by Pam Crooks
Dread crawled up her spine. She leaned forward to see who was outside, but even before she saw the lean body on the fine-blooded gelding, she knew no gang of outlaws held them captive.
Trig did.
A moan of dismay escaped her.
Emerson jabbed at a column of names with a grimy finger. “Don’t have a Mathison on the roster, mister. Reckon you got the wrong rig. Your wife ain’t here.”
A cool smile formed on Trig’s mouth. “Figures.” He slid his rifle into its scabbard, the movement unhurried considering he was holding up sixteen passengers and one impatient driver. “She going by ‘Chandler’?”
The driver’s eye narrowed. “That’s what my roster says.”
“Her maiden name. She’s acting like we’re divorced already.” He shook his head, one corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile.
“I’m not this man’s wife!” Carleigh exclaimed, eyes wide.
“We had a little spat,” Trig said, as if she’d never spoken. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Always trying to spend money we don’t have. Sometimes, a man just has to put his foot down.”
Emerson grunted. He swung a disapproving glance toward Carleigh, then swept that glance over her Italian leather shoes and expensive French-made wool coat.
She recalled his condescending attitude toward her yesterday, how he’d called her ‘high-faluting’ when she inquired about a ladies entrance to the hotel.
An impending sense of doom stirred inside her, a steadily growing and disturbing premonition that she would be no match for Trig’s smooth manipulation of the Wells Fargo driver.
“He’s lying,” Carleigh said, hearing the desperation in her voice and unable to stop it. She extended a hand toward the burly man in appeal, wanting him to believe her over Trig. “None of this is true—oh!”
Spencer leapt from her lap, bounding to the floor to stand in the open portal of the stagecoach, his tail wagging, his bark hinting of his excitement to see Trig again.
Instinctively, she reached for him, but too quickly he jumped from the coach to the ground, a furry ball of enthusiasm that danced around the powerful legs of Trig’s horse.
Carleigh gaped at her pet in horror.
“Spencer! Come back here!” She half-rose from her seat to go after him, but in the next moment, she froze. She didn’t dare leave the safety of the stagecoach, not when Trig sat astride the gelding only a few feet from her. She had to stay as far away from him as she could.
She bit her lip, her worried glance riveted to her dog. She wanted nothing more than to hold him close in her arms again.
“See, honey? He wants to come home, too,” Trig murmured.
Her gaze snapped to his. “I’m not your ‘honey’.”
“Still mad at me, aren’t you?” He shook his head in feigned regret. “Come on home. We’ll work it out. We always do.”
Carleigh’s hackles rose. “Is this farce Papa’s idea or yours?”
“The kids and I are missing you real bad,” he said.
Carleigh gritted her teeth. “We don’t have children and stop saying that we do.” She turned to Emerson again. “He’s lying. Everything he’s saying are lies. He’s not my husband, and I have no intention of going anywhere with him.”
“A mother’s place is with her young’uns.” Blatant disapproval shone in the man’s expression.
“Damn right,” Trig said roughly.
Carleigh thought of her own mother. Instant tears sprang to her eyes before she blinked them away. “I quite agree, but in this instance--.”
“I had a wife like you once,” Emerson interrupted, clearly uninterested in her version of events. “Always wantin’ to run off to her ma when things didn’t go her way. That’s why I took to mannin’ this rig. Kept me from home months at a time. Finally, she left me, and now I don’t have to listen to her complainin’.” His piercing gaze jabbed at her. “Bet that’s who you’re runnin’ to, ain’t it? Your ma.”
Carleigh’s chin lifted. “Well, yes, but it’s not like you’re thinking.”
“You two from ‘Frisco?” he demanded with a loud exhalation of breath, as if his patience was tested to the limits. He checked his roster again.
“Yes,” Trig and Carleigh said in unison.
“But--” Carleigh said in the next breath.
“Then you’d best start headin’ that way. You can work out your troubles as you go. I got a tight schedule to keep.” Emerson’s glare laid the blame for the minutes ticking away at her feet.
“I am not going back to San Francisco. I’m going to Mexico.” Hysteria crept into the words.
“You’re coming home with me.” Hardness tinged Trig’s voice.
Waves of panic crashed inside her. She had to convince the Wells Fargo driver to allow her to remain on the stagecoach; she had to convince him to send Trig north without her. She was a legitimate passenger, had paid her fee in full. Emerson had the authority to do that, didn’t he?
Her glance darted to Spencer, sniffing at a weed at the side of the road. She thought frantically of a way to get to him.
“Look.” She appealed to the driver yet again. “I have money. I’ll pay you twice the traveling fee to ignore this man.”
“Reckon this don’t have nothin’ to do with money,” he said. “Your husband has more claim to you than this stagecoach does. If he wants you back, then I reckon he can have you.”
“Young lady.” Behind her, Tom’s voice rumbled with censure. “You’re a mite upset right now, bein’s your plans are shaken up and all, but you got an obligation to him. You’ll feel better when you’re both home again.”
“You don’t understand.” Her wild gaze swept them all, her feelings hurt no one believed her. “None of you do.” Her spine stiffened. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m staying on this stagecoach.” She turned back to Emerson. “Just allow me to get my little dog, and we can be on our way again. It won’t take me but a moment.”
She leaned into the doorway and snapped her fingers. “Spencer. Come here, sweetheart. Now.”
Spencer cocked his head and stared at her.
But he didn’t move.
Carleigh’s lips thinned. “Now, Spencer!”
Any other time, he would have responded to the firm command in her tone. Why did he pick now to disobey?
She stretched an arm toward him, her fingers beckoning, her voice cajoling, her body as much out of the stagecoach as it was in. “Come, sweetheart. I’ll give you a treat.”
The driver swore, the epithet a clear indication he’d had enough. He clamped his big hand onto her upper arm and pulled her down toward him.
Carleigh wobbled in her crouched position and cried out. Suddenly, the gelding moved closer, and Trig’s muscle-hard arm clamped around her waist, pulled her from the man’s grip and sideways onto his horse.
“Let me go, damn you!” she snapped, legs flailing. The saddle horn dug into her hip. His vise-like grasp threatened to squeeze the last breath from her lungs.
“Women.” Trig rolled his eyes at his audience with exaggerated chagrin, though his attention was intent on keeping her on the horse.
His cohorts grinned in male comraderie. Only Tom seemed to have a bit of sympathy for her, but he said nothing in her defense and pulled the coach door closed.
Carleigh despised them all. Her fury flew free, and any discomfort from her awkward position flew with it. She wriggled and twisted. She kicked out. She screamed and fought and clawed.
But to no avail. Trig was far stronger than she was.
“A little hellcat, ain’t she?” Emerson said, amused and already on his way toward the box. He swung one beefy leg onto the step and heaved himself upward.
“Damn. That she is.” Carleigh’s elbow jammed Trig hard in his ribs, and he grunted in pain.
“We’re on our way, then. Good luck to you. She’ll settle down in a few minutes. They always do.”
In a renewed fit of rage, Carleigh pounded a fist against Trig’s shoulder. She h
ated him. Hated them all.
The driver yelled. Harnesses jangled. Wheels turned. Too soon, the stagecoach rumbled and lurched, picking up speed and leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
An anguished cry wrenched from Carleigh’s throat, and she pushed against Trig with all her might. Amazingly enough, he let her go this time, and she stumbled to the ground, nearly losing her balance at the suddenness of it.
“Wait!” she called, recovering quickly and whirling toward the stagecoach with a swirl of skirt hems. “Wait! Please!”
She took off running, a pathetic attempt to catch the Wells Fargo when it was already too far ahead to be caught.
Not that Emerson would stop if she did catch him.
It was all so hopeless. How could she fight them all?
A sob escaped. She crumpled to her knees, curled her body into a tight, miserable ball, and gave into the tears and pain of having her plan to find her mother carelessly destroyed.
“Carleigh.”
Trig’s low voice reached her through the anguish. He dismounted from his horse and hunkered beside her. He grasped her shoulder, turning her toward him.
She hiccupped in fury and flung his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”
Beneath the Stetson’s brim, his dark eyes narrowed. “Your father wants you home. Take up your argument with him.”
She detested any mention of Judge Reginald P. Chandler. “I’ll escape you. Any way I can. I vow it.”
His jaw clenched. “No, you won’t. Not this time.”
“I have the money Papa is paying you. I’ll buy another stagecoach ticket. I’ll--”
She gasped. Her eyes widened.
Trig muttered an oath under his breath.
They both turned toward the direction of the Wells Fargo.
But the road was empty. The massive stagecoach had sped out of sight, taking Carleigh’s satchel and money with it.
Chapter 5
“We’re not going after them, are we?” she asked.
Trig dragged his gaze back toward her. He thought of his father, held at the judge’s mercy somewhere in San Francisco.
“No,” he said.
Some of the fight seemed to leave her. She sagged into a sitting position in the road. “Why not?”
“I’ve already lost a good day’s ride because of this wild goose chase you led me on.” Irritation swept through him that she’d even escaped him at all. It’d been a costly mistake on his part.
“I have no clothes. No money. Not even a hairbrush to—.”
“You’ll get by. Women have survived on a hell of a lot less.”
She glared up at him, the ice blue of her eyes frosty in their animosity. “Right now, I think I hate you, Mr. Mathison.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not too fond of you, either.” He held out a hand. “Stand up. We can get in a few hours of riding before we have to make camp for the night.”
“You think I’ll simply give up and let you take me home”--she snapped her fingers—“just like that?”
“No ‘thinking’ about it. You’re going. Now, get up.”
She ignored his offer of assistance and got to her feet on her own. Those blue eyes touched on the gelding before swinging back to him, her expression haughty. “You only have one horse.”
“Yep.” Trig strode toward him.
“And you plan on sharing him.”
“You’re a smart lady, Miss Chandler.” He slid his foot into the stirrup, swung up into the saddle.
“I refuse.”
“You have a better idea?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
He took the reins, settled against the cantle. “Really.”
“I’ll walk.”
His glance dropped to her fine kid leather shoes, as worthless as they were expensive. “Not very damn far, you won’t.”
“I’ll show you.”
She spun and headed down the road away from him. South. Toward Mexico.
For a moment, Trig watched her. Before he could stop it, a reluctant smile scooted across the hard set of his mouth.
Damn, but she was contrary.
But then, he could expect little else. She was Judge Chandler’s daughter, wasn’t she?
The thought soured his mood, reminded him of the reason he was out here in the middle of a mountain valley, miles from nowhere.
And that he had to get back to his own father as soon as he could.
He urged the gelding into a slow walk toward her. “Carleigh, climb up here.”
“I will not.” She kept walking.
“You going to leave your dog behind?”
Her stride faltered. She glanced over her shoulder, found him frolicking with a playful butterfly. “He’ll come soon enough.”
The horse passed her easily. Trig rode a few paces ahead, then turned the gelding at a sharp angle across the road.
“Get in the saddle, Carleigh. You’re wasting my time,” he said, his voice rumbling with warning.
“And you’re wasting mine. I don’t even want to think how far ahead the Wells Fargo is by now.” She darted off the road, sprinted around him, then returned to the road on the other side.
She left him no choice. Trig found the coil of rope tied to the saddle horn, swung a loop, took aim, and gave it a toss. The loop dropped around her, and he tugged to tighten the slipknot under her breasts and trap her arms at her sides.
She whirled, jaw agape. “Get this off of me!”
He pulled her closer. She dug in her heels, and he tugged harder. “Act like a stubborn mule, and you’ll be treated like one.”
She squirmed and wiggled. Her fingers clawed at the taut hemp. Her feet skidded in the dirt until he brought her up next to his horse.
Her chin trembled. “You’re hurting me.”
“If I loosen the rope, you going to stay put?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes didn’t quite meet his, and he eased up on the slip knot. She bolted, lightening quick, but he leaned from the saddle and caught her by the collar of her coat.
“Lord, woman, but you try me,” he grated, his grip on her firm.
“I have to find my mother,” she said, straining against him.
“Your father forbids it, bastard that he is.”
“I’ve always thought she was dead. My entire life, he’s lied to me about her.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her distressed gaze flew up to his. “Then you know she’s dying? That I must get to her as soon as I possibly can if I’m ever to see her before it’s too late?”
“Yes,” he said grimly. “I know that, too.”
She stared at him. “What else do you know?”
“Damned little.” He wondered if she knew her mother had been a prostitute. Or that she’d been guilty of crimes serious enough to land her a life term in prison.
But if the wide-eyed intensity in Carleigh’s expression was any indication, he guessed she knew none of those things. And given all she’d had to bear of late, Trig had no intention of telling her.
“You had her letter,” Carleigh persisted.
“I only brought it as proof I was working for your father,” he said roughly. “I could care less about your parents’ problems.”
“But you cared enough to take my father’s money, didn’t you?”
Accusation dripped from her tone. Trig recalled the ruthless tactics Judge Chandler had used to force him to agree to bring her back to San Francisco. He released his grip on the coat’s collar, but watched her close. “I had my reasons.”
She arched an imperious brow. “A reason better than money?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“I want to believe you’re telling me the truth.”
“I have no reason to lie to you, Carleigh.”
“Yet you lied to the Wells Fargo driver as smooth as you please.” She huffed a sound of derision and rolled her eyes. “You’re working for Papa. For that reason alone, I can’t trust you.”
The implication that he was no better than the corrupt justice stung. What did it matter if she trusted him or not?
Trig shouldn’t care one way or the other. But the sheltered little world she’d always known had crashed in on her upon learning of Chandler’s deceit. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the pain the truth had brought her.
“Perhaps we can strike a bargain.” Carleigh’s chin lifted, as if it took every ounce of her pride to have any dealings whatsoever with him. “I can make arrangements with the bank to have a sizable sum of money wired to you. However much you want.”
Trig watched her coolly. “And all I have to do is let you go. Find your own way to Mexico. Alone.”
A flicker of hope appeared her eyes. “Yes. Tell Papa you couldn’t find me, that I’d eluded you in spite of your best efforts. How would he know otherwise?”
“I’m good at what I do,” Trig said simply. “He wouldn’t believe me.”
She clucked her tongue in exasperation. “You’ll come up with something. You convinced the Wells Fargo driver with your lies, didn’t you?”
“Carleigh.” Trig released a slow breath and squinted an eye toward the sun, inching closer toward the horizon with every minute they spent here, having a pointless conversation on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. “He’s got my father.”
A long moment passed. “Oh, my God.”
Trig swiveled his gaze back to her. The rope had fallen slack around her body, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“He’s blackmailing you, isn’t he?” she whispered.
Trig hesitated. He steeled himself against all she was feeling. “Yes.”
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, closed her eyes, and gave a little shake of her head. Her eyes opened again. “I’m sorry. For his sake, I apologize. I had no idea. Truly, I didn’t, or else I would’ve--”
“Don’t. He’s not worthy of your apology.”
She sighed heavily. Her shoulders sagged from the burden of all that weighed on her.
“So now you know nothing is going to stop me from bringing you back to San Francisco,” he said quietly. “Absolutely nothing.”
Her head came up. Panic flitted across her expression. “But I must find her.”
“I know. And I hope you will. Soon.”