Renegade Bride (6 page)

The stage rocked back and forth like a cradle and slowly, her eyes drifted shut. Exhaustion from the long trip took hold of her. But try as she might to picture Seth's dear face as she fell asleep, it was the dark image of the bounty hunter that plagued Mariah's thoughts like an ill wind.

* * *

One fat droplet of rain slapped against the brim of Creed's hat, then another. With a curse, he pulled the collar of his rain slicker up around his ears. There was something unappealingly familiar about it. How many storms, he wondered idly, had he ridden through in the last few years, heedless of the weather and the fact that he was alone? Too many. He was anxious to be home, anxious to be done with the responsibilities that weighed him down.

He kicked his gelding into a lope after the stage rumbling down the road toward Bannack. Soon the heavens opened in a torrent of driving rain cutting visibility in half, soaking the greening land. Just ahead, a stand of hemlock and mountain ash hemmed in two sides of a slope-walled canyon. Sprays of coral root and red columbine swayed beneath the deluge and clung to the muddy soil.

The stage had stopped at the first swing station two hours ago—just long enough for a new driver to take over and to replace the six-horse hitch with fresh teams. Creed had watched Mariah dismount from the cab to stretch her legs, all the while pointedly avoiding meeting his gaze.

He'd told himself it didn't matter, as he watched her allow a puny-looking tinhorn to help her back onto the coach without batting an eye. Yet, Creed remembered how his touch had made her draw back in fear.

Her attitude galled him, but what did he expect? He'd dragged her smack dab into the middle of a gun-fight and nearly gotten her killed at the hands of one of the most ruthless men in Montana Territory.

He pondered that for a moment with a frown. Ruthless? As far as Mariah was concerned,
he
was the one who fit that description.

Creed shoved his hat down lower over his eyes, fending off the sheeting rain. It had been a long time since he'd given a damn what anyone thought of him. And certainly not some prissy schoolmarm type like Mariah. She was the chain around Seth's neck, not his.

Two hundred yards up the road, Creed's heart constricted at the sight of a slender fallen tree lying halfway across the road. Panic crept up the back of his neck. He'd been so busy thinking about her, he hadn't seen it. He kicked his horse forward to catch up with the stage.

The driver, Tom Stembridge, hauled back on the traces. "Whoa!"

"Stembridge! Go around!" Creed shouted, pulling up almost even with the driver.

"Say what?" Stembridge yelled, cupping one hand around his bearded mouth.

"Keep moving—" Creed returned, trying to make himself heard over the thundering rain. He yanked his Henry rifle from the boot at his knee.

"Storm's got a tree down ahead," the armed guard told him, leaning forward and clutching his coachgun.

Creed opened his mouth to tell him it was a trap, but the explosion of a gunshot cut his words short. The impact launched the guard backward against the tarp-covered baggage and rolled him off the cab to the ground.

Then Creed saw them. Like ghostly apparitions in the sheeting rain, five masked riders clad in pale dusters exploded from the cover of trees just beyond the roadblock, armed to the teeth and heading directly for the stage!

Chapter 3

"Sheee-it!" cursed Stembridge, ducking as low as he could in the driver's seat. With a violent slap he urged the teams of horses toward the open shoulder of the road. "H'yaw, h'yaw-w!"

Shouldering his rifle, Creed fired. One of the bandits flew off his horse and somersaulted hard in the mud. Creed caught the scent of gunpowder as a bullet whizzed past his ear. He took aim and fired again. A second duster-clad man doubled over in his saddle and veered away into the stand of trees. The remaining three took aim at Creed.

He hauled back on the reins of his gelding and dropped back behind the cover of the stage. Creed heard Stembridge grunt as a bullet tore into him, knocking him sideways on the seat. The traces slipped unnoticed from his fingers, the unleashed team jerking forward in terror, heading directly for the fallen tree.

Panic rose in Mariah's throat as the gunshots erupted outside. The careening stage threw her forward and her shoulder collided painfully with the wooden door frame beside her. Albert Lindsey caught her before she could sprawl into his lap. He pushed her back to her seat.

"Hellfire!" Nate Cullen roared, yanking his holstered handgun from beneath his seat, "We're bein' robbed!" He threw open the leather shade in time to see the guard's body fall past the window.

"Damn!" Jeb Conner cried, leaping to his feet in the cramped space. "That weren't no warnin' shot! They're killin' them!" The crackle of more gunfire erupted outside.

"Get the hell down and hold on!" Cullen shouted to Jeb. But the younger man had already lost his balance, falling across the middle seat. The other men ducked to the floor, piling one on top of the other in a tangle of limbs.

"Good Lord—" Mariah's voice was barely heard amidst the confusion. Her first frantic thought was for Creed Devereaux. What if they killed him, too? Her fingers numbed by fear, she tore aside the shade. The landscape flew by in a blur. Cold, needle-like rain pelted her face.

She took a sharp, quick breath when she spotted Devereaux not ten feet away—shouldering his rifle. Fire exploded from the barrel. He ducked low on the neck of his gelding, the thunder of gunfire ceaseless. For a split second, their eyes met—hers wide with fear, his dark with some emotion impossible to read.

"Devereaux—"

"Get down, you little idiot!" Hauling back on the reins of his horse, he disappeared behind the stage.

Albert Lindsey yanked her down to the floor just as a bullet pierced the swinging leather shade and thudded into the back of her seat. A scream caught in her throat.

"They'll kill him," she cried, struggling to be free. "Somebody has to help him!" She felt Lindsey tremble as he pulled her against him and covered her with one arm.

Nate Cullen took aim with his pistol and fired twice out the window, drowning out the shrill screams of the panicked horses. "Thunder!" he crowed. "They're turnin' tail and—"

The coach jerked violently, flinging Nate and several others up against the low ceiling. Then, with an ominous splintering of wood, the stage collided against an obstacle, then lifted off the ground, airborne.

Mariah slammed toward the back wall like a rag doll and felt the breath-stealing impact of a body striking hers just before her world tilted into utter blackness.

* * *

"She's coming around."

"Thank God."

Silence. Cool nothingness floated around Mariah as she fought the bothersome light behind her eyelids.

"Mariah?"

Like sound filtered through a thick ball of cotton, Mariah heard the deep voice, felt the gentle sift of fingers through her hair and the pressure of something cool against the ache in her head.

Her eyes fluttered open. A man's face loomed close to hers and it took a moment to focus on it. "Seth?" Relief warred with humor in the man's expression.

"No such luck," Devereaux said, pulling a wet cloth away from her head. "Welcome back." His eyes searched her face with concern and something else she couldn't identify. Rain-slick wisps of dark hair lay plastered to his face and rivulets of water trailed down his overcoat. From behind his shoulder, Albert Lindsey, Nate Cullen, and several of the others stared at her, mouths agape with worry.

Mariah blinked, disoriented. Outside, the rain beat a hard tattoo against the roof of the coach. "I don't... what happened?"

"You took quite a hit in the accident," Devereaux told her. "How do you feel?"

She blinked her eyes to clear her thoughts.
Accident?
With a rush of memory, the robbery came back to her: the gunshots, Devereaux chasing the outlaws off like some single-handed calvary brigade...

"They... they didn't kill you," she whispered before she could stop the words.

His full lips twitched with a grin. "Disappointed?" Her answering silence evoked a broader smile. "It would seem you fared worse than I, mademoiselle."

Gingerly, she explored the swelling on her forehead with the pads of her fingertips. It struck her then that it had been Devereaux's gentle hand in her hair only moments before, encouraging her to wake up. That thought, unlike his touch, gave her little comfort.

"I'm... fine," she replied, regaining her wits. "Really I am." She tried to sit up and promptly regretted it. "Ohhh-hh," she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Take it easy," Devereaux warned, pushing her back down on the leather seat. "You're not going anywhere for a few minutes. In fact, none of us is until we get that hitch fixed. The team jumped the tree those bast—" he stopped himself, glancing at Mariah, "—road agents left to stop us. If this mud-wagon weren't built like a rock, you'd be sitting in a pile of splinters right now."

She rolled her eyes. "That makes me feel ever so much better, Mr. Devereaux. What of the thieves?"

"Gone," he answered, swiping at the moisture trickling down his stubbled cheek. "All but two were wounded or killed."

"Them fellas is off licking their wounds somewhere," Nate expounded. "They won't be robbin' any more honest folks for a while. You're one hell of a shot, Devereaux, in case I forgot to mention it. I'm obliged for what you done. I had me a fair stake at risk in the driver's treasure box."

Creed's eyes flashed to Nate's. "You have gold aboard?"

He nodded. "Dust I've been keeping at Fort Benton."

"Who else knew about it?"

Nate scratched his thinning hair. "The driver... the feller in the stage office. A few men back in Virginia City knew I was comin' back for it. I'm partnerin' up to invest in a hotel in town. I needed my capital. That's why I come here."

From the other side of the stage came a low moan. Mariah jerked her gaze to the wounded man sprawled on the narrow seat. It was the driver, Stembridge, with Nate Cullen's colorful scarf, now soaked with blood, wrapped around his shoulder. The dandy, Mr. Powell, was sitting beside him. She shot a questioning look at Devereaux.

"Stembridge was lucky," he told her. "The armed guard died before he could take a second breath."

A sick feeling rose in her throat, remembering the sight of the guard flying past the window. Good Lord! What had she gotten herself into, coming out here to this godforsaken land full of murderers and criminals? Not a thing had gone right since she'd stepped off the boat.

Of course, that's when she'd met Creed Devereaux.

"He's in a bad way," Powell said. He reached up and loosened the silk tie at the driver's throat. "The bullet passed right through his shoulder. I ain't much on doctorin', but this looks like it's gonna keep on bleedin'."

"Anybody here have doctoring skills?" Creed asked. When no one volunteered, he turned back to Mariah. "Your father was a doctor back in Chicago, wasn't he?"

For a moment, she could only stare at him, shocked that he would know such personal information about her. Then she realized Seth must have told him. What else did he know about her, she wondered.

"Yes, my father practiced medicine. Occasionally, he even let me help him with patients, but I—I've never dug a bullet out."

"This one went clean through. Do you swoon easily, Miss Parsons?"

Affronted, she narrowed her eyes. "Swoon? I'll have you know I've never
swooned
in my life!"

Surprise edged his smile. "That's good. Because Stembridge will take what he can get at this point." His expression softened and he added, "If you're up to it."

Devereaux couldn't know how often she'd wished her own father had trusted her not to faint at the first sight of blood. But, of course, he never had. That was in her past, she reminded herself. It seemed a lifetime ago. Before the war, before she'd witnessed the realities of life and death.

While Chicago had seen no actual battle within its limits, the war still raged back East, pouring thousands of wounded men into the gates of the city. She had spent many days in the makeshift military hospital in Chicago sitting beside wounded men. She'd seen enough gunshot wounds to last a lifetime. She'd transcribed their letters, guided soup spoons to their mouths, held their hands when they suffered. It had made her feel... useful, alive. It was something she'd never written to Seth about, for she felt sure he wouldn't have approved.