by Jo Grafford
The storm swirling across Meg’s features cleared. She stood and held out both hands to him. “You dear, dear man! I am so happy you’ve agreed to help me.”
That made one of them. He was fairly certain it was the most foolish thing he’d ever been asked to do.
“I’ll be sure to tell Shad how kind you were to me in his absence.”
Right. He was only doing this to help out a man he respected. Or at least the friend of the wife of a man he respected… Which was the same thing, wasn’t it? His brain hurt just thinking about it.
“What is her name?” he asked abruptly. He at least deserved to know the name of the chit he was going to be saddled with for a few days.
“Daisy.” Meg beamed at him. “Daisy Danvers, though some folks like to call her Dare-Devil Daisy.”
Blast it all! Helping Daisy sounded like a pack of trouble. Then again, he was a Barra brother. Trouble followed him everywhere he went. Trouble was his middle name.
Chapter 2: The Heist
Prescott
Prescott gnashed his teeth as he strode to the latest construction site on the Nicholson’s vast property. He was still reeling from his conversation with Meg Nicholson. So she wants me to fake an engagement to some uppity Bostonian friend of hers? Of all the confounded “favors” to be asked! He found himself unable to feel his normal sense of pride as he surveyed the new row of adobe cottages his work crew had built. Instead, he jammed his hands in his pockets as he eyed the fresh white paint being brushed on by seven able-bodied men. They’d only started painting this morning, but already two of the cabins were nearly complete with their first coat.
“Let ‘em dry at least two hours before you start the second coat,” he ordered in a harsher tone than he intended.
All the men, including Miguel who was puttering with a door hinge, glanced up in surprise.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult since you have six cottages to juggle,” he added in a gentler tone. He glanced up at the sky. “Looks like the weather intends to cooperate with us today.” He caught Miguel’s eye and angled his chin at him, indicating he’d like to speak to him alone.
After a brief pause and a tightening of his jaw, the man abandoned the door hinge he was tinkering on and strode in his direction. In his habitually quiet and sensible manner, he waited until they were halfway to the barn and out of earshot to speak. “Is there trouble, Mr. Barra?”
“Prescott,” Prescott snapped. Frankly, he was tired of reminding the man he had a first name. For some reason, Miguel persisted on calling him Mister like he was some blasted titled gentleman.
Miguel didn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow. He maintained a stubborn silence while he waited for Prescott to continue.
Prescott glared at him, failing to understand why they couldn’t be friends. The man was as rigid as a fence post. He never smiled, and he never interacted with any of the work crew — as far as Prescott could see — other than providing managerial oversight. “Yes. There’s trouble alright.”
Miguel’s stoic expression sharpened to full alertness. “What can I do?”
“I need you to run the paint crew while I handle an urgent matter for Mrs. Nicholson.” There was no way this side of glory he was admitting to the hard-faced Miguel that his errand entailed posing as some high society chit’s fiancé. A man had a right to keep a small sliver of pride intact.
Miguel nodded soberly, a frown riding the center of his brow. “Is it the bebé?”
Prescott’s brows rose. “What? No! Good heavens, no! The baby is fine. It’s another matter. One involving a friend of the family.” He was pleased that Miguel’s first concern was for the Nicholson’s unborn child. His outer shell might be made of flint, but he had a heart buried underneath it somewhere.
Miguel nodded. “God be with you, Mr. Prescott.”
Prescott grinned. He couldn’t help it. He was still a Mister, but at least the man had used his first name at long last. It was progress. He intended to keep chiseling away at him until he won him over.
“Thank you, Miguel.” He held out his hand. “There’s no one I trust more to oversee my work crew while I am away.”
Miguel shook his hand, gave a brief nod, and pivoted in his well-worn work boots without another word.
Prescott stared after him as he walked back to the work site, wishing more than anything he was handling the paint job himself instead of playing nursemaid to some spoiled, high society girl. He seriously had the worst luck. The very worst!
Unable to think of another blessed reason to delay his errand, he headed for the barn to saddle his horse. “Giddy-up, Wildfire!” He nudged the fiery red mare with his heels and rode her through the double doors.
The trip to Headstone was a good six miles or so, which gave him plenty of time to plot out his battle plan. He made his first stop at the telegraph office, which had been run by Shad Nicholson for the past two years. Not today, though. Shad was away on marshal business, so his protégé, Bram Fairfield, was manning the front desk.
“Morning, Prescott!” He came out from behind the counter so he could lean in and give Prescott a clap on the back. They’d gone to school together. At eighteen, he was only a year younger than him.
Prescott noted his faded but impeccably pressed black trousers, starched white shirt, and dark slicked-back hair. The fellow sure was serious about his new job. It was a good thing Shad had offered him the position, considering how an accident at the mine had rendered his left arm paralyzed.
“Morning, Bram.” He removed his Stetson and shoved a hand through his hair, feeling awkward. “Got a minute to help me write a message?”
Bram rolled his eyes. “You do realize that’s my job?”
Prescott shrugged as his friend returned to his post behind the counter. “Yes, well, this one involves an, er…delicate matter.”
Bram picked up a pen and gave him an expectant look. “We both know Mr. Nicholson wouldn’t have hired me if I couldn’t be trusted.”
Prescott ran his hand through his hair again, feeling guilty. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Bram nodded though the steel remained in his eyes. “How about we start with whom you’re addressing your message to?”
Prescott threw up his hands. “I have no earthly idea. All I know is it’s for the Boomtown Mail Order Brides Company.”
Bram’s lips twitched as he wrote.
“You laugh, and I’ll break your other arm,” Prescott threatened in a low voice.
Bram rolled his eyes. “You can try, but that won’t get your message written any quicker now, will it?”
Jumping bull frogs, but you’ve grown a spine at last! Prescott couldn’t have been more pleased. He’d always hated the way Bram had been picked on at school for his quiet, studious ways. Looked like his injury had made a man out of him. “Just tell them I intend to marry that minx they’re sending to town today. Name is Daisy Danvers.”
Bram’s jaw dropped. “You’re getting married? You?” He laid down his pen.
Prescott stared at him for a moment. Why? What’s wrong with me? “Of course not!” he snapped. Truth was, he couldn’t think of anything more foolish than ordering one’s bride, sight unseen, through the mail. Somehow both his older brothers had ended up with beautiful, adoring brides by doing so, but he wasn’t willing to take such a chance with his own future.
Bram retrieved his pen, looking so amused that Prescott wanted to wallop him one right then and there. “So you’re asking me to lie for you?”
“Yes. You must. I gave my word.” Weariness slammed into Prescott as Bram’s expression twisted into utter confusion. Lord, but I’m not making any sense. Not even to my own ears. “I’m only pretending to agree to marry this young woman.” He swallowed hard, wondering if he sounded as foolish as he felt. “As a favor to a friend,” he confessed. “She’s worried that Daisy isn’t cut out for life in the West. I’m to keep her reputation untarnished until she comes to her senses and purchases a train ticket
home.”
“Ah.” Bram’s expression cleared. “I reckon I can stretch the truth a little if it’s to help a lady in distress.” He scratched out a few words on paper.
More like a spoiled, indulged debutante. But Prescott didn’t bother to correct him. He was just glad his childhood friend was willing to help him.
Bram pursed his lips as he continued writing. “Miss Danvers is scheduled to arrive today, you say?”
“So I’ve been told.”
He finished writing, laid down his pen, and adopted a pitying expression. “According to Ol’ Jim Simmons down at the depot, the only train scheduled to arrive today is coming in early.”
Of all the rotten luck! Prescott jammed his Stetson back on his head. “How early?” he grated out.
Bram’s dark gaze snapped to the wall clock. “Within the hour, I’d say.”
Muttering expletives, Prescott skipped the goodbyes and dashed out the front door. “Blast it all, Wildfire,” he growled as he swung himself back in the saddle. “This day just keeps getting worse.”
The incoming train shrieked its whistle to signal its arrival. It chugged into the station as Prescott drew abreast of the platform. An idle but jarring thought gripped him as he brought his mare to a halt. He did not possess the slightest clue as to what Daisy Danvers looked like. Was she blonde or red? Tall or short? Thin or plump? Blue-eyed or brown?
His lids narrowed on the flood of passengers exiting the train. There were happy shouts as fathers and mothers were claimed by loved ones. Travel bags were snatched up and carried off. Soon there were only a few figures remaining on the platform. And among those few, Prescott had no difficulty picking out Daisy Danvers.
For a few moments, he had to remind himself to perform simple tasks like blinking and breathing. She was that much of a looker — all porcelain pale with hair the shade of cornsilk. Far from the full-of-starch, upper crusty-crust chit he’d been expecting, she stood on one side of the platform in a wine-colored velvet dress that lent her a queenly appearance. To put it more plainly, she was perfect. More like a statue or a doll than a real, live woman.
Unlike his dusty, scarred self.
Prescott stared at his hands. For the first time in his life, he wished he’d given more than a scoffing laugh to his half-sister Madge’s constant chiding to wear gloves. His choice of attire left plenty to be desired, as well. Every item in his sparse wardrobe was broken-in to the level of comfort he needed when performing in the rodeo ring. Which meant his denim trousers were well-worn and faded, his boots were scuffed, and his shirt…
He had to glance down to remind himself what shirt he was wearing. He never paid attention to such things. Ah, right. He had on his favorite brown leather vest. Beneath it, was a white cotton shirt, rolled at the sleeves. Well, it used to be white. It was more off-white than white now due to many days of work in it followed by many washings.
A shot rang out, making him tense and look up. His concerned gazed clashed and held Daisy Danvers’ puzzled one. He sucked in a breath as a pair of stunning, azure eyes stared back at him. They were the color of the sky on the clearest of clear days. No clouds in sight. But more shocking than their color was the undeniable fact they were regarding him with genuine interest.
Another shot rang out making him whip his gaze away from hers. He scanned the road in front of the depot. To the east was a row of warehouses. To the west…Lord Almighty! A whole gang of robbers was headed their way on horseback. Their hats were pulled low over their eyes, and the lower halves of their faces were covered with black scarves. They rode with guns drawn, firing an occasional warning shot in the air.
And they were headed straight for the train platform!
On raw instinct, Prescott ducked behind his horse and, using her as a shield, tugged her to the far side of the train depot. It wasn’t an act of cowardice, but rather one of logic. Clearly, the men heading his way were thieves, and he’d yet to hear of a thief who purposely shot something as valuable as a horse.
Running in a half-bent position, he called up to Daisy Danvers. “Jump!”
More shots sounded in the distance. This time, Prescott recognized the ricochet of rifles belonging to Sheriff Otera and his band of deputies.
The robber riding point leaped from his horse and mounted the platform stairs, waving two pistols. “Hand over your money, watches, and other valuables. Now!”
With a keening moan, Daisy Danvers’ body crumpled into a faint. She fell backwards from the platform and, by some miracle, landed straight in Prescott’s arms. He didn’t stand around questioning what had just happened. Instead, he flipped her face-down over his horse and climbed up behind her.
“Hee-yah!” he muttered and dug in his heels. Wildfire bolted away from the platform and increased her stride to a full gallop.
Fearful of being followed, Prescott wasn’t foolish enough to try to make a clean run of it. Instead, he nosed his horse between city buildings, down alley ways, and through a livery.
“What the—?” A young groom blustered, leaping aside as he galloped straight through to the other side of the stable and out its wide, rear doors.
From there, Prescott set his sights on the distant mesas and flew across the desert. There were no towns in this direction, at least not for many miles. It was the most unlikely path the train robbers would take. There was literally nothing but sand in this direction, a scattering of Joshua trees, and an occasional tumbleweed blowing past.
Daisy Danvers made a horrific gagging sound and seemed to be struggling to sit up, which was impossible at the speed he was riding. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure they weren’t being followed, he slowed his horse long enough to pull her into a side saddle position. He anchored her there with an arm around her middle and tried not to think of her soft, velvet-clad curves pressed against his much harder frame.
“Much better,” she sighed, not sounding the least bit weak and sluggish as he would have expected from a woman who’d recently swooned. She tipped her head back against his shoulder as if they were old friends. “I don’t suppose you mind telling me where we’re heading?”
Prescott’s eyebrows shot to the heavens. She didn’t sound like a woman who’d recently swooned, either. “Some place safe,” he assured gruffly. Lord help him, but the slender creature in his arms smelled good! Like lavender and vanilla. He had to breathe through his mouth to restore his concentration as he scanned the approaching range of red mesas and craggy canyons. His father had once lived in these mountains, refusing to join the rest of humanity. With the bit of luck Prescott was certain he was long overdue, Old Mack’s cabin retreat would still be standing. Or some version of it, please God…
“I already feel safe,” the young woman assured in her melodic, northeastern accent. “I was rescued by a real cowboy, after all.” She sounded supremely satisfied with herself and more than a little excited.
Irritation curdled in his belly like sour milk. Meg Nicholson hadn’t been jesting about her friend’s naivety. Daisy didn’t seem to have the foggiest idea how close she’d come to having her velvet gown riddled with bullets. “Listen, lady, I—”
“Oh!” she cried in wonder, pointing. “Have you ever seen anything so utterly glorious?”
Prescott scowled in the direction she pointed. Ahead of them was a mountain path heading straight up. In the middle of the path was a pair of Ponderosa pines, pulled together at the tips by no natural means to form a heart. The sun was blasting its way through the heart, glinting off the surrounding sand and making it shine like glass.
But he wasn’t the least bit fooled by his father’s diabolical creation. He knew it was a trap and a deadly one, at that.
Chapter 3: Castles and Dreams
Daisy
Daisy wasn’t finding it as easy as she imagined it would be to play the part of a damsel in distress. Well, maybe with the exception of her dramatic plunge off the train platform. She couldn’t have planned a more perfect landing, no matter how many times she migh
t’ve practiced the stunt.
Which she hadn’t.
Ever.
Though she and her friends back in Boston had played many a round of charades that had included fainting scenes, she was probably the luckiest woman alive to have landed in the arms of a rough and ready cowboy. If not, she might have broken her neck.
Instead, that gutsy (albeit ill-advised) neck was resting against the very hard and broad shoulder of her cowboy savior. Oh, but this adventure is turning out to be so much better than I ever dreamed! Real train robbers and a real romantic rescue! She swallowed the sigh rising in her throat and gave a delighted shiver, knowing without a doubt she’d found the man she was meant to marry. A big pooh on all the warnings Meg had written her! She couldn’t wait to hear the man’s name. Her own future surname…
“Are you cold?” he asked in concern, tightening his arm around her middle.
“Impossible!” She managed to inject a very feminine tremor into her voice. “It’s summertime, after all.”
He didn’t answer, making her brain dissolve into a new tizzy of wondering. What are you thinking, dear man?
“In Arizona,” she added softly, feigning another shiver.
“Uh-huh.” He sounded like he was only half-listening. “It must be the shock giving you the shakes then. No big surprise, considering what you’ve been through today. Wait here.” He brought his horse to a halt and swung to the ground.
Immediately missing the protective coil of his arm, she watched in amazement as he leaned down to pick up a baseball-sized stone. She was even more amazed when he threw it at the pair of trees which had grown together into the shape of a heart.
With a great snapping sound, the two trees sprang apart, and a noose was raised and pulled taut between them. She blinked. A noose?
