Nat froze.
Heather’s terror stricken face swam before him, making it all flood back; the stage driver’s angry shouts, sudden blasts of gunfire that sent them catapulting forward, and finally the white hot light before he sank into oblivion. He awakened to the acrid smell of gunpowder and a pain in his skull so severe, when he’d stumbled from the coach he retched until his guts met his throat.
He could feel the bile rising now, remembering Heather lying broken and bloody in the sand.
His hand seemed to slide to his Colt of its own accord.
A loud crack snapped him back to reality.
He looked up to find Hank slumped over, chin resting on his barrel-sized chest. Blood dripped from a small cut on his forehead. He was out cold.
“He never was too smart.” Holt said, holstering his pistol.
Nat’s rage slowly receded.
His gaze followed Holt as he headed back up the ridge.
Nat took a deep breath, attempting to push the dull ache of grief away.
A familiar coldness seeped back in.
He unbuckled his holster, then lay down on his bedroll, cursing himself for losing control.
But when he closed his eyes, the memories seeped back. Drew came to him in his dreams, as he had a thousand times, lying on the battlefield, head cradled in Nat’s lap. Blood leaked from his grey uniform like red sap, soaking Nat’s blue wool trousers. ‘Take care of Heather for me,’ he whispered between ragged breaths. “She’s all alone. Promise me … ”
“I promise,” Nat told him, trying to blink back the hot tears pricking his eyes. Cannons boomed overhead amongst a blur of screams and shouts while the hole in Drew’s lung sucked his life out.
Nat awoke in a sweat — heart banging in his chest.
The howl of a coyote echoed in the emptiness, drawing his eyes to the fire.
Somewhere in the darkness its mate called back in answer.
Nat drew in a long cool breath of sagebrush-soaked air, feeling the tightness leave his chest.
Reality returned.
The snort of Hank’s intermittent snores shook the remnants of macabre from Nat’s brain.
Time to relieve Holt.
Nat stood to buckle his holster.
As he made his way up the side of the ridge, Heather’s face flashed in his mind once again. He’d tried to love her the way he was supposed to — God help him, he had. But growing up as neighbors, she’d always been more like a sister to him.
He’d hoped bringing her to California to start fresh would change his feelings for her somehow. But in the end, all he’d done was put her in danger. All the worry, all the arguing with his father had been for nothing. In the end, he’d failed to protect her. He’d let Drew down.
He pushed the old memories away as he climbed the ridge.
He found Holt lounging against a pine with his rifle across his lap.
“Go ahead, get some sleep,” Nat said. “I’ll take over from here.”
“We might as well both get some sleep.” Holt rose to his feet. “Looks like they’re not coming. If I had a brother like Hank, I’d just as soon let him hang.”
“He may be dumb as a stump, but he’s still their brother.”
“It’s hard to believe the Everetts could have tender feelings for anyone.”
“Even a pack of wolves protect their own.”
“I thought you were an only child.”
“I am.” An image of Drew clutching his hand, hanging on to life until he gave his promise, appeared as vividly as it had in his dream. “But blood is thicker than water,” he said repeating the old saying with a wry smile. There had been no blood ties between him and Drew, just a childhood friendship. But Nat had loved him like a brother. Even after five years, he felt his loss like a dull blade. “Don’t worry, they’ll come.”
“As stupid as Hank is, he’s right about one thing. We don’t have a witness this time. Not unless we get our hands on Cecil and you let the Wallace girl testify.”
“There were plenty of witnesses when Hank killed Fred Hornsby in Sacramento.”
“Yeah, and Maggie’s itching to testify against Billy for killing one of her whores.” Holt gave a low chuckle. “But Sacramento’s a long ride off. Too bad that barber in Virginia City didn’t have any friends. Everyone we questioned at the saloon closed up tighter than a clam.”
“Might have had something to do with him pulling teeth on the side.”
Holt chuckled.
But they both knew the real reason. Everyone in Virginia City had heard about the last witness gunned down in Carson. They were scared. The only one brave enough to stand up to the Everetts was Christie Wallace — a wisp of a gal and an Easterner to boot — too green and foolish to know any better.
• • •
Christie pursed her lips in annoyance when the bell on the door jingled. It wasn’t right to begrudge business when you were minding a store, but she was tired of running up and down that ladder. One more shelf and the storeroom would be completely organized.
She heaved a sigh.
Oh well, what did efficiency matter, if you didn’t have the money to keep the doors open.
She grabbed a handful of blue poplin skirt to step daintily down the ladder. When her feet hit the floor, she lifted a hand to her kerchief to check for cobwebs. Gad! She must be a sight. She wiped her hands on her apron as she came through the door. “Flossie!” Christie halted in the doorway.
There were dark smudges under Flossie’s eyes. Her red satin gown looked creased and wrinkled, as though she’d scrambled into it in hurry. “I came to see Leigh,” she blurted breathlessly. “Is he here?”
“No, I’m afraid he isn’t. He and Uncle Will have gone with Mr. Pike to collect a load of lumber. I don’t expect them back until late.”
“Oh dear!” Flossie’s face crumpled. Her shoulders slumped to such an extent, Christie feared she might sink to the floor.
Christie had no choice but to ignore Leigh’s warning and help the poor creature. After all, if he wanted her to stay out of his business he should have minded it better himself. “Come with me into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Flossie appeared much calmer after she’d settled in the spindled chair by the woodstove.
Christie pressed a tin mug of tea into her hands. “You could tell me what’s troubling you. Perhaps I can help.”
“That’s awful kind of you, but it’s Leigh I need to talk to.” Flossie shook her head. “There’s something I need to explain, something I did last night.”
“I can’t be that bad.” Christie reached over to press one of her hands. “I’m sure if you apologize, all will be well.”
“I don’t know.” Flossie’s lips quivered as she pushed a stray chocolate curl back under her bonnet. “When I refused to let him come upstairs last night, he was powerful angry. I think he knew.”
Christie dreaded to hear more details than necessary, but in light of the precipitous silence that followed and Flossie’s hopeless expression, the words fell from her lips with a reluctant thud, “Knew what?”
“That I had someone in my room.”
“Oh.” Christie’s cheeks flamed at the implication. “I think Leigh understands your occupation — that you need to make a living.”
“Oh, he understands that alright, but he might not understand me entertaining an old beau.” Flossie’s tone turned confidential. “You see, customers are different. You take them upstairs, do what has to be done, and then they pay.”
Christie blinked hard, trying to maintain an expression of mild concern. She couldn’t believe she was sitting in her uncle’s kitchen discussing customers with a whore. “But this wasn’t a customer?”
“No.” She heaved a sigh. “He was the fella you saw in t
he alley that day.”
“Oh!” Christie didn’t attempt to disguise her amazement. And to think she’d almost gone to the sheriff on Flossie’s behalf. “I thought you’d washed your hands of him?”
Flossie squirmed a little in her seat. “I tried. Really I did! But he has a way about him that makes it real hard to say no.”
“You should have gone to the sheriff. He would have helped you.”
“I didn’t want to get him into trouble!”
Christie shook her head, completely baffled. “I don’t understand. If this man was threatening you, why didn’t you tell someone?”
“It’s not like that. He cares for me, you see.” Flossie’s tone saddened. “And I guess I care for him too. It just never worked out. It’s hard to explain, but there are some people that you’re just drawn to whether they’re good for you or not.” Flossie looked away, shamefaced. “You probably think I’m fickle or daft in the head.”
“No, no I don’t.” Christie smiled ruefully. It was the precise way she felt about Nat Randall. He’d left an indelible mark on her from the first time his cool blue eyes raked over her, and though she fought against it, her pulse never failed to quicken at the sight of him. The touch of his lips could make her go wild — turn her into a wanton.
Just thinking about him now made her lips tingle. Thank goodness he was gone. If he hadn’t left when he did, there was no telling what she might have done.
“Anyway, he’s gone now.” Flossie took another gulp of tea. “It’s not likely I’ll see him again.”
“If that’s true, I see no reason for you to tell Leigh.”
“Oh … ” Flossie brightened. “Do you think so?”
“Of course.”
“You’re right. I mean, why should I hurt him if I don’t have to.” Flossie sprang to her feet. “You know, I feel so much better now.” She held out the tin mug with a sunny smile. “Thank you for the tea. I’m much obliged. My word! This was better than going to confession. Shorter, I’m thinkin’. I haven’t been there in a spell.”
Christie couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re welcome.”
She was still struggling to digest the fact that they shared the same religion when the bell on the front door gave a riotous jingle.
“Yoo hoo!” A high melodic voice hailed.
Oh no!
Mrs. Poole.
What on earth was she doing here, this time of day?
Her tongue would surely wag when she clamped eyes on Flossie. It might be acceptable to procure employment under the guise of charity for someone like Flossie, but it was quite another matter to have her to tea. Christie’s chagrin must have shown on her face.
“Don’t worry, I’ll let myself out the back.” Flossie gave a wink and a wave, then disappeared down the stairs like a bright cardinal, used to hiding its plumage from bigger birds that might gobble it up.
Christie raised her eyes heavenward in thanks, then flushed at the weakness of her own pride.
Thankfully Mrs. Poole had only come to purchase a half pound of peppermints.
“It wouldn’t do to let the jar go empty,” she declared, shuffling for the door. “They come in for a peppermint, but they always leave with a hat.”
“Perhaps we should try that.” Christie followed behind her to see her out.
Mrs. Poole turned with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You’re the peppermint here. I dare say Will’s patronage has doubled since you came to town.”
Christie put a hand to the red kerchief covering her coronet of braids. “I don’t know about that.” She smelled more like a soap-flake than a peppermint.
“Oh dear, I almost forgot.” Mrs. Poole reached into her pocket. “Mr. Brooker asked me to give you this. It arrived a few days back, but somehow got mislaid.”
Christie scanned the outside of the envelope. It was from Meagan. A thrill rushed through her. Very casually she slipped the letter into her pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole. Have a good day!” She waved cheerily to the older woman, trying to control her wayward limbs that all of sudden wanted to dance. When Mrs. Poole had moved a good distance away, Christie raced inside to the storeroom to sit down on the cot.
One quick slide of her fingernail and the flap flew opened. A faint scent of lavender drifted up as she unfolded the paper inside.
My dearest Christie,
Father is still in Charleston, but Robby looks in on us every day. He is so very kind. He took us to the ice-cream shop last evening, and has promised Evie a trip to the theatre if Miss Elliot pronounces her lessons sound. I blush to tell you, I am looking forward to seeing the good doctor decked out in his evening attire. He is so very handsome, and Father must regard him very highly to trust us to his care. I must admit to an increasing fondness for Robby. Bess has altered your green taffeta gown for me to wear. I hope you don’t mind, as my gowns are far too childish. Father will have to shake the moths from his purse if I’m to make my debut.
Write to us soon. We are all anxious to hear any news.
Your loving sister,
Meagan
Christie’s hand fell to her lap.
Strange that Robby hadn’t asked after her. Still, it was comforting to know he was caring for the children in her father’s absence. Though Meagan was hardly a child; she’d just turned seventeen. She and Robby had never spoken of children or anything relating to marriage, but she knew that was his intent. She knew he would be a good father, if it came to that. His one tender kiss had spoke volumes.
If she should need him.
By proclaiming his interest, he’d given her the idea that she needn’t bow to her father’s wishes, and she was grateful for that. It gave her the courage to challenge her father’s decision and demand some say in the type of man she wished to marry.
The problem was, he was far away in Boston and the longer she and Robby were apart, the quicker her memory faded. She found herself straining to remember his features of late. When she first came to Nevada, her memories were so vivid. But they grew dimmer each day. Hopefully, being with Meagan and Evie would remind him of their mutual affection.
After all, she hadn’t imagined it. He had kissed her. And men like Robby didn’t just kiss for the sake of kissing. He’d never toy with her affections in that way.
He was a gentleman.
And, at the moment, the only one standing between her and her father’s tyranny.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun was beginning to rise as Christie made her way behind the mercantile to the chicken coop. She enjoyed collecting the eggs in the morning. The fresh morning air on her cheeks and the smell of dew dashed the last remnants of sleep.
And of course, it was a vital task. It brought in cash. Uncle Will sold the eggs to customers who were too busy to keep their own hens.
Christie wrinkled her nose as she stepped inside the miniature dwelling. It would have been more enjoyable had Leigh taken the time to clean the coop yesterday as Uncle Will asked. Leigh probably hoped she’d take over the chore. Lazy rascal!
Well, he was much mistaken. She didn’t mind organizing and cleaning the store, but she drew the line at shoveling chicken manure.
“My, you ladies have been busy,” she praised.
Several of the hens clucked back as though acknowledging her compliment. Some gave sharp scolding squawks when she reached beneath them. One made a peck for her hand.
“Charlotte! That’s not very nice!” Christie had named most of the hens, something Leigh liked to poke fun at.
“Only a woman would make friends with something they’re going to eat,” he commented with disgust.
When she finished, her basket was so heaped with brown speckled eggs she had to put it down beside the coop to close the door. As she set the latch in place, the sound of scuffling footsteps gave her pau
se.
Little prickles crawled over her scalp.
She felt every pin in her hair.
She slowly turned round with a sinking feeling of dread.
Two men stood before her, looking her casually up and down.
Something familiar about one made Christie’s startled brain focus on his features.
Small slanted green eyes stared back at her out of a sun-creased face.
She could almost feel the blood draining from her limbs. As long as she lived, she would never forget that weasel face. He was the Everett brother who’d forced his way into the mercantile the day the post office was robbed.
The other man stood a head taller, with thick blonde hair springing from his head, like the bristles on a scrub brush. He possessed the same green eyes, only bigger and wilder. But there was something else — something oddly familiar. Perhaps it was because they were brothers.
“Is that her?”
“Yep, she’s the one,” the weasel confirmed.
“This is going to be more fun than I thought.”
Christie’s heart picked up speed.
She took a staggering step back, swallowing past the rising lump in her throat, then she opened her mouth to scream.
The two men rushed forward.
The taller of the two clamped his hand over her mouth, cutting her scream of terror in half. “You’d best shut it, or the first person to come out that back door is gonna get a bullet through the head.”
Instead of gaining her compliance, his warning had the opposite effect. She thrashed and kicked, doing everything in her power to throw him off. When she opened her mouth to bite him, his grip tightened so hard she feared her jaw might break. She stomped on his foot so hard he groaned.
But the sound quickly turned to a vicious growl. “Hold her!”
The weasel made a grab for her arms.
Her flailing hand touched the egg basket. Grasping it by the handle, she flung it with all her might. It hit the weasel square in the face, cracking most of the eggs down the front of his blue woolsey shirt in a splatter of yellow yolks.
“Dammit to hell!” He captured her wrists with his slimy paws, giving the tall one the opportunity to gag her with a filthy blue kerchief he’d pulled from his neck.
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