The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West

by Wanda E. Brunstetter, Susan Page Davis, Melanie Dobson, Cathy Liggett, Vickie McDonough, Olivia Newport, Janet Spaeth, Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  Or hers of him evidently.

  Her eyes went wide at the sight of him, looking more frightened than surprised. And very well she should be frightened—and all the other passengers onboard the stagecoach right along with her.

  As far as he could tell, there was no driver manning the reins. Not a driver to be seen anywhere. And the wagon wheels were sinking deeper into the gullies of rainwater with each passing minute.

  True, the temperature was dropping and tiny flecks of ice were replacing some of the raindrops. If the people aboard the coach were lucky, the sinking temperatures might cause the earth to harden some before the wheels sank to hazardous depths.

  Only time and temperature could tell.

  Luckily it wasn’t any of his concern. Not the abandoned stagecoach. And not the red-haired woman.

  When she’d slammed the stagecoach door shut, it hadn’t hurt his feelings one bit. He was relieved. He didn’t want to be her savior or anyone else’s. He’d tried on the role for size once in his life—and had lost the battle when his young wife, Theresa, died in his arms. Certainly nothing a man his age wanted to experience again. He needed to be done with what was. He was ready to move on to whatever could be.

  His sole traveling companion seemed to agree. Tack shifted impatiently beneath him. “I hear you, buddy,” he muttered to the four-legged creature.

  Turning up the collar of his wool-lined slicker, Samuel tightened his gloved hands on the reins. He’d had a heavy heart for too long. He was bent on traveling light for the rest of his livelong days.

  “C’mon, Tack,” he clicked, “we’re outta here.”

  He turned the horse’s head toward the far side of the trail. In a matter of minutes, he and Tack would be out of sight, enveloped in the rain-bent, shadowy limbs of the pines and all the grayness of the day. The stagecoach would be long out of his sight, too. Then surely that feeling tugging on him, trying to make him look back—that would be gone, as well.

  “There’s a man out there!” Molly exclaimed.

  “A man?” Miss Vivian frowned.

  “It has to be our driver, Mr. Becker.” Charlotte shrugged as if Molly were too blind to see.

  “I know our driver, Charlotte. Believe me, it wasn’t him.”

  The man she’d spied was younger, around her own age. And his eyes didn’t appear friendly, narrowing on her as if he was daring her to look at him. She shivered just remembering.

  “Only one man?” Mr. Cottingham asked. “Was he talking to Becker?”

  “I—I didn’t hear any voices.” Only the teeming rain. That’s all she’d heard. Even now, she tried to listen for sounds of voices, movement, anything beyond the cabin of the coach. But all was spookily still outside—and inside the stagecoach, as well.

  As they sat staring at anything but each other, the silence made Molly all too aware of the thumping in her chest and the jittery sensations in her limbs. She couldn’t stay still. She forced herself to reach for the door handle once more.

  “What are you doing?” Charlotte’s saccharin voice came out in a hiss. “Let Mr. Becker take care of the stranger.”

  “I have to see!” Bracing herself, Molly turned the handle, opening the door ever so slightly, barely an inch or two. Bits of iced dotted her lashes as she peered out onto the muddy trail. But fortunately, no eyes stared back at her.

  “I think he’s gone.” She shut the door. “The man’s gone,” she repeated, mostly to assure herself.

  Mr. Cottingham strained to lift the leather curtain on the opposite side of the coach. “Don’t see anyone out this way either.”

  “Well, good then.” Miss Vivian smoothed out her coat and righted her hat. “That means we’ll be moving along any second.”

  But minutes later when they still hadn’t moved, Molly felt far too antsy to remain passive.

  “Do you mind, Mr. Cottingham?” She reached across Melissa, placing a hand on the older gentleman’s cane balanced against the seat. Crafted from solid hickory, a sculpted sphere decorated the top. He might’ve needed it to get around, but Molly decided it’d also make for a good weapon. Or at least the best one available. “In case I need it for protection?” she asked.

  “You’re going out there?” Charlotte squawked.

  “Well, I can’t just sit here.” If she did, her dreams would sit idle, too. She’d miss any chance to possibly marry, to have a home to call her own. “Please, Mr. Cottingham?” She appealed again.

  “I just don’t want you to come to harm.” He frowned.

  She could tell from his eyes he was sorry he wasn’t physically able to protect the women around him. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him, “and better with the cane than without it.”

  “It’s yours then.” He placed the smooth length of wood in her hands. “Be safe, girl.”

  “Oh, if only I had my rifle with me, I’d give it to you, Molly girl.” Miss Vivian’s eyes sparked to life. “And you tell that Mr. Becker, our friends in Huxley are expecting us on time for Christmas. Goodness, here we are already traveling without a guard and now delayed, too.”

  “I’ll let him know,” Molly replied.

  Cane in hand, she stepped out of the stagecoach, closing the door on her only shelter in the storm. Instantly, her shoes sank in the mud, throwing her off balance, making her heart sink, too. No, it hadn’t been wise to wear her very nicest shoes, but she had wanted to look her best when her letter-writing companion, Clement, was there to greet her at the station. Now she’d look a wet, muddy mess, not that this was any time to be lamenting about that.

  It was hard enough just keeping her footing as she sloshed over the soaked ground, making her way up to the front wheel of the stagecoach. Standing there, the team of horses snorted, sending bursts of white clouds into the air. But Mr. Becker was nowhere to be seen.

  She looked left and right and back again, scoping out the trail. Finally, she spotted movement on the other side of the barricade of horses. She let go of a giant sigh of relief.

  Mr. Becker! At last! Surely he was attending to whatever was wrong and they’d be on their way again soon!

  Her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough as she battled the wind and icy rain, holding tightly on to the cane with one hand and on to her hood with the other. Slogging through the clumps of soggy earth to get to their driver, she made a generous arc around the front of the horses, got over to the other side, and then—

  Oh please, God, no! Mr. Becker!

  All the breath went out of her at the sight of their driver’s limp body sprawled on the rain-soaked ground. But even more chilling and horrific was the sight of him—the man she’d seen taunting her in the rain—hovering over Mr. Becker’s body.

  Fear clutched at her throat, and she froze. Should she run? And if she did, would the man only catch her? And hurt her the same way he’d hurt Mr. Becker?

  She had only one choice. One hope. Her heart beat wildly as she grabbed on to the cane with both hands. She’d never hit anything in her life, but then her life had never been threatened before. Eyeing the exposed skin on the back of the stranger’s neck, she raised the cane in the air and took aim, ready to heave it as hard as she could. She’d only have one chance to get it right. One chance to save herself and the other passengers. To save her future as Mrs. Clement Jones.

  Chapter 3

  What in tarnation?”

  Samuel jumped up from the ground and swung around just in time to deflect the wooden club aimed for his head.

  As he groped forcibly for control of the cane, it took only a second to recognize the fiery redhead on the other end of the stick as the woman who had poked her head out of the stagecoach. And he needed about another ten seconds of struggling to wrench the cane from her grasp.

  Not that she hadn’t put up a good fight.

  “What’re you trying to do?” he shouted, unable to contain his anger. “Kill me?”

  “Ye–s–s.” Her lips appeared to tremble more with fright than with cold as she faced up to him, wh
ich didn’t make him feel one bit good. Still, she stood her ground, causing him to soften some, which wasn’t a good thing either. “Yes,” she repeated, raising her chin this time. “Kill you, just like you tried to kill our driver.”

  “What? You think I—”

  That accusation riled him all over again. He clenched his teeth, staring at her. But he wasn’t as mad at her as he was at himself. He should’ve kept riding on like he’d planned. He didn’t need this aggravation. Nor did he need to get maimed by some agitated woman. Not when he had to stay physically intact for all the other perils that might besiege him on his journey to a new life.

  Why, it was just plain lucky the redhead hadn’t clobbered him. If it hadn’t been for Tack’s neighing warning him, he would’ve been out cold the same as the stagecoach driver.

  “For your information, lady, your stagecoach was already sinking in this river of mud when I got here. And if I had to guess, I’d say your driver has been lying here for more than a minute or two.”

  He followed her eyes as she looked toward the driver again. Dark spots of blood stained the rock beneath his head. She swallowed hard, bravely raising her face to him. “If you didn’t hurt him, then how did this happen?”

  “How? You’re asking me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well … I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Can’t say for sure anyway.” Although he had his hunches and suddenly found himself sharing them with her. “If I had to guess, I’d say your driver might’ve been trying to help the horses through this mess. He could’ve lost his footing and hit his head on the rock.”

  The woman took her time, trying on his conjecture for size. She glanced from the horses to the driver, and to the driver’s cowboy hat lying some feet from his head. Again, if he had to guess, it must’ve gone flying when the driver hit the ground. The hat hadn’t been any protection for the man’s skull whatsoever.

  “Look, it’s not a good situation, and I’m sorry for you,” Samuel told her sincerely. “But honestly, there’s not much I can do about it. Besides, I, uh, I gotta keep going.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” She turned her eyes on him, staring so hard her brows furrowed, drawing her face up like a pretty little bow.

  “Well, I—” Despite the rain, he could tell her eyes were the clearest, truest blue he’d ever seen. Mesmerizing and intimidating. If he looked too closely, she’d have him babbling about things he wasn’t sure of himself. Like the strong feeling he’d had when he had tried to ride away. How it tugged on him, urging him to turn around.

  It’d felt as convincing as a gun being aimed at his back, forcing him to react. The dear woman who raised him would’ve called it his conscience speaking to him. Some days he loathed that the Lord created such a thing—at least within him. Regardless, he wasn’t beholden to this strange woman in any way. There was no reason he needed to be standing in the rain explaining things to her.

  “Look, I thought I could help. But I can’t.” He handed over the cane to her. “Like I said, I’ve gotta be on my way.” He glanced away from her eyes to the already darkening, early afternoon skies. “When I get to the next stop, I’ll tell the stationmaster to send a driver back for you.”

  “Well, we can’t just sit here till then,” she shouted defiantly over the rain. “You said yourself, the wagon’s sinking. And Mr. Becker needs to be taken care of.”

  Laying the cane on the ground, she crouched down next to the driver. She placed two fingers at the driver’s throat and then again at his wrist, as if she was accustomed to doing such a thing. “He’s breathing, but his pulse is weak. I need to get him inside the stagecoach. You need to help me. I can’t do it by myself.”

  She was a demanding little thing, all five feet of her. And before he could get beyond her boldness and answer her, she was back at it again.

  “You did say you were meaning to help. Right?” She looked up, the directness in her gaze convicting him.

  Of course he wasn’t about to leave the poor man lying out in the rain. He might be in a hurry, but he wasn’t inhumane.

  “Yeah, I did,” he conceded. “Why don’t you go get whichever passenger you think can help me best, and we’ll get him out of this cold.”

  But the woman didn’t move.

  “Well, are you going to get someone or not?”

  “That someone would be me.”

  He looked down at her slight frame and her fancy, mud-caked shoes, not very solid or stable for the worsening icy conditions. Or for helping him move an unconscious man twice her weight. “You really think you can help me lift him?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t hesitate.

  Although he’d only known her for all of ten minutes, he hadn’t really expected any other answer. Even if she couldn’t be a significant help, no doubt she was one lady who would be determined to try.

  Grasping the driver under his arms, he directed her to take a hold of Becker’s legs. Between struggling with the driver’s dead weight and the slippery earth, the best they could do was inch their way to the coach. By the time they finally reached the stagecoach door, lines of sweat were coursing down Samuel’s back under the layers of his clothing.

  Without a doubt, the other passengers were just as shocked to see him as they were their injured driver. But there was no time for introductions or inquiries, only action. Molly hopped into the coach as everyone worked together, shifting and lifting, making space for Becker’s body. Removing some of the driver’s wet garments, she wrapped him in warm blankets from under the seat.

  For all of the other passengers’ concern, Samuel could see that the redhead had been right. She was the most fit and able of the group, and from what he could discern, she was also the fifth wheel. The realization disarmed him, making him feel an instant concern and fondness for her. Not to mention a reluctance to say good-bye—even though he’d done what she’d asked and it was time to go.

  Still, he gazed inside the crowded coach where she was crouched between the seats, straightening her hat and hugging her purse. “You just carve out a comfortable spot where you can sit tight till I get you a driver,” he said, which seemed to make her smile.

  “I don’t need to sit tight,” she said.

  Before he knew it, she hopped down from the stagecoach and closed the door behind her.

  He looked at her quizzically as she squared her shoulders and raised her chin to him. Then she gazed at him so evenly that he shouldn’t have been surprised by what she said next.

  “I’m taking over the reins.”

  Chapter 4

  You’re going to do what?” Just one minute earlier Samuel had been staring at the redhead, appreciating her spunky spirit. But now she’d gone too far. He could hardly hide the irritation in his voice.

  “I said I’m taking the reins.”

  “Lady”—his teeth clenched around the word—“that’s one … bad … idea.” He spoke each word deliberately, slowly, thinking somehow that might impress the graveness of the situation on her. Not only that, but he was trying to stay calm when what he really wanted to do was spout off about how illogical she was being.

  “Look,” he said, with all the patience he could muster, “the rain is turning to sleet. With the weather moving this way, the trail’s not going to be passable for much longer. Beyond all that, I’d venture to guess you don’t know the first thing about leading a team of horses.”

  “You guessed right. I don’t. So I’m supposing I’m going to have to learn real fast, won’t I?” She placed her shoulder bag over her head and across her body then spun around, leaving him dumbfounded in her wake. She’d almost made her way to the front of the stagecoach when she stopped and turned to him. “I never did catch your name.”

  “Samuel. Samuel Harden.”

  “I’m Molly O’Brien,” she said. Then surprising him, she retraced her imprints in the mud until she was standing close to him again. “Thank you very much for your help with our driver, Mr. Harden. It was most kind of you.”

&
nbsp; She spoke to him all proper like. Taken back, he paused before he remembered his manners, removed his glove politely, and extended his hand. She reached out in kind, and he took her bare, cold hand into his. “Pleased to meet you, Molly,” he said. “And don’t worry about the help. It was nothing.”

  “Oh, that’s not so. It was something for sure.”

  He shook his head. “Only the right thing to do.”

  “And that’s a lot of something, isn’t it?”

  The way she looked up into his eyes, as if she was sizing him up as a man, caught him off guard. Suddenly they were acting like a man and a woman meeting properly at church or a barn raising, when just minutes before they’d been two rain-soaked travelers accidentally crossing paths.

  Feeling slightly off-kilter, he sloughed off her compliment with a shrug. But before he could say anything, she gave him a tight smile. “Well, I should probably go now,” she said. “I need to get to the next station before dark. Like you said, the weather is worsening something fast.”

  He tightened his grasp on her hand and held it, as if by doing so he could also hold her back, make her change her stubborn mind for her own good. “You don’t need to be going anywhere. I told you, I’ll ride to the next station and send a driver back for you. An experienced driver.”

  “And I surely do appreciate that, Samuel,” she said sweetly, all the while delicately wriggling her hand from his grasp. “I sincerely do,” she added, clasping her hands together. “But the weather might get too bad for someone to come back for us. Meanwhile, we could freeze to death. Or be attacked by any number of things. And I don’t plan to just sit … sit tight, as you said, and wait for who knows what to happen.”

  She tightened her wet hat under her chin then turned again to go. Watching her walk away, he ground his teeth so hard he came close to chipping a cusp.