From Runaway to Pregnant Bride

by Tatiana March

  She’d summed it up herself when he pressed her about her demand for a partnership. I want to achieve something, but I can’t do it alone, and I don’t think I’d even enjoy that. She didn’t have the temperament for solitude. With Clay, she could have independence as well as togetherness, be an equal partner yet enjoy the safety of his protection.

  At the telegraph office, the surly operator came out from behind the partition when he heard her enter. “I wonder if there are any replies to our telegrams,” Annabel said. “Clay Collier and...” She glanced around, to make sure Cousin Gareth was not lurking about. She lowered her voice. “...and Annabel Fairfax.”

  “I hardly recognized you in those clothes.” The man lost his surliness and rifled through the bundle of telegrams waiting to be collected. He pulled out two. “Here you are.”

  Propping one hip on the counter, he appeared eager to engage her in conversation, but the bell above the door jingled and another customer walked in. The operator hopped to his feet, and Annabel took the opportunity to retreat.

  Outside, she halted in the shade of the building. The message from the man in Valverde was short and to the point.

  Owing $18.

  Settle Hagstrom’s Mercantile.

  The other telegram filled an entire page. It appeared Charlotte had no need to economize with words. Annabel unfolded the sheet with such haste the paper tore.

  Married now. Have my inheritance. Very happy.

  Miranda married, too. Rich husband. Very happy. Can send private railroad car. Cousin Gareth suffering amnesia. Aware possibly traveling to Arizona Territory. Be careful. Have arranged credit line with Percha Bank in Hillsboro. See manager Jim Drummond. Send message if need more money or want railroad car to collect Las Cruces. Love, Charlotte.

  Her sisters were safe! And now that Charlotte was married and had claimed her inheritance, there was no need to worry about leading Cousin Gareth to her. And lack of money had ceased to be a problem. With jaunty steps, Annabel set off toward the bank, the telegram clutched in her hand. Tonight she would talk to Clay, explain everything.

  * * *

  Outside the bank, three men loitered beside their horses. Perhaps the bank was not open yet. Annabel climbed up the front steps and tried the door. It yielded. She stepped through and found two customers already waiting inside.

  The building she’d already visited with Clay the day before was small, just one room, but the interior reflected the wealth pouring out of the mines. A full-height carved oak panel separated the customers from the employees.

  When the two businessmen dressed in neat suits had been served and Annabel’s turn came, she walked up to the window in the partition and introduced herself to the teller, a young man with fair hair and rosy skin.

  His expression brightened. “Miss Fairfax? Of course. The manager, Mr. Drummond, isn’t in today, but I am happy to be of service.”

  “How much is the credit line for?”

  “Two thousand dollars. But I would advise you not to draw it all out at once. If you wish to take more than six hundred, you will need to wait for the manager to return, for I don’t have the combination for the safe.”

  Two thousand dollars! Annabel’s head spun. Five hundred would be ample until she and Clay reached Gold Crossing. She arranged to draw the amount in gold eagles. Only when the teller had counted out fifty gold pieces on the counter did she realize how heavy the money would be to carry.

  The teller reached beneath the counter and produced a drawstring pouch in sturdy cowhide. “A complimentary service for our premium customers,” he explained with a smile as he scooped the coins into the pouch. He tightened the cord on top and slid the pouch across the counter to Annabel.

  She thanked him and turned to leave. She’d barely taken a step when the door flung open and two men with bandannas tied over the lower half of their faces burst into the room. Each brandished a gun.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” One of the bandits, a tall man with a black hat, seized her by the arm and shoved her into a corner. “Just keep out of the way and you won’t get hurt.”

  The other bandit, a short man with spurs that rattled when he walked, was kicking down the paneled partition. When he’d crashed through, he grabbed the teller by the front of his shirt and pointed his gun at the young man’s head. “Open the safe,” he ordered, speaking with a thick Mexican accent.

  “I can’t.” The teller’s voice came in a frightened croak. “I don’t have the combination.”

  “Not waste my time.” The bandit released his grip on the teller’s shirt and pulled a knife from his belt. The blade sliced across the teller’s cheek. Blood seeped from the wound. “Ees your eye next.” The bandit gestured with the tip of his knife. “What go first? Right eye? Left?”

  The teller was shaking but made a valiant effort to remain calm. “I told you, I don’t know the combination for the safe. Only the manager knows, and he isn’t here. I only have enough for the daily business needs.”

  The bandit rammed his gun against the teller’s temple, stuck the knife back in his belt and reached with his free hand to the cash tray beneath the counter. Coins rattled as he rummaged around. “Ees only a hundred dollar here.”

  “There have been withdrawals.”

  “You lie.” The bandit stuffed the coins in his pocket and turned toward the teller. “Only three customer come in since the bank open ten minute ago.” The blade glinted in the sunlight through the window as he pulled the knife out again. “Right eye?” he asked. “Left eye?”

  Annabel huddled in the corner. The taller bandit had turned his back on her to aim his gun at the teller. She eased toward the door. One step. Two steps. If she could slip through, she could summon help.

  “Ma’am.” The taller bandit’s tone was polite. “I told you, you won’t get hurt if you keep out of the way. Do you want me to hurt you?”

  Annabel shrank back against the wall. The man had to have the hearing of a cat, for only the rustle of her cowhide skirt must have given her away.

  The shorter bandit behind the counter lifted his knife again. Annabel cringed. I have it, she wanted to yell, but nausea clogged her throat. Her heart was pounding, her hands damp, panic clouding her thoughts.

  The clerk arched backward, trying to escape the tip of the knife. The bandit was toying with him, pricking at his eyebrow, his forehead, his cheek. Tiny streams of blood trickled down the teller’s rosy skin.

  “Right eye? Left eye?” The knife shuttled in front of the teller’s face.

  Finally, Annabel found her voice. “I have it,” she shouted. “I withdrew five hundred dollars!” She hoisted up the leather pouch with the bank’s name printed on it.

  The bandit with the knife halted his cat-and-mouse game. He jerked his chin toward his partner. “Jeb, check the lady, see if she tell the truth.”

  The taller bandit whirled toward her. “Let’s have it, ma’am.”

  Annabel had tied the string of the pouch around her wrist. Now she lifted her arm and swung the heavy coins with all her might, aiming at the bandit’s head. The blow struck, sending the man staggering backward. Annabel lurched toward the door, but the bandit recovered his balance and jumped after her. A big fist shot out, delivering a blow against her skull that knocked her off her feet.

  Annabel crumpled to the floor. Black waves of unconsciousness rolled over her. Something tugged at her wrist, and then she could hear a muffled cry of pain from behind the counter, followed by the rattle of spurs and a pair of rough voices talking above her as she lay slumped.

  “Jeb, the lady hit you. You want I kill her, too?”

  “No. We’ll take her with us. If she can withdraw five hundred dollars in one day, she must be worth a lot more. We’ll ransom her.”

  A nasty gust of laughter. “Now, why I not think of that?”

  Ch
apter Nineteen

  The livery stable smelled of hay and manure. Clay stood in the shadowed interior and stroked the neck of the buckskin. He’d already paid the hostler, but he was lingering to give attention to the horse. Missing human company, the buckskin had greeted him with an eager whinny and a reproachful look in his eyes.

  A commotion burst out in the street. Horses thundered by. The sharp retort of gunshots punctuated the steady pounding of the stamp mill. Clay gave the buckskin one final pat and headed out to investigate. In boomtowns, trouble was a daily occurrence.

  A crowd had gathered in the street, staring at something on the ground. Clay shouldered his way through the throng. A man lay in the dust, clutching his belly with both hands. Blood spurted through his fingers. On his face, a web of small, superficial cuts marred the smooth-shaven skin.

  “That’s Kjell Sandelin, the bank teller,” someone said.

  A storekeeper in a long white apron was kneeling by the injured man. “Bart’s gone for the doc, Kjell.” His tone was calm. “You just hold on a mite.”

  “They came...to rob the bank...two men...” The teller, a fair-haired man not much over twenty, spoke in labored bursts.

  “Did they get the money, Kjell?” a coarse voice shouted out.

  “No...only five hundred dollars...the girl had it...”

  “The girl?” The man in the white apron bent lower. “What girl, Kjell?”

  The teller closed his eyes. His head flopped to one side. His chest ceased rising and falling, and his hands fell away from the wound in his gut, where the surge of blood had already slowed to a trickle.

  The storekeeper straightened on his feet and addressed the crowd. “Did anyone see what happened?”

  Like branches rustling in the wind, the crowd sent out a flurry of replies. The girl was with the robbers. She’d gone in ahead of the others and waited inside the bank. No, no, the girl was not part of the gang. She’d been taken hostage, hauled out with her hands tied behind her back. No, no, that was wrong. The girl was one of them.

  The cold, frozen feeling inside Clay told him he already knew the answer, but he had to ask anyway. “What did the girl look like?”

  “Young and pretty. Dark hair in an upsweep. Wore one of them split riding skirts and a green coat with brass buttons.”

  Clay surveyed the crowd. Madame Jolie was staring at him with a shocked expression on her face. The fancy dude who’d spoken to Annabel was using his walking stick to clear his way through the circle of onlookers.

  Careful not to draw attention, Clay eased back from the crowd and hurried to the livery stable. The good citizens of Hillsboro might debate the question of the girl for hours. Eventually, they would figure out the truth and form a posse to go after the bandits, but by then it might be too late.

  Chapter Twenty

  Clay tracked the bandits southwest, the hooves of the buckskin thudding on the desert trail as they cantered along. An echo seemed to follow. Not slowing down, he craned to look behind him. A long-legged black thoroughbred was catching up.

  Clay reined to a halt, both to allow the buckskin a rest and to find out what trouble might be chasing him. It was the fancy dude in a peacock blue coat. “Why are you following me?” Clay shouted as the man drew near.

  “Thought you might like help to rescue the damsel in distress.”

  “There’ll be bullets flying.”

  “That’s fine.” The man lifted the hem of his coat to reveal the holster hidden beneath. “I have a new Smith & Wesson revolver I’m keen to try out.”

  For an instant, Clay let curiosity distract him. “Why would you risk your life for a stranger?”

  “Because that is the gentlemanly thing to do.” A frown flickered across the man’s features. “And there is something else... I feel I know her...like it is my duty to keep her safe...” His lips curled into a rueful smirk. “Or maybe I’m acting out of self-interest because I think she possesses information that might be valuable to me.”

  Clay nodded and kicked the buckskin into motion. Once again, he wondered what connection there could be between Annabel and such a fine gentleman—a connection so strong that he was willing to face death for her but so unwelcome she sought to run away from it.

  Brushing the question aside, Clay concentrated on following the trail. Now was not the time. He must ignore every distraction, shut away every fear, think only of the task ahead. If he let his thoughts dwell on the mystery about Annabel’s past, or if he allowed images of her in the clutches of the robbers to occupy his mind, he’d be less effective in rescuing her.

  They located the bandits late in the afternoon. The last mile was along a dry riverbed, heavy going for the horses but an easy trail to follow—unless it rained, and already a few drops were splashing down from the heavy clouds.

  Ahead, a line of cliffs rose like a solid wall from the scrub-covered desert floor. Clay halted as soon as he saw a thin plume of smoke drifting up toward the sky. Confident of their escape, the robbers were not bothering to hide the signs of their campfire.

  Clay dismounted, waited for his companion to get down. “What’s your name?”

  The man flashed him a wry smile. “Wish I knew. I go by Wolfson.”

  Clay pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, checked the action and did the same with the heavy Walker Colt at his hip. “You handy with that pistol, Wolfson?” he asked, with a quick glance up from his task.

  “Haven’t had much chance to find out. I am a skilled marksman, but I don’t know if my nerve will hold under fire.”

  Clay took the measure of the man. His clothing immaculate, his expression bland, Wolfson appeared as calm as on a Sunday stroll. “It’ll hold,” Clay said. “Can you picket the horses? Keep away from the streambed, in case the skies open and there’s a flash flood. I’ll go and take a look.”

  The rifle in his left hand, Clay set off on foot, crouched low, skirting around an outcropping of rusty red rocks. When the bank of the dry wash no longer kept him hidden, he dropped to his belly and crawled along, taking cover behind the sagebrush.

  From twenty yards away he could see why the bandits were so confident. They were holed up in a small box canyon, perhaps thirty yards wide. A stone column and a heap of rubble protected the opening, preventing easy access. As long as the men’s ammunition held, the place was as impenetrable as a fortress.

  Clay surveyed the vicinity. If he could find a path to the top of the cliffs, an attack from above might be feasible. He discarded the idea. The distance meant he’d have to use the rifle, and the first gunshot would alert the men. They might kill the girl, and even if they chose not to harm her, ricochets posed too great a risk in the confines of the narrow canyon.

  His only chance was to wait until darkness fell and then pick the men off one by one, a silent death that struck too quickly to allow a shouted warning. For an hour, he watched, studying the slightest movement in the camp.

  He could see three men. Their horses were picketed near the entrance, where water trickled from the cliffs into a rock basin. One man remained with the horses, watching the access path, rifle poised for shooting. It was the same man all the time, a young Mexican with flared trousers decorated with metal studs along the side seams.

  The other two men moved around the camp, cooking supper. At first, Clay could not see Annabel, but then the bundle of blankets at the base of a stunted cottonwood rippled with motion. She had to be huddled beneath, drugged or asleep or too terrified to do anything but keep out of the way.

  Clay eased back. He found Wolfson by the horses, rubbing down the shiny coat of the black thoroughbred with what looked like a silk neckerchief.

  “I’ll have to go in alone,” Clay said.

  Wolfson protested, but Clay cut him short. He explained the situation. “I don’t know if you can move without a sound, and ther
e’s no time to teach you. When it gets dark, I want you to take up position ten yards from the mouth of the canyon. The moment you hear a gunshot, storm in. Don’t shoot unless you are sure not to miss. In such a tight space, ricochets can kill.”

  He left Wolfson to tend to the horses and crawled back to his vantage point. He could do nothing until darkness fell. Hiding behind a clump of prickly pear, Clay settled down to wait, facing the longest hours of his life.

  * * *

  “Girl.” Annabel felt the toe of a boot poking at her through the cocoon of blankets. “It’s supper, girl, if you are hungry.”

  Slowly, she pushed the blankets aside, hope penetrating the icy layers of fear. If they planned to kill her, they would not bother feeding her. She’d regained consciousness on a horse, slumped in front of the tall one called Jeb, her hands tied in front of her. One of Jeb’s arms had circled her waist to keep her from falling, but his touch had not been intrusive or lewd.

  As they rode through the desert, stopping only to let the horses drink or to answer the call of nature, Annabel kept silent, pretending to remain dazed from the blow on her head. Whenever she could, she left some mark on the ground—a disturbed rock, a broken twig, anything to mark a trail for Clay to follow.

  In town, people had seen the bandits haul her off. Clay would ask questions, would know it was her. He would raise a posse and rescue her, before the rain came and washed away the trail. A lot of ifs, but Annabel refused to lose faith.

  Once they struck camp, Jeb had tossed her a blanket and told her to keep out of the way, just as he had done while they were robbing the bank. All afternoon, Annabel had huddled in silence, listening and watching.

  Jeb was the leader. Calm, intelligent, he seemed to possess a shred of decency. The short, square man who’d cut the teller’s face was called Credo. He was cruel, swaggering, a bully who needed to prove his manliness at every turn.

  The third man was young, with a short beard and moustache. He hardly spoke at all. It took Annabel a while to realize he knew no English, only Spanish. His name was Nunez, and he stayed by the horses, just as he had done during the robbery. The few times he’d been by the campfire, he’d given her bold glances that made her skin crawl.