A Highwayman's Mail Order Bride

by Blythe Carver

  “Hey, there! You! What do you think you’re doin’?”

  For an instant, Melissa thought it was John who shouted. John who fired a rifle. She jumped at the second cracking sound, covering her ears, realizing in an instant that she’d been asleep again and that it was not her husband who was shouting, who’d fired a gun.

  It was the men riding up front, driving the team.

  “What’s happening?” she screamed as they sped up, the coach bouncing so she thought it might fall apart. Her hands flailed about for something to hold onto, and the man beside her allowed her to clutch his arm.

  He spoke only one word which rose above the din both in the coach and inside Melissa’s head. “Robbers.”

  No. Her baby. What if they harmed the baby?

  The horses ran as though the devil himself were after them, and he might very well have been. There were noises other than the horrible squealing of the wheels and axles as they flew over the prairie.

  Whoops. Shouts. Gunfire.

  Suddenly, the coach jerked violently to the left, sending the passengers—including Melissa, who sat on the left—flying in that direction. It was a blessing her new friend withstood most of the weight of the man to his right, for the two of them could have crushed her otherwise.

  This was it. She was going to die in the middle of Texas without ever reaching the chance to start a new life. All of the suffering she’d endured, all of the dreams she’d dared to dream once the notion of escape became a reality, all of it would come to nothing.

  Only then did the coach begin to slow, until it came to a hard stop, pitching its occupants forward this time.

  “This coach and everything it carries belongs to us now.” A strident male voice, rang out above the confusion and groans of discomfort as the men sorted themselves out.

  Melissa wondered if she was the only one who heard that voice over the others. Who heard and understood what it meant.

  The door flung open then, revealing a tall man wearing a black hat and a kerchief around the lower half of his face. She could see nothing of him thanks to the shadow the hat’s brim cast over his eyes.

  “Out of the coach,” he ordered, his voice harsh.

  He gestured with one hand, causing moonlight to glint off the metal of his pistol.

  Dread coiled and uncoiled in her stomach. The half-spoiled potatoes they’d eaten for supper hours earlier threatened to come up as the men exited the coach one by one. They left her for last, as she sat in the far corner.

  The sight of the pistol had all but frozen her solid, even as good sense urged her to move. What if the outlaw holding it became impatient with her slowness?

  As if he heard her, the man peered into the coach. “Hurry it up, now! We haven’t got all night!”

  A second voice, somewhat familiar. “You might at least help the lady from the coach.” After that, a sound like an armful of clothing hitting the floor and a strangled groan.

  Mr. Lang. They’d struck him for speaking out. The animals.

  This, more than anything else that had happened so far, inspired Melissa to slide her way over the bench and the bags of mail bulging out from beneath. She did so quickly, now determined to give someone a piece of her mind.

  To strike a man whose only desire was to speak up for her? Someone who’d behaved like a gentleman?

  When she reached the door, her narrowed eyes took in the scene—her eight fellow travelers, all of them with hands in the air except for Mr. Lang. He had fallen to one knee, arms crossed over his stomach.

  What concerned her more was the second man on his knees, some distance behind the coach. Where they had taken the sharp turn which had nearly resulted in her being crushed. She recognized him as the man who’d been riding next to the driver. And now, he knelt next to the driver.

  Who was on his back in a spreading pool of blood.

  “Come on, come on.” A strong hand seized her arm, pulled her along until she stood at the end of the row of men, beside Mr. Lang.

  Two men looted the coach, taking what appeared valuable and stashing it in leather satchels. A third man stood guard nearby, rifle at the ready.

  The one who’d opened the door and ordered them out looked up and down the line, his eyes still concealed by his hat brim. “Gimme your valuables. Now. Be quick about it.”

  For once, Melissa was relieved to possess nothing of any value. If they wanted her wedding band, they could have it—she’d only worn it to further the deceit of her being Mrs. Mark Furnish. She would otherwise have left it on her bedside table.

  Poor Mr. Lang looked ready to weep as he handed over his pocket watch. Melissa bit her tongue against the sharp words the robbers deserved to hear.

  “What about you?” The robber stood in front of the kind old man who’d likely saved her life—or at least the life of her child, protecting her from injury in the coach.

  “I ain’t got nothin’ you’re wantin’,” he announced. “Some chewin’ tobacco, that’s about it.”

  The man guarding the coach snorted. “He’s lying.”

  “I ain’t a liar,” the old man snarled, glaring at the rifle-toting brute who stormed his way, delivering a hearty blow to his midsection with the butt of the gun.

  As far as Melissa was concerned, this was the breaking point. With a cry of outrage, she marched over to the men. “How dare you?” she shrieked.

  Only then did her eyes meet those of the pistol-wielding robber. Flinty gray, sharp and searing. “You had better step aside,” he muttered.

  She whirled on the man with the rifle. “It takes no courage for a bigger, stronger, younger man with a rifle to harm an innocent old gentleman like this! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”

  Only then did the possibility of earning such rough treatment occur. A rifle butt to the stomach might kill her baby, stays or no stays.

  Still, she held her head high, staring at the brute as if daring him to defy her. For one breathless moment, she hung between certainty that he would strike her and certainty of his not having the gall to do any such thing.

  To her relief, it was the latter.

  “This one has spirit!” the man laughed, nasty and knowing. She’d heard that sort of laughter before, and it meant little to her.

  “Mrs. Furnish, do not trouble yourself,” the old man urged, touching her shoulder while still half-bent, the other arm across his middle. “It ain’t worth it.”

  The flinty-eyed robber startled. “Mrs. Furnish, you say?”

  “Yes,” she lied in her most imperious tone.

  “As in, the wife of Mr. Mark Furnish? The rancher?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Ain’t a man west of the Mississippi who ain’t, ma’am.” He turned to his partner. “I think this just turned out to be a very profitable night.”

  4

  She was a pretty little thing, this rancher’s wife. Dressed plain, but Jed guessed that had to do more with keeping her from getting noticed by men such as himself.

  A well-dressed woman traveling in a stagecoach was bound to attract the wrong kind of attention, and Mark Furnish was a smart man. A man didn’t get where he ended up without being smart about such things.

  Even in that ratty bonnet, there was no hiding her golden hair. Or the flashing blue eyes, the way anger brought roses to her cheeks.

  He turned to Zeke once again, wondering if his friend understood what he was getting at. It was not a surprise to find confusion in the brown eyes barely visible over the top of his kerchief.

  With his pistol aimed in the general direction of the woman before him—he had no desire to shoot the woman, especially when she could mean a handsome payday, he motioned for Zeke to lean in.

  “He’s rich, her husband,” he muttered, always watching the woman and the men around her. Cowards, the lot of them, as most men were. All they need do to tamp down any foolish ideas about bravery was to glance in the direction of the dying driver, out there on the road.

  It was
not Jed’s wish to kill the man, and had the fool not attempted to bring the team about and run him clean over, he would not have fired. It was more a panic shot than anything else, though he would’ve rather bit off his tongue than admit it to any of the others.

  Regrettable as it was, the fool’s death served as a reminder to the rest that they’d best stay put and mind their manners, or else the same treatment might be theirs.

  “Yeah?” Zeke asked, suddenly interested.

  “You never heard of him?”

  “Eh, I thought I heard the name before, but you know I don’t keep up with such matters.” This was true, and something Jed should have known. Unless speaking of the weather and how it would affect their work, the nearest saloon or sporting house, or the next time they planned to eat, Zeke cared little.

  “Well, I can tell you, the man runs one of the biggest outfits in Nevada. He might be one of the richest men in the whole state. And she’s his wife.”

  “Oh, really now?” The sly excitement in his friend’s voice told Jed a flame had begun to flicker, at last. While it took Zeke a moment to pick up, once he did, Jed knew he was reliable.

  He went to Tom and Travis to share the idea of taking the woman, while Jed focused his gaze on the feisty little thing. She possessed courage, he had to admit. Coming to an old man’s defense while another man lay dying as the result of a slug to the gut.

  She had no way of knowing how the exchange would turn out, yet she’d reacted.

  “You headed home, then, ma’am?” he asked, tilting his head back a bit that he might see her without the brim of his hat in the way. Yes, she was right pretty. And right furious.

  “What of it?” she demanded. “I might be much closer to home now, if it weren’t for you. We were no bother to anyone, simply looking to get where we were heading.”

  She didn’t speak as though she was from the south or the plains. A northerner. Her accent was sort of flat, like those northerners spoke. So Furnish had married a Yankee gal. Probably wanted somebody with an education and manners and the like.

  Though the woman in front of him did not seem to care much for manners. She was fixing to work herself into a downright frenzy.

  “You’re all a bunch of heartless, cowardly brutes! Shooting an unarmed man simply trying to do his job. Striking unarmed men to get them to fall in line with you.” She sneered, one of her full, rose petal lips curling up. “You’re all despicable.”

  “Quite a mouth on you, seein’ as how I’m holding a pistol, ma’am.” He merely tipped his hat to her, a gesture which only seemed to wind her up more. She was quite a bit of fun.

  It got tiresome, speaking and riding and camping out with the same three men day after day. There were entire weeks when he saw nothing but flat, dry desert with little in the way of entertainment. She was a breath of fresh air after just such a spell.

  One of the men in line cleared his throat. The one who just lost his pocket watch—a beautiful thing, truly, something Jed would very much enjoy carrying.

  “What do you intend to do now?” he asked in a trembling voice, though it was clear he tried very hard for it not to be so.

  “None of your business, and if you don’t stop speakin’ when you haven’t been spoken to, you’ll find yourself with broken ribs this time.” Jed made it a point to look the woman in the eye after he said it, smiling under his kerchief at the way her cheeks went dark again.

  He could just imagine the sort of passion a woman like her possessed. What she might be stirred to, given the right attention.

  She did not let go of his gaze, in fact, judging by the way her jaw hardened and her eyes narrowed, he felt she might know exactly what was on his mind. How could she? Perhaps he was feeling a bit guilty for harboring such thought about another man’s wife.

  Though it would be the first time for any such jolt of conscience, but he’d always heard there was a first time for everything.

  Zeke returned. “They’re in,” he muttered. “And they took everything they could find from the coach. Not much, but there are some fine cigars.”

  Jed shrugged. “We got more than enough from the passengers.” They’d collected each man’s billfold, and some of them had been full to the point of bulging. When would people figure out the need to travel light? For surely Jed and his crew were not the only ones riding the plains, waiting to catch stagecoach drivers unaware.

  “Come on, then.” He reached for the woman’s arm, which she was quick to yank away.

  A cry rose out from among the men.

  “Now, just wait a minute!” one of them called out, charging forward.

  Zeke need only step in front of the man, rifle aimed at his gut, to get him to stand down.

  “You might have us outnumbered, but we have you outgunned,” Jed reminded them, this time taking the woman by the waist. She squirmed, her body rubbing against his, and he did mightily wish she would cease.

  It was one thing to command a group of men to do as he wished, and another to do so while stirring between his thighs.

  “How dare you!” She all but clawed at his eyes in the struggle to free herself, but Jed was stronger. He held her fast while wrapping her wrists in a length of rope he always hung from his belt before mounting, then hauling her up into his lap.

  And still, she screamed, elbowed, kicked out with her rather worn leather shoes. This was the only thing Jed took umbrage with. “I don’t mind you kickin’ me,” he grunted, “but do not kick my horse. He did nothing to you.”

  To his surprise, her legs stopped moving. He thought she might possess a bit of sense, after all.

  “Meet you at the wagon,” he called to Zeke before taking off in a cloud of dust. Best to get her out of there as soon as possible, in case any of the others started feeling brave.

  Her shouts faded to nothing more than muffled protests once the pounding of hooves drowned them out. A blessing.

  For now, he needed to figure out what to do with her, and in order to do that, he needed to be able to think.

  5

  It was the last thing she’d expected.

  At the very worst, she had imagined giving up her wedding band. She’d have done so gladly, seeing as how the gold circle had never brought her anything but grief since the day John had jammed it onto her finger in a pitifully quick ceremony held in his parlor.

  They had not even gone to the Justice of the Peace, much less rung the chapel bell.

  It would have been no great hardship to be without that one last memory of her ill-fated marriage—well, not counting the fluttering bit of life inside her.

  But this? This, being pawed at and manhandled? Tied up? Swept away into the night on the back of a horse her captor had more than likely stolen?

  This was the stuff of nightmares—only she’d never possessed the imagination to dream up anything so very dangerous.

  Where was he taking her? She could hardly see for the dust and finally had no choice but to turn her head to the side, allowing her bonnet to cover her face. This left her with no view whatsoever, though she knew it mattered little whether or not she could see.

  It wasn’t as though she knew where they were or where they were going.

  And she certainly had no control over their direction, hands bound as tight as they were. She could hardly feel her fingers, much less take control of the beast on which she rode if her captor fell from the saddle.

  How she would laugh if that happened. Then again, he held the end of the rope which bound her wrists, meaning he would pull her along with him.

  There was simply no way out of her horrible predicament. Once again, life had happened to her, and she had no choice but to suffer its whims.

  They came to a rather abrupt stop quite a way from the scene of the robbery, having ridden for endless minutes at a pace which had all but shaken her senseless. A series of boulders sat in a semi-circle.

  “What are we doing now?” she asked, a tremor creeping into her voice as she imagined a number of things
men might do to women in secluded areas such as this, with nothing but the moon and an out-of-breath horse to bear witness.

  He did not answer. He merely took her by the waist upon dismounting and pulled her to the ground. When she threw her body against his and tried to run, he merely stood still, feet rooted to the spot.

  As though he were one of the boulders he stood before.

  He might as well have been, for all she was concerned. He had no feeling, no kindness. He would allow his men—for he was the leader, it was plain as day—to harm a defenseless old man. He would encourage them to steal from strangers.

  He would kill a man in cold blood.

  She raised her bound wrists and brought them down upon his shoulder as he dragged her behind the boulders.

  “I hate you!” she snarled, hitting him again and again. “You are a lowly, cowardly, pitiful creature unworthy of the air you breathe!”

  To her surprise, he chuckled, which only served to further infuriate her. She could hardly breathe for the rage boiling in her veins.

  She’d never experience this before. This head-spinning, heart-pounding sensation. Anger, yes. She’d felt anger—deep, hot, seething anger. Fear, of course. Resentment, bitterness, resignation.

  Envy.

  All of it, for about as long as she could recall.

  But this? This rage? She had never even been stirred to such depths during her marriage, and heaven knew her husband had deserved it.

  Only when she saw what was behind the boulders did she remember to breathe. A wagon. They’d hidden it there, out of sight, somewhat safe, unhitched.

  “Get up there.” He took her by the waist without so much as a warning and lifted her into the rear of the wagon, dropping her with a thud so hard it knocked the bonnet from her head.

  “That hurt!” she snapped, though he’d dropped her on her backside and she could think of worse ways to land. Even so, he needed to know the depth of her outrage.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you in,” he muttered as he led the horse to the front of the wagon. He’d untied the kerchief and exposed the rest of his face, though she could make little of it in the shadow of the boulders.