Stagecoach Capture

by Layla Chase

  “Like what you see, eh, sister?"

  “Not at all.” She held the ear bobs over the upturned hat. “I'm studying your face so I can be sure my description of you to the sheriff is accurate."

  A cough sounded and she glanced to the side, instinctively knowing Slade was signaling her.

  Slade narrowed his gaze and shook his head once. His intense dark eyes held a warning. His hands were fisted at his sides and his body was tight and poised.

  The fidgety bandit on his wide-eyed horse, now just a few feet away, trained his gun on the center of Slade's chest.

  She gasped and a shudder ran through her, freezing her actions. What was she doing? No jewelry was special enough to risk getting Slade injured. She could accept that they might never see one another after this stage trip, but she wouldn't be the cause of him getting hurt. Or worse.

  Then the bandit grabbed her hand and twisted it to release the ear bobs.

  A cry of pain escaped her lips before she could bite it back. Her blood surged hot and self-preservation took over. She swore she could hear the echoes of Miss Veronica's teachings as she stomped her boot heel on the man's toes and jabbed an elbow against his throat.

  What followed was a confusion of strangled yells, high-pitched screams, threatening curses and rising clouds of dust.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  Seeing Jazzy's narrowed gaze and clamped jaw made Slade's blood run cold. What the hell was that independent slip of a woman contemplating? The woman had no chance against a band of armed outlaws. She must know that.

  Four against one weren't good odds. Slade had faced worse situations in his past and survived, but he'd only had to take care of himself. Pete was out of his line of sight, so he didn't know if he could count on the driver for any assistance. Protecting the cussed little fool would be tough, but not impossible.

  The sound of Jazzy's pained cry cut straight through Slade's reasoning and he jumped into motion. Ramming a shoulder into the closest horse, he flew under the thrashing front hooves at the man who'd hurt her. “Get away, Jazzy."

  Suddenly the world erupted in noise and motion. He and the bandit went down hard and tumbled on the ground, grappling for control with knees, feet and hands. Slade was taller and heavier, but this wiry man was strong. A strength that came from having to fight to stay alive. Skittish horses neighed and snorted. Nearby, hooves gouged the dry ground, tossing up great clouds of choking, powdery dust.

  Bitter anger over Jazzy's pain and fear for her safety tore at him, fueling his actions. He levered up on an elbow and swung with his right fist, landing a hard punch on the bandit's jaw.

  With a grunt, the man's head snapped back and the grip on Slade's shirt loosened.

  Slade rolled away from the horses and jumped to a crouch, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. On instinct, his hand moved toward his right hip. Damn, he missed the familiar weight of his revolver. He felt naked without it. He looked through the swirling clouds for Jazzy. There, against the outline of the coach, was a darker shadow he figured must be the passengers.

  Instantaneous relief calmed his thoughts. She was safe, at least for the moment.

  His boot stubbed up a fist-sized rock and he stooped to pick it up. Not his first choice of weapon, but it counted for something, and it felt better than being empty-handed. Squinting through the haze of dust, he tried to spot the positions of the mounted outlaws.

  “Slade!” Jazzy's sweet voice cut through the mêlée. “Behind you!"

  He spun and immediately jumped back, barely avoiding being trampled by a charging horse. At the last moment, he let the rock fly and was rewarded by the sound of a solid thud and a man's surprised curse. Quickly, he found and filled each hand with other rocks. He hated using such primitive weapons and willed himself to ignore the futility of his stand.

  This damned dust! He swung his arm in front of his face, hoping to clear his field of vision. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a man moving from his left, gun held at waist height as he walked. Like all the times he'd skipped stones on Dickerson's Pond as a kid, he brought his hand to his waist, then flung the rock hard with a sideways motion.

  The rock knocked the gun out of the outlaw's hand and he doubled over in pain. The second rock, thrown as hard as he could overhand, felled the man like a tree. Slade strode to the dropped pistol and scooped it up, then squared off opposite where he figured the remaining bandits were. An eerie silence fell. No bird cried, no desert animal skittered, no breeze rustled the mesquite bushes.

  As the choking veil of dust settled, he heard a devilish chuckle that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Advancing across the open ground was a sight that froze his movements and chilled him to the bone. A tall man, one arm crooked around Jazzy's shoulders and the other holding a knife to her tender neck, stopped about ten feet away.

  They were close enough for Slade to take in every detail of the stubborn woman. She must have put up a struggle. Strands of blonde hair hung loose at the sides of her flushed face, and one sleeve was partially torn away from her jacket shoulder. Her eyes were wide with fear. The expression in their blue depths pleaded for rescue.

  The glint of metal against her white skin riled him until he could barely think straight. This filthy man threatened the life of a woman he held dear! He had to figure a way out of this mess.

  He'd downed two bandits, but another of the bastards, other than the one gripping Jazzy, still moved free and out of sight. The outlaw held Jazzy too close for Slade to draw a bead on him. He couldn't risk a shot that wasn't an instant kill. The guy looked like he could do deadly damage with that knife in his last seconds of life.

  “Toss down the gun,” rasped the tall bandit, his bandana skewed enough to reveal a bushy moustache.

  Slade glanced around, hoping to gauge Pete's location and what chance he really had. He shifted his stance to scan the area near the front of the stagecoach, but still couldn't see the driver. All he spotted were the passengers cowering near the back wheels, the women with handkerchiefs to their faces.

  Had Pete found a hiding place and was even now tracking the bandits in his rifle sights? Was he just waiting for the right time to pick off this guy? The fact he hadn't given a signal persuaded Slade not to count on help from that corner.

  “I said ditch the weapon.” The man's voice was colder and he yanked his arm tighter around Jazzy's chest. “Or I spill this pretty lady's blood."

  Jazzy stretched away from the knife, but remained alert and silent. Her mouth was twisted into a tight line. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes and Slade watched as she blinked to keep them from falling.

  Fiery anger and icy determination warred for dominance of his thoughts. The fact Jazzy was in serious danger burned in his belly. He would make these men pay for what they'd put her through. But cold reason screamed at Slade not to give up the weapon that represented his only chance.

  He looked into her eyes and she stared back, belief in him shining through her fear. Suddenly, he was transported to the previous night and the heat of passion he'd seen in her eyes. What they'd shared was special and he refused to let that go without a fight. He narrowed his gaze, trying to send her a message to stay calm, that he'd figure a way out. “Tell us what you want. Maybe we can work out a deal."

  The man snorted. “Don't need no deal. We're taking what we want and this here knife's our guarantee."

  Sweat pooled on Slade's forehead and dripped along his temples. Refusing to show weakness, he resisted swiping at his face with his sleeve. Where the hell was Pete? Without back up, Slade doubted his chances and this guy didn't look like he wanted to bargain. “You grabbed the valuables, so clear out.” He waved his gun in the direction of the open desert, wishing he could signal Jazzy to go limp and drop to the ground. All he needed was one clear shot to take down this guy.

  The bandit bristled and took a step forward, dragging Jazzy along. “Big talk for a man all alone."

  “I've already knocked out tw
o of your buddies.” Slade eyed the distance between the two of them and wondered if he dared try to rush the guy.

  “José? Jimmy John?” With a hasty glance around the area, the bandit's brows lowered. “Hellfire, Ralph's horse ran off again.” He glanced over his shoulder at his fallen friends, then quickly back. “Move this way, blondie."

  Jazzy fisted her hands at her sides and planted her feet, her gaze imploring Slade to do something.

  Damn, he hated not being able to offer her a word of encouragement. His fingers itched to pull the trigger, but he couldn't risk hitting her or not killing her captor instantly. He forced his words out through a throat dry with frustration. “Do what he says.” His eyes told her, You'll be all right.

  The outlaw pulled her further away until he'd reached his partners and nudged them with his boot. “Out cold. We'll need the stage to carry them."

  At his words, Jazzy stiffened and shifted her weight, her expression mutinous.

  Dread clamped hard in his stomach. Slade spotted her movement and stifled a curse. Did the crazy woman think she could escape? He narrowed his gaze, trying to warn her not to do anything stupid.

  The man's dark eyes flicked to the side and back, his expression blank.

  Slade froze and listened hard, straining to hear the sound of someone approaching from a direction he couldn't see. Nothing. He couldn't risk taking his eyes off the knife at Jazzy's pristine neck. If he did, he feared he'd never see it that soft white flesh unscathed again.

  She leaned forward, straining against her captor's hold.

  A moment later came a gritty scrape and a whisper of movement from behind him. Slade tensed and twisted toward the sound, gun ready at his waist. All he saw was a blur of darkness before the blow hit his temple, forcing bright lights to bounce through his head before they faded to gray. His knees buckled and he pitched to the ground, struggling to fight the inevitable.

  Stay strong, Jazzy. Then blackness embraced him.

  * * * *

  At the sight of Slade's body crumpled on the dirt, Jazzy sagged against her captor's grasp. Disappointment dulled her senses and she barely noticed the sting of the knife on her neck. Slade had been their only hope of getting out of this mess.

  “Check if he's breathing.” Gruff words sounded from directly behind, and the man shoved her away from his body.

  She stumbled forward, a growing unease weighing down her limbs. Slade hadn't moved since the bandit had crept up from behind and cracked him in the head with the butt of his gun. Don't be dead, Slade. Dropping to her knees next to his prone form, she saw his neck and shirt collar were coated with blood.

  Her lungs tightened and she swallowed hard against a nervous stomach that threatened to upend. She hated the sight of blood. Fighting to keep her voice even, she glanced over her shoulder. “There's b-blood everywhere.” She wished for the time to tend his wound, but knew that wouldn't be allowed.

  “Don't take all day. Just listen for his breathing.” A raspy laugh erupted from under the mustache. “I sure as hell don't need a murder charge on my hands."

  “Give me a minute. I never did this afore.” Her throat felt as dry as the dirt that clung to the hem of her skirts. Please don't be dead. She drew in a deep breath and stared at this man who had become special to her in just a short time. Her gaze carefully avoided the injury on his head. His strong, muscled shoulders, normally so active, now lay slack. She stared at the dark eyebrows so capable of telegraphing his moods—now disturbingly still. For the first time, she noticed his nose must have been broken sometime earlier in his life. His firm lips that changed in the blink of an eye from a teasing half grin to a menacing grimace were parted and relaxed.

  Unable to resist touching him—praying this time wouldn't be the last—she rested a hand between his shoulders and braced her other hand on the dirt. Under her fingers, his body was firm and warm. She leaned close to his face until she could hear the slow, steady whoosh of his breathing. He was alive! A wave of intense relief loosened her chest and she could breathe deeply.

  A strand of her loosened hair fell against his cheek and she whispered, “I've a notion they're fixin’ to take us away. Watch for my clues along the way and please find us.” Her throat drew tight from thoughts of what was to come. She brushed her fingertips along the line of his shoulder. “I need you, Slade."

  “Hey, blondie, is he alive or ain't he?” an impatient voice called out.

  The crunch of approaching footsteps propelled Jazzy to her feet. Her gaze clung to a last look at Slade's features, heart aching for his pain and praying this wasn't the last time she'd ever see him. “No murder charge this time. He's breathing.” She spun and marched across the clearing toward the coach, not sparing a sideways look toward the man who'd threatened her.

  Once she was among the other passengers, she ran her gaze over the group and noted they were pale and frightened, but unhurt. Dipping her knees, she pretended to adjust the laces on her boot and scanned the ground on the other side of the coach wheel for Pete's legs. She'd seen him fall in the early moments of the fight and hoped, by now, he'd recovered enough to lend a hand. He lay in a heap and wasn't moving. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she realized they were in the same position as before. Was the poor man mortally wounded?

  “This is the way it's gonna be.” The one who seemed to be the leader stood five feet away, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun. “You old man and the kid, move away from the coach. Women, you'll be joining us fer a ride."

  A choked sob sounded from the other women.

  “My boy!” Mrs. Harrington clasped a hand on her breast and cried. “Chester has to come with me."

  A scowl wrinkled his brows and the bandit brandished his gun in their direction. “Get in the coach, lady. Believe me, where we're going is no place fer a kid."

  With an arthritic hand resting on the boy's shoulder, Mr. Denton straightened his back and looked up. “I'll watch out for him, ma'am."

  Jazzy huffed out a pent-up breath. The men would look after Slade—he'd be safe. She climbed the coach steps and dropped into the closest corner, so she could still see Slade's body, willing him to waken. If he did, he'd figure a way to keep the group together.

  Miss Whitfield cowered on the opposite bench, arms wrapped around her satchel and a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. “What is to become of us?"

  “I won't leave my son.” The coach swayed as Mrs. Harrington braced her arms across the door opening.

  Sarah dropped the handkerchief and leaned forward. “Prudence, you must listen to them."

  “Get inside, lady, and stop your caterwauling.” The man's voice was strained.

  “Chester. My boy.” A struggling Mrs. Harrington was pushed onto the coach floor and the door slammed. “No! I can't leave my son."

  “You don't have a choice.” Jazzy leaned forward and grabbed the frantic woman's arm, guiding her to a seat. “Mr. Denton will watch out for him.” As she spoke, she honestly didn't know if she meant Chester or Slade.

  The stage lurched into motion and Jazzy stuck her head out the window for a final glimpse of Slade. Chester and Mr. Denton kneeled at his side, probably trying to rouse him. Then the stagecoach turned and all she saw were rocks, red dirt and creosote bushes. She turned to the women across from her. “Okay, ladies, we're on our own."

  “Oh, we'll be raped,” Sarah wailed.

  Jazzy narrowed her gaze. “There's worse things."

  Sarah's head jerked as if she'd been slapped. “What's worse than that?"

  “Getting killed."

  With a squeal, Miss Whitfield's eyes rolled backwards and she fainted, banging her head against the side of the coach.

  Mrs. Harrington scooted to the side and eased the woman across the bench, then shot a dark look at Jazzy. “Must you be so blunt? I swear you have the worst manners—"

  “Got no time for manners, Mrs. Harrington. The three of us"—she eyed the inert form of Sarah Whitfield with a questioning look—"make th
at the two of us have to come up with a plan or else we're dead."

  Jazzy leaned her elbows on her knees and held out her open hand in front of the older, panicked woman. “We're being held against our will.” She tapped her thumb as if counting down. “We're in a stagecoach headed to unknown parts of the southern frontier.” Tapped a finger. “Could be headed to Mexico for all I know.” Tapped another finger. “And our escorts have little or no scruples."

  Prudence Harrington pinched her lips together. “What about my poor Chester?"

  “I'm sorry for your son, but we're the ones being hauled away to hell-and-gone.” Didn't this woman have the slightest idea of what men like these bandits might do to helpless women? Most likely not. Jazzy figured she was the one with the most experience dealing with men and their attitudes.

  The responsibility of what she knew to be true pulled at her. The planning had to be hers and hers alone. She scooted into the corner of the coach and lifted her skirt to the knee. Starting at the side seam of her emerald silk petticoat, she used the fingernail of her pinky finger to loosen the stitches. With twisting pulls, she tore strips of the fabric, stuffed most in her reticule and dropped a few out the side window. She tried to convince herself Slade had a small chance of finding these clues. Until she glanced outside and spotted green cloth half-buried in the red Texas dirt.

  That small chance shrunk to a nigh-on impossibility.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  After what seemed like hours of bumping over uneven ground, the coach slowed and came to a stop. Thinking up a way out of this fix was tough over the whimpers of two scared women. About all she'd come up with was the promise of more money if they were released unhurt.

  “Remember, ladies,” whispered Jazzy, as she leaned forward and waited for their gazes to connect with hers, “keep alert to everything around you. And stick together."

  From outside came the crunch of boots approaching on the rocky soil. “I'll git the women,” a harsh voice shouted. “Ralph, Jimmy John, you go inside and clear out any varmints that's snuck in while we were gone."