Inextinguishable Love: Firefighter and Interracial Romance

by Kathleen Bunker

  “West,” he had said, his eyes filled with that peculiar light he got, “was where life was really worth living. There are no comforts to soften the blow!”

  Personally, Genevieve thought that life was worth living because of the comforts, not in spite of them.

  “Miss?” the stagecoach driver asked, pulling her out of her reverie. His hands clutched his dirty and tattered hat, clearly not wishing to be an imposition to a mourning widow. The entirety of him was covered in several days’ worth of dust and grime. She had no right to cast stones, her own clothing had a persistent layer of dust and she had not had a bath in several days. “

  We need to be off if we want to make Silver Creek before nightfall,” he explained.

  “Are you familiar with this place?”

  “Oh, I am, my cousin lives there, runs a fine hotel, if you are interested.”

  “Quite.” She pulled her mourning veil over her face. “A good meal and a bed will go a long way towards mending my heart.”

  The words were correct, but there was no real feeling behind them. She wanted to be bothered by the fact that she felt nothing for the man who had been her husband for many years, but she couldn't quite bring herself to it. Instead she turned herself to more necessary matters. “Is there a man of the law in Silver Creek?”

  “A man of the law?”

  “A sheriff, a lawyer? A marshal perhaps? Anything of the sort? I will need to inform someone of my husband's death for legal reasons.” Such as freeing up the funds that he had gotten when her life had been well and thoroughly uprooted.

  “The county shares a marshal with some of the other towns, I can't say as he will be there. He gets called from one place to the next pretty often, but you can always send a post to summon him back. Or whatever you'd like.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The coach driver nodded and helped her into the carriage. God, she detested these four walls. It didn't matter that they were elegantly decorated with fine wooden inlays. She detested everything about it.

  A feeling that was perpetuated by the jostling of the stagecoach as it continued on towards Colorado. The loud clatter of the wooden wheels across the dusty ill-prepared earth echoed in her head, turning the ever growing headache into a savage pulse behind her blue-gray eyes. They were hardly her best feature, no that was certainly her hair, a crowning glory of honey-wheat, a shade that, when brushed correctly, could be luminescent gold. Though it was several decent baths past looking anything like gold right now.

  That was not her most pressing problem. Genevieve longed for the days when the condition of her hair had been her greatest concern. Her problem now, was the fact that she was going to Colorado, wild and unsettled, with no husband, no home and no income to speak of.

  What was she going to do?

  “What are you going to do, Genevieve?” she asked to the four unrelenting walls.

  She could, of course, turn back. She could go to Charleston or New Orleans or one of the other civilized cities, and see about using the funds that her husband had accumulated to setting up a home for herself.

  As what? She thought to herself, her pale pink lips forming a line of frustration across her elegant face. As a young childless widow with her husband's debts?

  It was just his adventurous spirit that lead him out West. No indeed, her husband had a love of many frivolous things, such as card games, wild women, and any newfangled creation he could purchase. When she had been sixteen and newly a woman she had found his liveliness and passion heartening. As she'd grown older, she had seen him for what he was, a child with the years of a man.

  Her headache grew larger. She rubbed her fingers across her forehead. She had some wealth that she had ferreted away from her frivolous spouse, enough to pay for a few weeks at a decent hotel, longer at a cheap one. Then what?

  There were a myriad of stories about women who thrived in the unsettled West. Women who were cattle herders and business owners. There was even Grace Jones, The Widow, a real honest to God lady bounty hunter. It was wonderful to read about from the comfortable distance of a book, the reality of it was overwhelming. She was a woman of means, her entire life had been geared towards being a wife of a fine house and to raise children.

  She huffed, realizing that she had failed on both of those fronts. She had no home and no children.

  Tears, not of mourning but of self-pity, welled in the corners of her eyes. They were gathering there when the coach took a sudden hard left. She slid across the bench of the seat, her shoulder hitting the velvet covered wall hard enough that she knew there would be a bruise on her otherwise pale skin.

  “Sir?” she called to the coach driver.

  “Robbers!” he called out.

  Her heart started to race. Stagecoach robbers, or raiders, whatever a person wanted to call them, made their dubious living raiding travelers of their wares, belongings and wealth. It was well known that women did not fare well in these situations.

  Genevieve's mind quickened. There was a gun inside the coach, her husband had insisted on buying the thing. What had he called it? She couldn't remember the name of it. It didn't much matter now.

  She heard shots and she reached across the span of the carriage to fumble for the box that her husband had kept the gun in. Her fingers shook as she opened the lid, feeling the surprising weight of the weapon in her hands. Genevieve struggled to remember how to load it. Her husband had been firm that she learned how to protect herself.

  “The West,” he had said with unflagging joy, “is a wonderfully wild place. You will have to learn to protect yourself my blonde beauty.”

  There were more shots. The heavy boom of a rifle from the man on top of the carriage, and another from the driver. She wondered how the coach was still moving if everyone was shooting as she shoved bullets into the revolver.

  A body fell past her window. She had just enough time to recognize the roof guard before he disappeared beneath the wooden wheels. The carriage lurched. She heard a snap and a crack. The carriage tumbled to one side. Genevieve tucked herself into a ball, and felt her good shoulder hit the ground. The sound of horses screaming echoed all around her. She had never been so afraid.

  The carriage came to a halt. Dust hung in the air like mist. Genevieve tried to blink it away, but there was too much of it. She stayed curled up, her body wrapped around a gun.

  Everything went quiet. She heard her heartbeat in her ears and her breath on her lips. Her skirts settled crispy around her, adding to the dust.

  Then she heard them, men's voices, deep and rustic.

  “Check the carriage,” one said, his voice was rich with the drawl of western upbringing. “Let's figure out what to do.”

  “Is the driver still alive?” said a second man. This voice was more cultured.

  “Naw,” said the first. “What happened to Jesse?”

  “Dead, it seems. I believe the driver got him. A bullet through the chest, potentially a heart shot. I am impressed.”

  She closed her eyes and listened. There were only two of them. At least there were only two of them now. She wasn't sure how many they had started off with.

  She heard the heavy clink of boots as steps approached. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the gun. She felt the grip dig into her palm. This was it. This was the adventure she never wanted.

  “If someone is alive in there, I believe that it would be in your best interest to make yourself known. You will be treated fairly.”

  She doubted that. Genevieve might not have been raised in the West, but she knew well enough that this was exactly the kind of situation where a person did not make themselves known. This was the kind of situation where a person waited until the last possible moment, in order to formulate a plan.

  “I say again, if someone is alive in there, make yourself known.”

  A shadow, long and strict of outline, fell across the carriage. An idea, as formed as she could manage in her short time, took shape. She took a deep breath and adjusted
her grip on the gun and then stood.

  She popped out of the window, her feet planted firmly on the ground. Her arm was straight out. The gun was leveled at a man's face. It was, she had to admit, an attractive face. His mustache was neatly trimmed, and his hair cut in a gentleman's style, curling ever so slightly over his ear. He had the pale skin of a colonial, and the dark suit he wore was tailored over a well formed body, though it showed a great deal of dust and wear. A men's bowler hat kept the sun off of his face.

  His gun was pointed at her. She should have been afraid, but her stomach had become a cold pit. He could shoot her, and it wasn't going to change a great deal about her current position. However, her shooting him would change a great deal.

  “Ma’am,” he said with an educated tongue, nodding his head ever so slightly. His smile was charming, and in another setting may have invited flirtation. As it was it sent a flutter to her belly, one she ignored. Or at least tried to. “It seems that we have each other at a bit of a cross.”

  “I'm inclined to agree.”

  “Travis?” the other man called. “What's happening?”

  “I have found a darling dove, Angus, and she has a very nice talon.”

  She kept her face as grim as possible. Her eyes focusing on the man in front of her.

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Judging by her clothing, and her bearing, she looks to be of substantial wealth.”

  “She,” Genevieve cut in icily, “is very much here and does not appreciate being spoken about as if she is not.”

  She caught a glimpse of the other man. He was taller than his companion with the tan skin of someone of some mixed heritage. His black hair was coiled into a native braid and his eyes were liquid dark. He was striking, rather than handsome. A gun hung loosely in his grip, easy and relaxed as you please.

  It was seeing the two of them next to one another that sparked the memory.

  It was several days ago, standing outside of a town’s general store while her husband negotiated the buying of supplies. She had wandered down towards the post office, her eyes scanning the weather wood, looking over the most recent news, and then the wanted posters.

  Travis “The Gentleman” Montgomery and Angus “Dust Devil” Graves, both wanted for armed robbery and other crimes. She took another look at the dark haired man and decided that there was something decidedly devilish about him. She also remembered that there was a thousand-dollar reward for each of the men. That was more than a year's worth of her husband's income. It was enough to start a life, a new life.

  A new idea formed, supplanting the old one.

  She turned the gun on the Dusty Devil, he started to raise his weapon.

  “Don't,” she snapped out, her voice filled with womanly anger. “You are worth five hundred dollars more dead, than you are alive. I have absolutely no desire to shoot you, but I will if I must.”

  The Devil's eyes turned cool, flashing like river stones. They raked over her and she felt a stirring of heat mix with her fluttering belly. “Widow. I didn't expect to meet you here.”

  Genevieve didn't agree or disagree. No, she was not the notorious bounty hunter, but she could not fault them for the confusion. There she was, standing there in the black gown of a woman in mourning, with the tell-tale veil across her face.

  “Indeed. And since you have muddled up my moving experience, I would ask that you make this easy on everyone involved.”

  “Ma’am,” the gentleman said, “you seem to think that you have the upper hand here.”

  She lifted her chin. “Oh?”

  “Indeed, you see, it's simply a matter of mathematics. There are two of us, each with guns, and you are by yourself. While that Colt-Walker you are wielding is a lovely piece of excellent craftsmanship, I am obliged to inform you that it is hardly going to outgun both of us.”

  She took a deep breath and let her vision go wide. Rather than focus on either of them she watched them both. Her mind made fast work of everything that had just happened. Genevieve had a talent for recollection. It was a quirk that had allowed her to navigate society relentlessly, and her husband had detested. It was useful to her now.

  “You are only half correct.” She thumbed the hammer back on her weapon. The metallic click echoed between the three of them. The Gentleman jumped back, The Devil narrowed his gaze, and in that moment Genevieve knew she was right. “While there are two guns between you, I did not just have a shootout with a moving object. I would be more than willing to guess that I have more bullets that between the two of you. Though I am willing to test my theory.”

  Where were these words coming from? These were the vocalizations of some dime novel heroine, not Lady (no, she amended mentally, not Lady, Widow) Genevieve of Charleston.

  With a sigh the Gentleman tosses down his weapon, “My friend, it seems the beauty has us.”

  The Devil snarled. “Damn you, Travis. She didn't know.”

  “I did,” she said. “Now, if you two will throw down your weapons and turn around, we can get this underway.”

  *****

  The carriage was absolutely useless. The wheel was broken and the spare had shattered during the tumbling of all her belongings. She had managed to find the manacles that her husband had bought. Genevieve had originally thought the purchase was frivolous, asking what they could possibly need manacles for.

  “In case we capture some savages, my dear!” he had commented, patting her on the head like a misbehaved child, rather than a bride.

  She glanced across the span of a fire pit, they were chained together and leaning against one another to keep themselves from laying in the dirt. They looked savage enough, if she was measuring such things.

  “Ma’am,” Travis asked, tilting his head, “if I may ask, do you plan on starving us for the duration of our journey?”

  It was going to be a long journey. With no horses and no carriage, the walk to Silver Creek, which may or may not have a sheriff when she arrived, was going to take nearly a week of time. Longer if things did not go perfectly, and she doubted they would.

  “I do not,” she said. “There are some food supplies. I will see that you don't starve.”

  “Ah, excellent. I, of course, do not expect a lady of obvious means to be a cook of great talent, but-”

  “What you expect is hardly important,” she snapped. She wasn't sure why it bothered her suddenly that she could not cook. She flushed and shook her head, her golden curls bouncing as she did so. “You will eat what you are given.”

  “Well of course. I would be more than willing to eat whatever it was you wanted to feed me.” He offered her that incredibly charming grin. She felt her cheek grow warm for an entirely different reason. It lasted right up until her gaze landed on Angus Graves, the Dusty Devil.

  The Devil had been completely silent since she had locked them up. He hadn't fought back, but he had not been, in any way, friendly. Now he was watching her with that flat cool look, like a bear or a wolf. It was strangely disquieting, yet it was hard to look away.

  “Yes,” she said softly, “I'm sure.”

  “If I might ask you a few questions?” Travis pondered. “I assume I am allowed as you have not gagged me.”

  “For the moment,” she quipped.

  He chuckled. “Ah, yes well. Of course. I was wondering, what exactly you were doing out here?”

  “I was relocating,” she responded. “I decided in a change of venue, Colorado or some place similar.”

  He nodded. “So you were not pursuing us in particular?”

  “No,” she said. It was important, she knew from her time in society, to stay as close to the truth as one could when attempting to lie. It was also important to say as little as possible. “I was not. What were you doing out here?”

  “Looking for you,” he chuckled. “Well, not yourself in particular, but a wealthy stagecoach to rush and rob, which we nearly did.”

  “Nearly.”

  His eyes sparkled. “Well, my Lady
Widow, had we known it was your stagecoach, we never would have attacked I-”

  Whatever he was going to say was cut off when The Dusty Devil suddenly slumped to the side. Genevieve sprang up. It wasn't until she was a few paces away that she saw the problem. The dark colored shirt was clinging the Devil's body, clinging with blood. He was injured.

  “By God!” she gasped, “he's been shot.”

  “Well,” The Gentleman said. “That's quite unfortunate.”

  *****

  If she had been a better navigator, and if the weather had complied, it would have all gone just fine. As it was, the drought that had plagued the area for months broke tempestuously the moment she had bent to attend to Angus' wound and the three of them had to seek sanctuary in an abandoned farmhouse, nearly three hours from their ruined campsite.

  There were too many of them out here, she felt. Too many places that people had given up on. They stood like ghosts of hope and memories of what could have been. Genevieve did not appreciate it. It did not bode well for the starting of a new or better life. Still, the reward for bringing these two in should help with that.

  “I cannot believe that you were so...so...foolish!” Genevieve snapped.

  She had, with a grand stroke of tenacity, managed to get both of them into the post-stop. Two salvaged lanterns added a warm glow to the washroom, the only furniture that had been left behind was a rocking chair that had seen better days, and a claw foot tub. She had managed to chain them to the tub itself, reasonably certain that they wouldn't be able to lift the vessel.

  The dark eyed male turned his gaze at her. His lips settled into a thin line, making the scars on his face stand out in the near darkness. He looked vaguely intimidating. She assumed he didn't get a nickname like The Dust Devil by being a kind and gentle person.

  “I am going to need to remove your shirt in order to get a better look at the wound.”

  His dark eyes glittered at her. Something moved in their flinty depths and a hum started somewhere in her veins.

  He adjusted his upper body as much as the chains would allow. “Get on with it then.”