She managed a weak smile. She hadn't thought beyond her responsibility to tell Cord. How was she supposed to tell Lally? And Wes? How did she admit to the boy that she'd cost him his home and nearly robbed him of his family?
Something inside of her shriveled and died. She thought it must have been her courage.
"Thank you, Zack." She tried to work the croak from her voice. "You're very kind to offer your help. It's... more than I deserve."
"Naw." He gave her hand a firm squeeze. "You're like family to me, Fancy. 'Sides. I'm not forgetting that you saved every one of our lives at least once."
He withdrew his hand.
"Now I reckon you'll be wanting to rest. Try not to fret yourself sick again. Cord should be riding into town any day now. Maybe even tomorrow. Between the two of us, I betcha we can get him to see things your way."
He unfolded his long legs and rose. "I'll come back after dinner, if you want to talk more."
She nodded dutifully, until a second thought stopped her. "Er, no. I think I'd like to turn in early. Right after dinner."
"Okay." He touched her shoulder. "Reckon this is good night, then."
"Good night, Zack."
And good-bye.
She listened, her throat aching as his footsteps faded down the hall. If she had a single tear left, she would have shed it. Zack had all the tender chivalry of Cord. Wes had all the love of family. Between the three of them, the world was a kinder place to be a woman.
Someday, each of the Rawlins brothers would turn a lucky girl into a happy bride. She wished fervently that she could be Cord's.
Oh, Cord. How different my life would have been if I had fallen in love with you, not Diego, when I was eighteen.
Sighing, she pushed aside her futile dreams. She forced herself to rise, dragging her feet to the box of writing papers that Mrs. Applegate kept stocked for guests. Lowering herself heavily to the bed, she balanced the writing board across her lap and gazed blankly out the window. She could see the prairie stretching to the west in a rippling wave of burnt orange. Soon the sun would set. Soon Cord would return to knock on her door....
Her vision blurred. Blinking rapidly, she dipped her pen into the inkwell and began a shaky scrawl:
My dearest Cord,
I'm so sorry. You must think me cowardly to write, but I couldn't bring myself to face you. After reading this letter, I'm sure you'll agree that my leaving is for the best....
The sun was edging toward its zenith when Cord trotted Poco through the gate of Applegate's spread. He'd had a long two weeks of travel—Carson by way of Abilene. He supposed cities must be fine for some, but he'd never been one for the smell. That's why the fresh, clean scent of a windswept prairie was enough to bring a mist to his eyes.
That, and the thought that Fancy was waiting for him in the ranch house just ahead.
Poco, like any good pony, picked up his pace when he smelled oats and sweet hay. Soon they were in the yard, scattering chickens and dogs. As Cord stepped gratefully down to Texas soil, he heard the porch door slam. He glanced up to see Zack and Wes hurrying down the steps to greet him, just as they used to do as boys, when he'd ridden home from the war on an occasional leave. He smiled at the memory.
"Morning, boys."
They exchanged uneasy glances.
"Er... morning, Cord. How's that shoulder of yours?"
"Just fine, Zack. Thanks."
Wes hovered nervously at his elbow. "Glad to see you back so soon. Did you get the pardon?"
He nodded wearily, tapping his breast pocket. He'd gotten it all right. He'd had to raid a cathouse and catch the governor butt-naked, taking his pleasure from two—yes, two—whores, but he'd gotten Fancy's pardon, by God. Fortunately, Governor Underwood had a hankering to keep his office, and the election was only two weeks away.
Tossing Poco's reins over the rail, Cord tried to step around Zack. Wes squared off with him instantly.
"Uh... do you think you're fit for another ride, Cord?"
He quirked a brow at his youngest brother. Now there was a suspicious question if he'd ever heard one.
"If you've got something to tell me, son, you know I'd rather hear it straight."
Zack pulled a folded paper from his pocket and solemnly handed it to him. Cord frowned at the boy before dropping his gaze to the female handwriting on the page.
"She says she left us 'cause she thinks you blame her for the ranch burning down," Wes blurted out. "Something 'bout a book and a message."
Cord glanced up sharply from Fancy's guilt-ridden prose. So that was the matter?
Frustration welled hard and fast in his throat. Why on earth would he blame her, when Santana had threatened to torch the ranch on the night of the train robbery?
Cord crushed her letter in his fist. Yes, he knew about the message in the book. When he'd returned to Carson, the warden had shoved the book in his face, making nasty accusations. Upon studying the so-called cipher, Cord had found nothing to make him believe that Fancy had assisted in Santana's escape. Quite the contrary. The message had been laced with fearful platitudes. She'd been clearly worried that Santana would blame her for his capture and come to kill her. Why would she have wanted to help him escape?
Cord muttered an oath. If she had put a little more faith in him, none of this foolishness would ever have happened.
"When did she leave?"
" 'Bout dawn, best that we can figure."
"Six hours ago?" He glared at Wes, and the boy blushed. "And y'all didn't ride after her?"
"We tracked her to the station," Zack said hastily. "The master said she took the late morning stage to Dallas. She'd been asking lots of questions 'bout the fastest route to Abilene."
Cord's heart lurched. "Abilene?" He pulled off his hat, running a rough hand through his hair. "Jesus."
"Now don't get yourself in a lather, Cord," Wes said, patting his shoulder. "We'll find her. 'Course, you'll probably have to do some sweet talking to make her come back. Seems to me you could have saved us all a heap of trouble if you'd just gone and done it right the first time."
"Yeah?" He turned withering eyes on his kid brother. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"The way I figure it, Fancy would never have run off on you if you'd gone and told her you love her."
He stiffened, feeling the heat creep up his neck. "Well, of course I—"
He hesitated, biting his tongue. Maybe the boy had a point. He'd never really said he loved her in so many words. Between Santana, the robbery, the kidnapping, and her sickness, the timing had never seemed right. But surely Fancy knew he loved her. Didn't she?
Wes folded his arms across his chest. He was shaking his head in mock disgust. "Son," he said gravely, "it looks like you need to come to ol' Uncle Wes for advice on the womenfolk. Just like Zack does."
"Oh, yeah?" Zack turned a fiery shade of crimson. "And what makes you think you're such a sagebrush Romeo?"
"Just never you mind," Wes retorted loftily.
Cord might have laughed at their jesting if he wasn't so worried about Fancy. Did she know what she was getting herself into? Abilene, Kansas, made Hell's Half Acre look like a churchyard social. Damn that girl's wild streak. He should have hog-tied her back when he had the chance.
Squinting up at the sun, he refigured the hour to be closer to eleven. "What time did you say that stage left, Zack?"
"Around ten-thirty."
He shook his head and donned his hat. He supposed it could have been worse, but a half-hour's start would be hard to beat.
"You are riding after her, aren't you, Cord?" Zack asked, his gaze growing dark with reproach. "'Cause it wouldn't mean the same to her if Wes and me brought her back. She's hurting real bad, thinking you can never forgive her. But you ought to know the girl you arrested at the Diamondback ain't the same girl who rode off this ranch."
Cord blinked, stunned by Zack's scolding. After a moment of reflection, though, he recognized concern, not anger, in the boy's words. App
arently Fancy had won Zack over.
Cord smiled to himself. He had been a little worried about the way the two of them were getting along. He'd even begun to wonder how he was going to tell Zack there would soon be a new Mrs. Cord Rawlins.
"Reckon you're right, son," he said solemnly.
Wes was grinning from ear to ear. "Well, Marshal, it looks like you got another lady renegade to bring in." He saluted smartly, clicking his heels. "Deputy Rawlins reporting for duty, sir!"
The tension eased from Zack's shoulders. He smiled. "Make that two deputies, sir."
Cord felt his lips twitch. Well, now. A 'sir' from each of them, and on the same day. He just might get used to this deputy stuff.
He flipped two bits at them both. "'Fraid I don't have any badges. But you can consider yourselves sworn in now."
They caught the substitute tin-stars, their eyes shining with eagerness.
"Mount up, men," he said in his gruffest, long-rider voice. He tipped his hat brim to hide his smile. "We're going to catch ourselves a woman."
* * *
Fancy gazed gloomily out the window, gritting her teeth with each bounce of the poorly sprung stage. Every now and then she had to grab her hat to keep it from flying off and getting lost forever in a hail of earth. The dust was almost unbearable. Thank heaven she'd thought to buy a veil with the money she won—squarely, for once—in a poker game at the Diamondback. She had piddled away most of the morning there, waiting more than three hours for her coach's axle to be repaired.
In truth, she had bought the veil because she feared she might encounter her wanted poster at the train depot. Unfortunately, her notoriety caught up with her long before Dallas. The fifth passenger had no sooner wedged her into the last fifteen inches of seat space on the stage, when a gangly, pale-complected man clambered aboard. At the time, she hadn't observed him too keenly—preachers never held much interest for her. But he'd caught her attention an hour or so later when he began a blistering denunciation of rail travel.
"I assure you, brothers," he said as they rolled past the laborers who were laying tracks toward Fort Worth, "a railroad is not the godsend you might think. I for one shall never trust body or limb to a train! Why, shortly after Christmas, I was Carson-bound when my train was derailed by a gang of Barbary Coast cutthroats and their vicious soiled dove! I cannot begin to describe to you, my friends, how truly decadent was that daughter of Jezebel. She shot and looted with the rapacity of a corsair. And when acts of savagery were committed against us passengers, she looked on with fiendish glee!"
Fancy grimaced at the memory.
Naturally, after Parson Brown had delivered that sermon, she'd kept her face turned religiously to the window. She supposed she deserved every word, but she had trouble comparing herself to the "corsair" of the robbery. The girl who had lived by guts and wits back then had since learned she owned a heart.
It was true: She had become a new person. She never imagined it would be possible, but then, she had never dreamed a man like Cord Rawlins would come into her life. His tender caring had turned her around. He had given her a chance to know real loving. She wished she could thank him and show him how she'd changed.
Was it still too late to pray for a miracle?
She was almost tempted to ask Parson Brown that question, but the gentleman was leaning out the opposite window and wringing his hands.
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear me. Riders seem to be following us."
Fancy squinted into the blaze of late afternoon. Hazy ripples of heat rose from the dust, distorting the scrub brush landscape, but she had to admit that the old man's spectacles were not conjuring mirages. There were, in fact, three horsemen. Galloping hell-for-leather out of the west, they were slowly gaining on the coach.
"Gentlemen, this is most unusual, is it not?" Brown asked the other passengers in a high, quavering voice. "Why would riders be following the stage? Do you think...? Oh, good gracious me! Do you think they could be road agents?"
Well, that would certainly be ironic, Fancy thought. She shaded her eyes and turned back to the road. She had committed countess thefts before, but she had never been the victim of one.
"They've come within rifle range," another passenger observed with considerably more calm than the preacher. "Since they haven't started shooting yet, they're probably just wild young cowpokes, racing the stage for a lark."
Fancy hoped he was right. Her new life was going to be bleak enough without Cord. She didn't need a robbery to start it off.
Suddenly, something metallic flashed on the middle rider's vest. She decided the object couldn't possibly be a button; he was wearing it too far to the left. In fact, he was wearing it above his heart, as if it were a...
As if it were a tin-star!
"Goddammit, reinsman, pull up," bellowed that stocky middle rider. "I'm a federal marshal. I got business with the lady in the coach!"
Cord! Her heart soared and then, just as quickly, sank. He'd said "business." What kind of business? Had something gone wrong in Nevada?
The driver must have heard him. Amid the clamor of cursing, neighing, and the screeching of brakes, the stage slowed down. Soon the riders were abreast of each window. Wes grinned, waving gaily at her, before he galloped to the front of the team and grabbed the lead harness.
"Whoa!"
Fancy's pulse was speeding so fast she could scarcely breathe. She sank back against her seat. Six speculative pairs of male eyes drilled into her from every corner of the coach. She cringed, thankful for her veil.
Abruptly the door was jerked open. Cord stood glaring up at her, a fist on each hip.
"And just where do you think you're going, footloose?"
She wanted to laugh but nearly cried. He looked so angry, but she didn't care. Even angry, he was still a welcome sight.
Oh, Cord. Cord. I never thought I would see you again.
"You'd best get down off of that coach, 'cause you don't want me coming in there after you."
Was he jesting? She bit her lip. He didn't look like he was jesting.
She placed shaking fingers in the hand he offered her. His grip was firm and reassuring, despite the sternness of his features. Confused by his mixed message, she stepped down and retrieved her hand. "Am I under arrest?"
"You bet you are."
She swallowed, her heart careening. She had hoped for his denial because she wanted to throw her arms around his neck.
"I see." She forced the lump from her throat. "Forgive me, Marshal, but this all comes as quite a surprise. You see, I thought I was pardoned and—and free to go." She hiked her chin. "What are the charges against me this time?"
"Running out on your man."
She blinked dumbly. She had never heard of such a thing.
Then she heard a snicker—undoubtedly Wes's—and she glimpsed Zack, smiling and shaking his head.
She caught her breath. Was she being humbugged?
Cord swept back her veil. "Well, I'm your man, right?" he growled.
The light in those green eyes was like a burst of sunshine to her soul. She felt dizzy in the sudden flood of warmth that flowed through every fiber of her being.
"Yes," she whispered, half-afraid that speaking would somehow rob her of her dream come true. "You are my man."
"And you love me, don't you?"
She blinked, her vision turning watery. "Oh, yes."
"Well, you've got a damned fine way of showing it." His dimples peeked at last, belying the gruffness of his tone. "And I'm getting mighty tired of chasing you down, woman. This time, I'm bringing you in for good. Preacher!"
Brown jumped so hard, his spectacles bounced on his nose. "Er... yes, Marshal?"
"Get your book and come here. I've got a job for you."
"But—"
"You'd best do as he says, Preacher," Zack said gravely, unlatching the coach's other door and swinging it wide. Brown quailed to see the youth towering over him with a rifle in his hand. He scrambled to the ground, hurrying around the r
ear of the coach to join Cord.
"Marshal!" He gasped, his eyes bugging out when he got his first good look at Fancy. His cheeks mottled to a wrathful crimson. "Do you know who this woman is?"
Cord shot him a look that made the parson's Adam's apple bob a half-dozen times. "Damned straight I do. She's the woman I love. Got that?"
Her knees went weak to hear the words.
Cord turned to her, and his features softened. "I do love you, Fancy." He caught her face between his hands. "And I don't plan on ever letting you forget that."
"Oh, Cord." A tear slid down her cheek. "But I cost you your home. Can you ever forgive me?"
His eyes grew a misty meadow green. "There's nothing to forgive, sweetheart. There never was. The things Santana did can never be laid at your door."
A bubble of joy floated to her brain.
"Fancy Holleday, I love you," he said loud enough for every passenger to hear. "And I want you to marry me. Right here. Right now. Will you be my wife?"
Happiness fizzed like cherry sarsaparilla through her veins. She nodded, too dazed to speak.
Brown had a conniption fit.
"I protest!" he cried. "Marshal, I cannot condone a marriage under such circum—"
"Yeah? Well, I'm the lawman, padre, and I say the circumstances are legal. Binding too. Open your book."
Wes grinned, coming to her left side and giving her hand a squeeze. Zack crossed to Cord's right and winked at her.
Brown raised a mutinous chin. "This is all highly irregular. Highly irregular, and I cannot—"
Suddenly, he was staring down the barrels of three guns. He gulped, turning whiter than his collar. With all those dizzy bubbles dancing in her brain, Fancy nearly giggled. The poor man! No doubt he was making history. This was probably the first wedding on record where the preacher—not the groom—was standing under the gun.
"Er... since you put it that way, gentlemen." He glared at them all. "Very well." Clearing his throat, Brown opened his book and smoothed a page. "Dearly beloved—"
"Aw, hell, Preacher, speed it along," the driver grumbled. "I got a run to make, you know."
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