishing he would pass out She had never seen it happen, but suspected that in the past he had been on his best behavior most of the time she was around. The better to fool her, she supposed.

  Mrs. Hoover made the same offers to Anson that she had made to Emily. Anson, choosing personal comfort, pleaded pain from his wound and accepted the bedroom.

  Emily smiled an apology at Bertha. Anson saw it and answered with a smirk. Emily followed Bertha out of the room, intending to help her make the bed that the old couple would share.

  In the bedroom, Bertha tossed a rug off a battered trunk and opened it. “I sure hope your husband’s injury doesn’t become infected,” she said.

  “Yes,” Emily answered. The door between this room and the next stood open. The men’s conversation seemed to have waned. Was it safe to try to warn Bertha of the danger? She was about to speak when her eye caught sight of Anson’s reflection in the mirror across the room. He was watching her intently.

  Bertha lifted two blankets from the trunk and straightened. She gave Emily a searching look. Perhaps she was already suspecting something was wrong. If so, it would be disastrous if she spoke of it now.

  “Let me help you,” Emily said, taking the blankets from the woman. “Did you want these in the loft or by the fire?”

  “By the fire, I think,” Bertha answered, gathering sheets from the trunk. “I never liked the ladder much, especially as I’ve gotten older.”

  Emily forced herself to smile and left the bedroom, avoiding any glance in Anson’s direction. Alfred, it seemed, had had a few drinks from the bottle and chortled at nothing. Bertha set her stack of bedding down on a chair and turned toward the table.

  “I think it’s time I rescue the bottle from you fellas,” she said.

  “Put her away, Bertha,” Alfred said. “Or I won’t want to do chores in the morning.”

  Emily heard the cork squeak into place and Anson’s unhappy grunt. She kept her eyes on the small fire in the grate. Bertha’s footsteps tapped toward the kitchen door and were gone.

  Alfred gave a heavy sigh. “Do you need help to bed, son?”

  “You propose to help me?” Anson asked with a laugh.

  The old man laughed, too. “I was offering outa politeness.”

  “I’ll endeavor to make it on my own.” Chair legs scraped against the wood floor. “It was a pleasure sharing your company, Mr.—”

  Anson had evidently forgotten their host’s name. Mr. Hoover didn’t seem to notice.

 
“And a bigger pleasure sharing my bottle,” commented the old man.

  Anson laughed and made it to his feet. Emily heard him come up behind her. “Let’s go to bed, wife,” he said.

  Emily closed her eyes for a moment. The last thing she wanted to do was go to bed with Anson. No, she realized, the last thing she wanted was something to happen to Bertha or her slightly inebriated husband. They were not her protectors, as she had hoped, but she theirs.

  She turned toward Anson and let him throw an arm across her shoulders. With her own arm around his waist, she helped him into the bedroom. He turned her loose and closed the door behind him. The room was thrown in darkness except for pale moonlight from a lone window.

  “God, I’m tired,” Anson muttered, crossing the room to sit heavily on the bed. “Be a good little wife and help me off with my boots.”

  “Take them off yourself,” she hissed. “I won’t help you with anything.”

  Anson chuckled. “We’ll see. I think come morning, you’ll help me find the old coot’s stash.” He bent and took off his boots.

  Emily sat on the far side of the bed and removed her own shoes. She unpinned her hair and braided it quickly. She hadn’t thought to bring in her carpetbag and neither had Alfred when he took care of their horses. She wouldn’t have changed clothes anyway. She crawled under the covers fully dressed.

  Anson stripped down to his underwear before climbing in beside her. “You’ve got a soft spot for these old people, haven’t you?”

  “They’re nice folks. They fed us, and they’re giving up their bed for us. They don’t deserve to be robbed.”

  Anson laughed. “The bed is lumpy and so was the soup.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  They were both quiet for several minutes before Anson spoke again. “You know what’s funny.” Emily could easily imagine his grin. “The way the old lady watched you. She knew something wasn’t right between us, and you didn’t do or say anything to ease her mind. Here’s the funny part. My guess is she suspects you shot me on purpose.”

  His soft chuckle seemed to fill the room.