The Rustler's Bride

by Tatiana March

  The fair haired outlaw made no reply. Instead, he adjusted her torn shirt, buttoned up her coat and smoothed down her hair, as gentle and efficient as a mother dressing a toddler. Through all his ministrations, he kept up a distracting stream of chatter, slowly bringing her out of the terror that had left her shaken. To finish off, he found her hat on the ground, beat it back into shape and propped it on her head. Then he helped her up on her horse.

  She stole one more glance at the other men. Two, a stocky Mexican and a tall Anglo with a missing front tooth were casting mean looks in her direction, as if resentful of having been cheated out of their entertainment. The rest seemed to have accepted the outcome and were occupied with dinner preparations. A fire already cracked in a circle of stones.

  “Will you take me home?” she asked.

  The outlaw leader hesitated, turned to survey his men. “Watch the smoke,” he called out to the one in charge of the fire. “It’s still light enough see it from a distance.” He glanced back at her and gave a small shrug, as if to say, what the hell, come what may. “All right,” he said, and then he called out once more, with the sharp ring of a command in his voice. “Be packed and ready to ride out in an hour.”

  Then he vaulted into the saddle and escorted her home. By now, the fear that had numbed her earlier had mellowed into excitement that tingled on her skin. She kept her horse to a walk, wanting to postpone their parting. Step by step the distance fell away, and soon they were on the outskirts of the ranch. Just before they got close enough to risk being seen from the stable yard, the outlaw curled one hand over her horse’s reins to halt her.

  He gave her a warm, slow smile that crinkled his blue eyes at the corners. Reaching out a hand, he brushed his fingers through her dark tresses that had broken free from their braid. He spoke quietly, his eyes searching her face, as if to memorize her features. “Maybe one day it will be your turn to help me. All I ask for now is that you’ll dream of me tonight. Dream of me, the way a girl dreams of a sweetheart. Will you do that for me?”

  “Yes,” she promised, her lashes demurely lowered.

  After they parted, Victoria continued to the stable yard and dismounted. She took her time looking after her horse. Be ready to ride out in an hour, she’d heard the outlaw leader say. She wanted to give him a little longer, to make sure he got away.

  When she finally walked into the house, her clothes dusty and torn, her face streaked with tears, her father greeted her with an explosive mix of terror and relief and anger. He locked her up in her room while the ranch hands rode after the rustlers, but by then the gang of thieves had made their escape.

  That night, when Victoria prepared for bed, she noticed that she’d lost the strip of cornflower blue silk that had been twined into her braid.

  Now, beside her, Declan Beaulieu broke the silence. “I want my blue ribbon back.”

  “I believe it’s mine,” Victoria replied.

  Before they had taken their vows in front of the preacher beneath the hanging oak, she had tied the ribbon into a bow that she had attached to the collar of her blouse. It was the only decoration she had worn for her wedding, apart from the small pink desert weed the preacher had taken the trouble to pluck from the ground and offer to her. The bride and groom, like the rest of the wedding party, had remained on horseback, and the judge had stayed in his buggy.

  When Declan Beaulieu spoke again, his voice was so low she could barely hear his words. “As you wish,” he said. “I guess I don’t need a ribbon to remind me of you anymore. After all, you’re my wife now. To have and to hold. To love and to honor.”

  “To cherish and obey,” she added in a tone of sarcasm, meant to emphasize that theirs was a marriage in name only.

  “That’s a fair deal,” he replied. “If you obey, I might be willing to cherish.”

  ****

  Declan studied Victoria Sinclair from the corner of his good eye. It seemed to him that he had spent much of the past decade trying to catch a glimpse of her. In the beginning, he had wondered if the girl might be the key to destroying Andrew Sinclair. Then, a few years later, when he’d caught the gang of thugs he employed preparing to rape her, he had accepted that he could never sink as low as using a woman to achieve his revenge.

  He’d continued to keep an eye on her, had seen her grow from a tomboy in pigtails and canvas overalls into a beautiful woman full of spirit and adventure. He’d seen her canter on horseback through a summer storm, her head thrown back, long dark hair rippling in the wind behind her, arms raised toward the sky as the heavy raindrops pelted down her, soaking her clothing until it molded to every curve of her body.

  When he learned she’d gone away to school, he’d waited for her to return.

  But he had not expected to be hanging at the end of a rope when he saw her again.

  “Here comes trouble,” he heard her mutter now.

  Ahead of them, a magnificent black stallion streaked along, the rider moving in unison with the animal. Andrew Sinclair. Declan knew no one else was allowed to ride the stallion. Rearing to a halt as he reached them, Victoria’s father whirled around and lined his mount alongside his daughter’s palomino mare, matching his pace to their slow walk.

  “What in devil’s name have you done?” he roared.

  Victoria raised her brows, appearing unruffled, but on her slender neck, just above the blue silk ribbon that decorated the collar of her blouse, Declan could see the nervous ripple of her throat that revealed the extent of her anxiety.

  “That’s quick,” she remarked to her father in a cool tone. “Who told you?”

  “O’Malley rode by to gloat.” Andrew Sinclair urged his horse forward, charging past them, and then he turned the black stallion sideways and came to a halt, blocking their path on the narrow desert trail, forcing them to a stop.

  Declan had never seen his enemy so close before, but he knew the man’s features as well as his own. Sinclair was tall, but lean and wiry, and very dark. With slashing brows, and hollow cheeks that were already at midday shadowed with coal black stubble, he possessed looks that seemed almost satanic in their brooding intensity.

  His pewter gray eyes narrowed on Declan. “And who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Declan Beaulieu,” he replied, and then he added, “My folks are from Kansas.” The information triggered no reaction in Sinclair. The corners of Declan’s bruised lips curled into a sneer of irony. The man whose downfall he had spent the best part of a decade plotting didn’t even know who he was.

  Finished with his inspection, Sinclair returned his attention to his daughter. “Why, Ria?” he asked in a tone that could be best described as pleading.

  Declan hid his surprise, both at the tone and the name.

  Not Vicky. Not Tory. Ria. It suited the girl. It had a wild and untamed feel to it, just as she did. And yet, when he looked at her now, he could see little of the wildness that had enchanted him so much in the past. He saw a lady in corset and gloves, and wondered if two years of education might have the power to stifle a woman’s spirit.

  “You can’t rescue every wounded critter,” Sinclair was telling the girl. “He’s not a stray dog, or a mangy cat, or a lame donkey. He is a man, and you married her.”

  “I couldn’t let him die.”

  “And why not?” Sinclair returned. Calmer now, he set his stallion into motion again and moved aside to free up the trail, taking his place next to the girl. They resumed their journey through the desert scrub and clumps of cacti.

  “What about Senator Botheridge?” Sinclair asked. “Or that railroad magnate, or the English earl? They are all waiting for your answer. What will you tell them now? That you can’t marry them because you married an outlaw?”

  “He’s the one, father. The one who rescued me when I was fifteen and those men were going to rape me. If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead, or in such disgrace that I’d want to be.”

  “You fool.” Sinclair’s voice was harsh. “He’s a criminal. Those thugs who
tried to rape you were working for him. For all you know, he might have set them on you and then pretended to rescue you in order to gain your trust.”

  The words spilled out of Declan before he had time think. “I’d never use a woman like that. And I didn’t ask her to help me now. The marriage was her idea. Hers alone. I had no part in it, except giving my name and saying the words when prompted by the preacher.”

  Sinclair shot another sour glare at him. “You stole fifty head of my cattle.”

  The girl cut in. “It’s done, father, and it’s legal.”

  Sinclair turned to his daughter. “Just tell me one thing, Ria?” The pleading tone was back in his voice. “All those years, when you took such an interest in my work on the town council, is this what you had in mind? That one day this young devil might have a noose around his neck and you’d want to spare him? Was it all about the being able to use the marriage ordinance?”

  “No.” She squared her shoulders, offended by the accusation. “Transcribing your notes was something I could do for you, to work with you. I’m not calculating enough to use my love for you as a tool for scheming.” She darted another glance at her father from beneath her lashes. “I hope the same applies to you,” she added curtly. “I’m not a pawn. I hope you were not counting on me to marry a rich man to help you in your empire building.”

  Sinclair gave a muttered denial, but Declan could see a guilty expression flicker across his dark, saturnine features. “All right, Ria,” he said finally. “If paying back your debt to his young man is so important to you, this is what I’ll allow. You can let the marriage stand. In name only. One year. Then we’ll arrange an annulment. You must write to the senator and the earl and the railroad magnate and tell them we’ve suffered a death in the family. You’re in mourning, unable to think about committing to a betrothal. In a year from now, they’ll be able to renew their offers, and then you’ll make your choice.”

  She gave a small, tight nod and said, “Thank you, father.”

  Irritation rippled over Declan at Sinclair’s casual declaration of how it all would end. Idiot, he told himself. What do you think she expected when she married you? True love and happiness? She wanted to save your sorry hide, and that’s all it was.

  “Is that blue roan stolen or does it belong to you?” Sinclair asked him.

  “It’s mine,” Declan replied. “He’s called Vali.” He’d found the name in a book that had belonged to his Norwegian grandmother. It was the Norse god of revenge.

  “And the saddle?” Sinclair asked.

  “Mine.”

  “Take the horse to the stables. I want my blacksmith, Abe Leatherhorn, to look over the animal before letting it mix with the others. Find yourself a bed in the bunkhouse. Married to my daughter or not, I expect you to work for your keep.”

  Victoria made a sound of protest. “Not the bunkhouse, father. He’s supposed to be my husband. We’ll have to keep up some level of appearances. Otherwise Sheriff Weston and his deputies might have second thoughts about letting him live.”

  Sinclair considered. “All right, Ria,” he said finally. “This is what we’ll do. He can sleep in the empty maid’s room downstairs, behind the kitchen. He’ll take his breakfast and noon meal in the cookhouse with the hands. At dinnertime, he can come into the house. I’ll see how his table manners are before I decide if he has to eat from a tray in his room or if he gets to sit at the table.”

  “Thank you, father.”

  “That suit you, Beaulieu?”

  “That’s fine, sir.” The respectful reply came of its own accord. Declan gritted his teeth. He’d better not forget that Andrew Sinclair was responsible for the suffering his parents, Barbara and Louis Beaulieu, and that his only goal in life was to avenge their untimely deaths.

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Two

  Declan sprawled the narrow brass bed, stripped to the waist, the top button on his denim pants undone, his feet dangling over the end of the mattress. His new lodgings had turned out to be a feminine sanctuary, with sweet smelling sachets in the oak chest, lace trimmed pillows on the bed, and a chair so dainty it groaned under his weight when he sat down to remove his boots.

  The remains his dinner—beef stew and apple pie—sat on a tray beside him, largely uneaten because his appetite had deserted him.

  He’d spent the afternoon meeting the ranch hands. Not counting the blacksmith and the small, garrulous Cookie, there were seven men—two blacks, two Mexican, and three Anglos. The number was even lower than he’d expected. It might cost him a gold piece every time he spoke to Howard Peterson at the United Savings Bank, but the information he’d received had been worth every penny because it had proved accurate. It was clear that Andrew Sinclair could no longer afford to hire men or maids.

  Declan got up, his bare feet soundless on the timber floor, and opened the shutters to watch the stars glitter in the evening sky as he mulled over the final stages of his revenge plan. A heavy sigh rumbled out of his chest—a torn, indecisive sound. Without Victoria Sinclair, his attempts to ruin her father would now be buried in a crude pine box alongside with him.

  He owed his life to her.

  Surely, he should forget the past.

  Forgive and forget.

  No.

  The denial sprang up in his mind, swift and vehement. He suppressed the feelings of guilt over his lack of gratitude. He was so close to achieving his goal. He couldn’t afford to become distracted now. And yet, he could not silence the doubts that whispered through his mind. Victoria, Victoria, why did you do it? Why did you save me? Why didn’t you let them string me up at the end of a rope? For that would have saved your father from losing everything he’s worked his whole life to build up.

  A knock on the door jolted him out of his morose thoughts. Declan eyed his shirt on the bedpost. Leaving it there, he strode to the door and flung it open. It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Flynn. An Irishwoman in her fifties, she was so generously proportioned at the bust and at the hips that every inch of her seemed to wobble as she walked.

  “Mr. Beaulieu?” she breathed. “Oh, my…” She fell silent, her green eyes staring at his naked chest.

  Declan glanced down. Only a dim light burned in the room, but a glow from the lantern in the corridor fell on the ridged expanse of rib and muscle. Beneath the scattering of light brown hair on his chest, dark bruises fought for space with angry red welts and healing scars.

  “Sorry.” Declan scooted back, snagged his shirt from the bedpost and tugged it over his head, wincing at the pain in his ribs. “I didn’t expect—”

  A coy, feminine voice cut him off. “No need to apologize. I’m not too old to look.” The green eyes twinkled. “I came to tell you that Mr. Sinclair wants to see you in the library.” The housekeeper peered past him, over to the bedside. The light in her eyes faded. “No good, then, my stew?” she said and shuffled forward to collect the dinner tray.

  Declan had learned that Mrs. Flynn kept the house clean and cooked for the family. The men got their meals in the cookhouse. The housekeeper was engaged in a friendly rivalry with Cookie—real name Grizzly Norris—who was a small man with a rounded belly that proved at least one person enjoyed the meals he prepared, even though the men claimed the name Grizzly came from the texture of the meat he served.

  “No, it was good.” Declan hesitated. “It’s just that I’m…not hungry.”

  The woman pursed her lips, her good humor returning. “A hanging might do that to a man.” She glanced at his chest again. “Or a beating.” She gathered the tray and retreated toward the door. “Mr. Sinclair,” she reminded him as she brushed by him. “In the library.” When Declan failed to react, she added an emphatic, “Now.”

  Declan waited until the housekeeper was out of sight. Then he pulled on his boots, tucked in his shirt, and made his way through the quiet house. On two floors, the place was built of adobe bricks that kept the interior cool even in the August heat. Dusty velvet drapes bordered the windows,
some of which had cobwebs around the shutters—an indication that they hadn’t been opened in weeks. The place already had an abandoned feel, as if it could sense the calamity that awaited its owner.

  Declan paused in the galleried hall where a timber staircase led up to the bedrooms. Searching for the library, he surveyed the doors that gave into cool, shadowed rooms filled with heavy furniture in dark wood. Only one door was closed. Declan knocked on it.

  “Come in,” a masculine voice called out.

  He found Sinclair seated by an unlit stone fireplace, lounging in a huge leather armchair. His booted feet were propped on a low cowhide stool. A bottle of whiskey and a pair of shot glasses stood on the small circular table by his elbow. In the far end of the room, Victoria sat behind an oak desk that had seen better days. She was hunched over a document, writing with a careful hand. She glanced up as Declan entered, nodded to acknowledge his presence, and resumed her task.

  “Sit down.” Sinclair swung his feet down, sat up in the seat, and gestured at another chair across the blackened mouth of the stone chimney.

  Declan did as he was told.

  “So, Beaulieu, you said you’re from Kansas?”

  Declan nodded.

  “My wife was from Kansas. A farmer’s daughter.”

  Declan showed no reaction. He hadn’t known.

  Sinclair nodded toward the unshuttered window where a glimmer of moonlight cast a pale glow over the desert landscape. “She’s buried up on the hillside.”

  Declan gave another nod. That, he had known.

  “She died a few years after we came out to the Arizona Territory. Influenza.” Sinclair shook his head, a faraway look in his pewter eyes. “She’d survived snakebite in Texas and lived through bringing this hellion into the world.” He jerked his head toward Victoria. “I knew she could never give me another child, so even when she lived I put all my hopes in this one. And after my wife died, my daughter is all I’ve got.”