The Cowboy's Stolen Bride (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  “That sounds like it came from Ernest’s field,” Adeline said. “I mean, Mr. Wallace.”

  Richard gave her a strange look but then glanced out toward Ernest’s field. Adeline’s stomach lurched and she tasted bile in the back of her throat, suddenly sick with worry for him.

  “We’ll need to go around,” Richard said, frustration coloring his voice. “The fence –”

  “I know a way around it,” Adeline said quickly and without thinking. “Go get Sonny, he may be hurt and need help.”

  Without waiting for Richard to reply, she turned and set Thunder off at a fast gallop, heading for the edge of the field where she knew Ernest’s fence wasn’t complete. She realized as she galloped away how that must have sounded to Richard and felt a flash of worry – but she’d worry about the consequences later. Right now, she needed to get out to Ernest.

  Thunder’s hooves pounded across the field and Adeline finally understood where her stallion got his name. Every hoofbeat sent a jolt reverberating through her entire body, rattling every bone in her body with a powerful force.

  The wind whipped through her hair, blowing it out straight behind her and she felt sweat rolling down her back, making her dress cling to her uncomfortably. Up ahead, dust devils swirled and writhed, kicked up by the wind cutting through the field.

  Up ahead in the distance, Adeline saw something in the field. It was a dark, indistinguishable form laying in the high, dry grass. Terrified by thoughts of what it might be, she urged Thunder on faster. Her heart pounded inside her breast and her breathing was ragged, her skin burning as if was on fire.

  “Oh God,” she almost screamed.

  She was jumping down off Thunder’s back before the big stallion had even stopped moving. Adeline turned her ankle on a rock and went down hard, driving the breath from her lungs. Her ankle throbbing and her body aching, she gritted her teeth and got to her feet.

  “Oh no, no, no,” she murmured. “Please no.”

  On the ground in front of her was Ernest’s horse, a bear trap clamped down around its leg and a bullet hole in its head. Beside the horse, the rifle still hung limply in his hand was Ernest. He was lying on his back, scraped and bloody, turned up toward the sun. He lay completely still, and she couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. Adeline dropped down beside him, pulling his hat off his head and tossed it to the side.

  If anything happens to him, it will destroy me more than I even imagined. Please God, do not take him away from me. I will do anything you ask.

  “Ernest, please wake up,” she said. “Please, please, please wake up.”

  She stroked his hair, on the verge of tears and didn’t know what to do. Tears of relief burst from her eyes and a strangled cry escaped her throat when Ernest groaned and stirred beneath her hands.

  “Ernest,” she cried, her voice thick with relief.

  He tried to whisper something, but his voice was hoarse and unintelligible. His eyes fluttered but he looked more like a man caught in the grips of a terrible nightmare than a man trying to wake up. Adeline’s heart fluttered with despair not knowing what was happening with him.

  Jumping to her feet, she dashed to her saddle and pulled her canteen off then rushed back to Ernest. She wanted to be ready with water if he woke up.

  “Ernest, wake up,” she pleaded. “Wake up.”

  The sound of horses approaching drew her attention and she looked up to see Richard on his horse and Sonny in a wagon coming near. She quickly wiped the tears from her face and tried to gather her wits about her. Richard reined his horse to a stop and climbed down, giving her a queer look. But he cleared his throat and quickly smoothed out his features.

  “How is he?” Richard asked.

  Adeline shook her head miserably. “I don’t know. He hasn’t woken up yet.”

  “We should get him back to his house,” Richard said. “And out of the sun.”

  Adeline watched as Richard and Sonny loaded Ernest’s prone form into the back of the wagon. He didn’t look at, nor address her as they took him back to his house. They got him to his bed, laying him down gently. For his part, Ernest groaned but still didn’t wake.

  “Sonny, go into town and fetch the doctor,” Richard ordered. “And Sheriff Stephens while you’re at it.”

  “Right away, Mr. Arnolds.”

  Sonny departed, leaving Adeline and Richard sitting on opposite sides of Ernest’s bed, an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air between them. He finally cleared his throat and looked at her.

  “Is there something I should know, Adeline?”

  She didn’t need him to clarify what he meant – she already knew. But she locked all her feelings away inside of her, making sure no trace of emotion showed through on her face as she shook her head.

  “No,” she replied. “He’s just always been kind to me.”

  Richard nodded, but Adeline saw the skepticism in his eyes. “Are you certain?”

  Honestly, my head is spinning so fast and so hard, I am really not certain of anything at this moment.

  “I am certain, Richard,” she replied. “I appreciate Mr. Wallace’s kindness to me and I do not wish to see him hurt.”

  Her answer seemed to mollify him and Richard looked away. Adeline folded her hands in her lap and together, they waited in silence for the doctor and the Sheriff to arrive.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ernest sat up in bed, his head throbbing and his body ached in places he didn’t know he could ache. He looked down and saw that his ribs had been taped up and his left wrist was encased in a splint. He touched his head and felt the bandage that was wrapped around his head and the large knot just beneath the fabric.

  His hands and arms were spiderwebbed with cuts and most of his body – at least the parts he could see – were discolored with dark, ugly bruises. He’d taken a bad spill and knew he’d gotten lucky – he could have broken his damn neck.

  “You’re a lucky man, Wallace,” Sheriff Milton Stephens said as he stepped into the bedroom. “Remind me to rub your ass before I hit the faro table next time.”

  Ernest laughed and then grimaced as pain tore through his body. He felt like his insides were being ripped out of his body. Ernest took a minute, willing the pain to subside.

  “Touch my ass and you’ll find yourself missing a hand,” Ernest grinned. “How long was I out?”

  “Better part of a day,” he replied. “Doc says you got a couple of busted ribs. Your wrist there is sprained. Said everything else was pretty superficial and you’d be back on your feet again in a few days.”

  Ernest ran a hand over his face and let out a long breath – gingerly. The busted ribs would explain why he was having such a hard time drawing breath without wanting to scream in sheer agony.

  “What happened?” he finally asked.

  “Took a nasty spill,” he replied. “Tumbled ass over teakettle right off your horse near as I can tell.”

  Ernest leaned his head back against the pillows and grimaced, drawing each breath was an exercise in agony. When the pain roaring through his body dulled to just a scream, he opened his eyes again and looked up at the Sheriff.

  He and Milton had been friends as long as he could remember. Truth was, Ernest couldn’t remember a time in his life when he didn’t call Milton a friend. The Sheriff was one of the best men Ernest knew. He was a stern but fair man. Loyal and good hearted.

  As Ernest gathered himself, what happened out there in the field came back to him. And in his jumble of memories, he saw Adeline’s face. It was just bits and fragments and he had no idea how he knew – his memories were a mess at the moment. But he knew that somehow, she’d been there. She’d been there for him

  “Where’s Adeline?” he asked.

  “I sent her and Richard home,” he said. “Nothing they could do for you here. Besides, we had no idea how long you’d be out.”

  “Mabel?” he groaned, hoping he’d remembered incorrectly as a stab of pain lanced straight through his heart.


  “Looked like you put her down yourself,” Milton said.

  “Damn,” he muttered as the rest of his memories fell into place. “Ol’ girl deserved better than that.”

  Milton nodded. “Rough way to go out,” he said. “But you did right by her. Didn’t let her suffer none.”

  “The bear trap,” Ernest said. “Any idea who put that out there?”

  He shook his head. “I was hopin’ you had an idea who might wanna break your neck.”

  Ernest chuckled lightly. “Your guess is as good as mine, Milton.”

  He sighed and rubbed the stubble on his chin. The Sheriff walked out of the bedroom and returned a minute later with a bottle of whiskey and glasses for them both. He poured them each a glass and handed one to Ernest.

  He raised it to Milton and they both swallowed the liquor. Ernest grimaced as the burn slid down his throat, somehow compounding the ache in his chest that was already making it hard to breathe. Ernest looked at his old friend curiously, noticing that he was avoiding his eyes. There was definitely something on his mind that he wasn’t sharing.

  “What is it, Milton?” he asked. “What’s on your mind?”

  The Sheriff downed his glass and quickly poured another. He offered the bottle to Ernest who drained his drink and held his glass out for a refill. He wasn’t a drinking man but he appreciated the numbing effect the whiskey was having on him. It was dulling some of the sharp edges of his pain and at that moment, he considered it a blessing from God himself.

  “What makes you think anything’s on my mind?” Milton answered his question with one of his own.

  “Years of experience,” Ernest replied. “I know you inside and out – which means I know when something’s runnin’ around that little pea brain of yours.”

  Milton smirked and quaffed another drink. He filled his glass again and raised it to his lips but paused. Putting it back down, he sighed and looked over at Ernest who was looking back at him expectantly.

  “Horace Ford broke outta the jail in Goliad,” Milton admitted. “Actually, his friends busted them out. Murdered the sheriff and half a dozen of his deputies on the way out of town.”

  Ernest felt his stomach lurch and an icy tendril of worry wrap itself around his heart and squeeze mercilessly. About three years ago or so, Milton had deputized him and together with another ten men, they’d tracked Ford down to a farmhouse out in the countryside. He was a brutal killer who’d murdered the home owners and their two children – the latest in a long string of killings he’d done.

  All his victims suffered two shotgun blasts – one to the chest and one to the face. It was his calling card and how he’d earned his nickname – Horace “the Shotgun” Ford. Ernest recalled ol’ Horace vowing to break out of prison and come for everybody who’d aided in his capture. He remembered it clear as day.

  “You think he did this?” Ernest asked. “Killed my horse and tried to kill me?” Think he’s making good on his promise?”

  Milton shrugged. “No way of knowing,” he said. “Not until we get a look at who set the bear trap Mabel got herself caught up in.”

  Ernest leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, once again saying a silent word of thanks to the gods who invented whiskey as warmth and numbness was spreading through his limbs, dulling everything that throbbed on his body – which was virtually his entire body.

  If Ford was out, it was bad news for him – and for Milton. For whatever reason, he’d taken a special dislike to the both of them and seemed to hold them more responsible for his capture than anybody else.

  “It’d make sense,” Ernest shrugged. “If Horace is out and came back here, maybe he figured he could take me out and squat here. Lay low until the heat was off maybe.”

  “Why not just put a bullet in you out in the fields?” Milton asked. “Why go to all the trouble of setting a trap?”

  Ernest shrugged. “Shooting me woulda been noisy,” he said. “Might have drawn too much attention.”

  Milton scratched at his chin again. “I dunno. Maybe.”

  “Brought Richard and Adeline runnin’,” Ernest nodded. “I don’t think it was that long after I went down that they were there.”

  “Given the crack on the head you got, it might’ve been days and you wouldn’t know.”

  Ernest chuckled softly. “Yeah maybe. Probably,” he admitted. “But if it is Horace and he is trying to lay low, it would make sense for him to try and take me out quietly.”

  Milton drained his glass and moved to refill it, only to apparently think better of it a moment later. Knowing there could be a shotgun happy killer in our midst might be a good reason to stay as sober as possible.

  Yeah unless you hurt as bad as I do – then being blindingly drunk might be a good thing.

  “You don’t seem convinced it’s Horace,” Ernest said.

  Milton shrugged. “I’m not convinced of anything just yet,” he noted. “It could just be a weird coincidence and one thing might not have anything to do with the other.”

  “Yeah, that’s a possibility too,” Ernest said. “I just ain’t ever been a big believer in coincidence.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Milton said. “But I also don’t like going off all half-cocked until I get all the facts. Right now, we don’t know anything.”

  “Except that Horace Ford breaks outta jail and somebody mysteriously lays a trap and tries to kill me,” Ernest noted.

  “Right, other than that,” Milton chuckled and then looked at Ernest as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “You don’t think it was Richard do you. You two have any sort of a beef lately?”

  Ernest shook his head. “No. No beef,” he said. “I was just at his place for his engagement party.”

  Milton looked at Ernest critically. “And nothin’ going on between you and his newly betrothed he might be upset about?”

  Other than the fact that she doesn’t love him, doesn’t want to marry him, and doesn’t want to be anywhere near him? No, nothing at all.

  “No of course not,” he replied. “I’m a lot of things but a homewrecker ain’t one of ‘em.”

  Milton nods. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I had to ask though.”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, each man consumed by their thoughts. But as Ernest pressed his head back against his pillows, he felt a seedling of worry begin to sprout and take root deep within him.

  He wasn’t all that worried about Horace the Shotgun Ford. If it came to a fight, Ernest was reasonably sure he could handle him. Without his shotgun, Horace wasn’t anything he had to worry about too much. Plus, given the fact that Horace was responsible for Mabel’s death, Ernest was going to be extra motivated to put him down.

  No, what caused that weed of worry to take root inside of him was Adeline accidentally crossing Horace’s path. And the worry he felt was compounded by his memory of the hole that had been cut into his fence.

  Had that been Horace passing through onto Richard’s land? Or was it crossing from Richard’s land onto mine?

  He didn’t know but he also didn’t want to sit around and find out. If there was even the slightest possibility of Adeline winding up on the wrong side of Horace’s shotgun, Ernest wanted to cut the head off that particular snake before it had a chance to strike.

  He looked up at Milton. “We gotta find out if Horace is in town,” he said. “And we need to do it sooner, rather than later.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Adeline sat on the back porch of the house with a book in one hand, basking in the sunshine of an unexpectedly cool day and enjoying some quiet time to herself. She reveled in the words she read, drinking them in and letting them absorb into her mind, idly taking a sip of the iced tea Tillie had thoughtfully set out for her

  She’d never read Chaucer before and was poring through his works as a starving man would gorge himself on a table-wide spread of food. The language was so rich and delicious that she felt as if it filled her soul. E
rnest had recommended The Canterbury Tales to her and she made a mental note to thank him for it.

  She cringed inwardly when she heard the door open and Richard’s boots on the hard wood of the back deck. And as always, she fought that battle within herself, caught between being grateful for his hospitality and protection and her desire to return home as quickly as possible – unbetrothed and unmarried.

  “May I join you?”

  “Of course,” Adeline replied.

  His voice, like Ernest’s was deep and gruff. But unlike Ernest’s voice, it didn’t wash over her in waves of pleasure. Richard’s voice did not stir anything inside of her the way Ernest’s did.