Stagecoach Capture

by Layla Chase

  “Right, Charley."

  With a squeak, the door opened and slammed against the side of the coach.

  Sarah sucked in a harsh breath and Prudence clutched the other woman's hand.

  A bandit stuck in his head and grinned. “You've arrived at the Desert Hotel.” A nasty chuckle followed his snide greeting.

  Jazzy squared her shoulders and glanced at the women. “I'll go first.” She grabbed the front of her skirts and climbed down, turning to help the others. All the while, her gaze scanned the area surrounding the adobe house before them. The terrain here was rockier, with less loose dirt, and more creosote bushes than mesquite. To the west, she saw a long line of cottonwoods and wondered which river or creek they edged. Was it the Rio Grande, or were they even still in Texas?

  The tall leader named Charley stepped forward and swept a disdainful gaze over the group. “I hope one of you knows how to cook. We'll be wantin’ some grub right quick. And tote those bags inside."

  Jazzy stilled, willing her mouth not to smart off and put them in even more jeopardy.

  Prudence stepped forward, her back ramrod straight. “Surely you're mistaken. Ladies shouldn't be climbing on top of any stagecoach."

  He narrowed his gaze, lips pressed into a hard line. “I ain't mistaken. Unload the damn bags."

  Jazzy put a hand on the older woman's arm. “I don't mind, Prudence. Really, I don't. Sarah, I'll pass them down to you."

  At the sound of her name, the shaken woman blinked hard and nodded.

  Not wanting to get her feet tangled in her skirts, Jazzy reached between her legs, grabbed a handful of the back hem and pulled the bulk of the skirts through to the front and tucked it into the waistband of her skirt. Her petticoat had lost most of its bulk because of the strips she'd torn off, dropping out the window in hopes Slade would be able to follow their trail.

  She climbed into the driver's seat and then leaned on her hands to reach the luggage box, all the while scanning the surrounding landscape. No boulders, bushes or trees obscured the view from the house outward. A rescue, if it came, would not come from those directions.

  A few muttered catcalls and raucous laughter erupted from the men standing in the shadow of the house. In irritation, she glanced over her shoulder. Three men! Where was the fourth? Her gaze raked the area, but she didn't see the other. One must have slipped away to stand guard.

  For a moment, Jazzy stilled. She'd been around enough men speaking in those tones to know which of her body parts they were discussing. She hoisted a bag and dropped it to Sarah's waiting hands. When she touched one of her bags, she worried about the security of her rolls of coins sewn into the bag's bottom and selected another to unload. Her new life depended on keeping that money. With any luck, they wouldn't find her stash.

  Charley grabbed a satchel away from Sarah and tossed it to one of the men, standing near the door. “Ralph, check that for loot."

  Ralph yanked open the bag and upended its contents onto the ground. Out fell an assortment of men's clothing and a leather pouch. “Hey, what's this?"

  “Give it here,” Charley demanded.

  Ralph's eyes flashed, but he tossed it to the man in charge.

  Charley holstered his gun, flicked the pouch's clasp and looked inside. With a dark frown, he pulled out a hairbrush, shaving brush and razor. “Nothing much."

  Ralph leaned over and lifted another bag.

  “Stop.” Mrs. Harrington stepped forward. “That belongs to my son."

  Jazzy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from calling out a warning. Instead, she stared hard and tried to catch her gaze, willing the obstinate woman not to start trouble. So much for a leisurely view of all angles of their location.

  “Step back, lady,” Charley growled, then glanced at Ralph and jerked his chin toward the bag. “Probably nothing worth anything, but check it anyway.” He lifted a floral carpetbag from the pile near his feet and wrenched open the top.

  Jazzy recognized it and froze. That was one of hers. Barely stifling a groan at what they'd find, she dreaded the next few minutes.

  “Woo-wee. What do we have here?” Charley held out the opened bag to display frills and lace.

  A whistle sounded from under Jimmy John's scraggly moustache. “Are them lady's unmentionables?"

  Charley reached in a grimy hand and drew out a fistful of colorful silky undergarments. “Ain't these mighty fine?” The bag dropped to the ground with a dull thud. He rubbed the fabric of her purple chemise through his thick fingers. With a leer, he squinted at each woman in turn. “Won't we have fun learning which one of you owns these?"

  Her first instinct was to meet his assessing gaze dead on, but knew in an instant that was the wrong reaction. Damn his hide for trying to intimidate them. She needed to stay calm and buy all of them some time. Quickly, she averted her gaze and hid her fists in the folds of her skirt. She clamped her jaw and took in short breaths through her nose.

  “What else is in there?” Ralph stooped next to the bag and lifted out a red nightgown. “Yee hah!"

  Jimmy John made a grab for it. “Maybe the lady who owns this one can be convinced to show us how well it fits.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “I don't care about that,” Ralph scoffed. “I want to see what's underneath that fancy nightie."

  Jimmy John swaggered. “See? Hell, I want to feel it."

  The men's lecherous laughs rang out.

  Jazzy scrambled back to the driver's seat, surprised at the heat flaming her cheeks from the men's jeers. She wondered at the unfamiliar reaction. Why was today different? In the past, rough language hadn't bothered her.

  “Hold on,” Charley's stern voice cut through the jeers. “We ain't decided if we're holding the women for ransom or selling them to the bandaleros. You women, grab the bags and get in the house."

  As she started down the coach's ladder, she looked at the panicked expressions on Prudence and Sarah's pale faces. The poor things. They were beginning to have an inkling of how bad this night could get.

  A hard hand grabbed her arm and yanked her down the last two steps. “You, too, into the house. Wouldn't want you to faint from too much sun."

  Off balanced, she fell against a man's body that smelled of unwashed clothes and stale tobacco. She turned her head and looked into Charley's cold eyes—watery blue eyes with the same empty expression as when he'd held his gun aimed at Slade. Without allowing the revulsion she felt to show in her expression, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and stepped away. “I can walk on my own.” Chin high, she marched over to the pile of baggage and filled her hands.

  “And your walk is real fine."

  Standing nearby, Prudence's hands drew into fists and her body stiffened.

  Jazzy walked close and bumped into the angry woman, forcing her to shift her gaze. “He's looking to start trouble. Grab a bag and ignore him."

  Within a few minutes, the bags sat in a heap against a wall and the women were grouped on the opposite side of the entry doorway. From her position, Jazzy could see a wall with an arch in the middle. A coarsely woven blanket hung across an opening that she assumed led to a second room, possibly a bedroom. Knowing everything about this house was essential for planning their escape.

  “The trip was a long one.” She cleared her throat and waved her hand to indicate all three women. “We could all use a visit to the, um"—for effect, she cast her gaze down before finishing her soft-spoken request—"the necessary."

  “Only one of you at a time. The others, get to cookin’ some food."

  Jazzy turned her back to the men and whispered, “Let me go first. I need to check the layout of the place. Besides, I haven't cooked a meal in over five years.” She turned and headed out the door.

  Jimmy John fell into step, the crunch of his boots echoing hers.

  She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “I've been going to the necessary alone since I was a young'un. I can find it on my own."
>
  “I'm yer escort. It's around the back."

  Jazzy stepped quickly around the side of the adobe and scanned the horizon for the fourth man who must have been posted as a guard. Nothing. She wished she'd noticed when he'd abandoned the group. Around another corner was a rickety stable and a tilting outhouse that looked like it would collapse in a stiff wind. A second door led from the back wall of the house. Her heart beat a bit faster. Finally something was going right.

  Once inside the outhouse, she tried not to notice how close to the door the man stood. Let Jimmy John think he was bothering her. She had more important things to ponder—like the details of an escape.

  Now, all she had to do was keep the situation calm until Slade showed up. Although their acquaintance was short, she knew him to be the type of man who would do all he could to find and rescue three kidnapped women. Slade wouldn't leave her in the hands of this gang of thieves.

  For his part, Slade had to be well enough to ride, then get a horse, follow her path of petticoat strips, and sneak up on this house from behind to set them free.

  Their rescue could work exactly like that. Yeah, if this were a fairy tale.

  She smoothed down her skirts and opened the door to step out.

  Gunshots erupted from inside the house.

  “Come on.” The guard grabbed her arm, propelled her across the yard and through the back door.

  She glimpsed several beds and a crude table with a candlestick in the center. When they entered the main room, Jazzy first looked for the other women. They were across the open floor, unhurt and clutching each other, eyes wide.

  Waving something shiny in his hand, Charley stomped across the floor and kicked at a tin coffee cup. “I can't believe it."

  Ralph rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Was he the one who spooked my horse? And gave me this sore back?"

  “What's wrong?” Jimmy John's head moved back and forth between the angry, pacing men. “What did I miss?"

  “I shoulda knowed by the way he fought.” Charley made a sound deep in his throat and spat on the dirt floor in disgust. “A damned marshal!"

  Jazzy sucked in a breath, her chest tight. Slade was a lawman?

  Her knees melted to jelly and she dropped onto a nearby bench. Her Slade—the man who cared enough to undress her slowly, carefully removing each article of clothing and kissing her skin alive. The man who brought her body to the highest fever pitch she'd ever enjoyed.

  A marshal? The sworn enemy of parlor ladies everywhere. Her skin cooled like she stood outdoors in January during a blue norther.

  How could he have hidden this important fact? He'd spoken sweet words about her eyes, her hair, her body. For pity's sake, the man recited poetry to her. Had the man who'd been so playful and attentive have another reason—

  Mercy! Her hand gripped the table edge and she barely registered the pain of the rough-hewn planks. He'd hinted at his identity. When he'd first put on the handcuffs, she'd teased about what game they'd play. He'd suggested the sheriff and the bank robber. But as wrapped up in the excitement as she was, she hadn't really paid attention to his words.

  What a fool she'd been. He hadn't come to her room in response to anything she'd said. He'd come because he thought she might be the woman in the wanted poster.

  Suddenly her blood ran hot. Slade Thomas thought she was a common thief. The nerve of that rat!

  * * * *

  Slade trudged along one side of the bandit's runaway horse, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. With each step, pain like a pounding hammer shot through the inside of his skull. He clenched his jaw, tasting grit in his teeth, and tried to think only about getting this pitiful group to safety.

  On the other side of the horse, Mr. Denton struggled to keep up with the pace Slade set. When roused by the kid and the old man, Slade's worst suspicions had been verified. The bandits had taken the women and the stagecoach. Pete was weak from a gunshot wound high in his shoulder. The injured man was woozy and barely able to hold up his head, so Slade cinched him to the saddle horn. The boy rode behind, steadying Pete when he swayed in the saddle. He'd survive, if Slade got him to a doctor before he lost too much blood.

  “Pete, how're you doing?"

  A long silence, then a mumbled, “I'm all right,"

  “Do you need a rest?” As much as he hated to lose the time, Slade had to offer.

  “Nah.” His voice came out through clenched teeth. “Keep going. Ain't far now."

  From directly overhead, the sun beat down on Slade's dark hair, doubling the throbbing at the base of his skull. His shirt stuck to his skin in several places. He told himself his hand only rested on the horse's flank in case the boy started to tumble off. Getting this group to town was his first goal.

  Twenty minutes later, Chester pointed toward the horizon. “Hey, mister, I see a church."

  Slade squinted and spotted the rooftops of the same town they'd left that morning. Had only four hours passed since the coach had departed from the porch in front of Ella's boardinghouse? Seemed much longer.

  Pete straightened and feebly grappled with the knot binding him to the saddle. “Untie this."

  “Stop messing with the rope.” Slade's words croaked from a dry throat. “Don't want you falling off."

  “I can git there from here.” Pete looked straight at him and jerked his head back behind them. “You got more important matters to tend to."

  Relief cut through him at the possibility of the trip being shortened. “Are you sure?” He yanked at the rope, feeling the fibers give under his fingers.

  Mr. Denton came around the front of the horse, resting a hand against the horse's shoulder. “We'll go slow. The boy and I'll help him."

  “I'm thirsty,” whined Chester.

  Slade lifted the boy off the back of the horse and put a hand on Chester's shoulder. He couldn't imagine what thoughts the boy was having after seeing his mother abducted. “Not much longer before you'll be sitting at Ella's with a glass of cold milk in front of you.” He turned to help Pete slide down and braced him until his legs supported his weight.

  “Lean on me.” Mr. Denton slipped his arm around Pete's back. “And Chester, you get around to Pete's other side and let him rest a hand on your shoulder."

  They hesitated, watching Slade for a reaction.

  He coiled the rope and slung it over the saddle horn. Fearful of what the exertion would cause, he clamped his jaw and swung his leg over the horse. White light flashed behind his eyes and his stomach roiled with nausea. For several moments, he felt his heart pounding in his ears, then the sound faded.

  Leaning an arm on the saddle horn, he looked at the three figures before him. They looked shakier than the last maple leaf dangling from the branch at the onset of winter. Could he really leave them on their own to get to town?

  “Go on,” Pete urged. “I'll head straight for Sheriff Simmons's office and report the robbery. A posse will be on your tracks within the hour."

  “Appreciate this, Pete. Take your time and you should be fine.” He raised a hand in farewell and clucked to the horse. Once the horse turned to return the way they'd come, Slade's thoughts centered on how to find the women in this wide, open country. He'd have to go back to where he'd last seen the stagecoach and follow what tracks remained.

  The constant throb at the back of his head muddied his thoughts, but he couldn't afford the time for the pain to lessen. His duty demanded he track down the bandits. His heart demanded he rescue Jazzy. The memory of her stricken face and the way she struggled against her captor in his last seconds of awareness set his blood racing.

  What if the impetuous girl refused to cooperate with the bandits? Dread grabbed hold of his gut and twisted. Something told him she wouldn't keep silent about being abducted.

  What niggled at him, and couldn't be ignored, was the possibility he wouldn't succeed. Normally, he was pretty confident in his capabilities. Maybe the heat was getting to him, or the fact these bastards had beaten him once, or
the near impossibility of finding which direction they'd headed. His temple pounded with the rhythm of a carpenter's hammer and he fought to stay in the saddle.

  If he were honest, he'd have to admit he could be wasting his time and energy. Those women could be halfway to Mexico.

  Or they could already be dead.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 9

  The sun hung low in the sky, shading pink the clouds that hovered against the mountains. Slade squinted at the horizon and frustration tightened his jaw. Only two hours of daylight remained. He didn't want to think about the wild ideas those vermin might get after nightfall.

  Spotting a dark spiral of smoke, he coaxed the horse forward, the urgency to find Jazzy fueling his movements. Within a few hundred yards, the breeze carried the aroma of frying bacon to him.

  He'd found someone. And he hoped he'd interpreted the signs right.

  His fingers moved to his vest pocket stuffed with scraps from a green silk petticoat he'd picked up along the way.

  A trail left for him by one smart, resourceful girl. Every nerve in his body tingled with the thought of her being within his reach.

  Slade tied the horse to a bush and crept forward, the scent of the meat guiding him in the right direction. Eliminating the guard had been as simple as finding the guy snoozing in the shade of the tallest bush and whacking him over the head with a rock. At the moment, the guy was taking a longer nap than he'd originally planned.

  He figured this bunch hadn't pulled off many robberies and had relied on a single sentry. But underestimating them could be fatal. Slade moved cautiously over the uneven ground, his pistol drawn in his steady hand. When the house came into view, he stopped and scanned the terrain. A door and two windows were visible in the front. No one moved outside. To be safe, he dropped back and walked a wide circle, checking the area surrounding the house.

  The smell of biscuits and bacon grew stronger and his stomach rumbled. He tried not to think about how many hours had passed since the apple and biscuits he'd eaten for breakfast. For several minutes, he watched the back of the house, waiting for evidence of anyone checking through the windows or doors. Then he crept forward, using the lean-to stable and outhouse as cover. Instinct urged him forward, closer to Jazzy.