They scrambled up the rocky side hill, the three women, praying that the trees would hide them, slipping and falling, rising again. There was no time to look back and see if they were being pursued; escape called for everything they had.
At the top of the ridge, they lay on their stomachs, chests heaving, as they tried to regain their breath. A smile curved Willow’s lips when she looked up and saw Gideon, Steven, and her father, all on their bellies, with rifles at their shoulders.
Remarkably, they hadn’t seen—or heard—the women’s escape.
“They’re a hell of a lot of help, aren’t they?” rasped Dove. “Good God, if Tudd had come this way, he’d have them dead to rights.”
Daphne was about to call out, but Willow stopped her by clamping a hand over her mouth. Dove grinned mischievously and winked, and the three women rose as quietly as they could to their feet.
“I think we should rush him,” Steven was saying. “Christ, he could keep this up from now till the snow flies.”
“Yeah,” answered Gideon gruffly, “but if we scare him, he might do something stupid.”
“He’s already done something stupid,” countered Steven hotly. “I’ll tear his balls off for this!”
“The hell you will,” put in the judge. “I meant it when I told Tudd he could ride out if he let the women go.”
“Maybe you could smoke him out,” said Dove clearly, her smudged face split by a wide grin.
The three would-be rescuers whirled, all at once, to stare at the ragtag trio of tired women who had been standing behind them for several moments by then.
Devlin was the first to move; he made a low, joyous sound in his throat and set down his rifle to bolt toward Tudd’s escaped captives, kissing both Willow and Daphne, lifting Dove up in his arms and whirling her around.
Steven came and embraced Daphne, tangling his hand in her hair, muttering soft words. Gideon remained on the ground, sitting up now, his rifle resting across his knees.
Willow was stung by his reaction; despite their differences, she had been sure that he would be glad to see her again, to know that she was safe. She stood stubbornly in the bright sunlight, her hands caught together behind her back.
“Come here,” Gideon said, in a stern tone that did not befit the occasion.
Willow responded with a bit of memorable advice. “I’d rather go back to Vancel Tudd than come to you!”
The rapid retreat of a single horse echoed up the ridge; Tudd was making an escape of his own, and not one of the men moved to stop him.
Gideon stood up, however, and favored Willow’s father and brother with a grim smile. “If I might be alone with my wife . . .”
To Willow’s amazement, they deserted her readily, grinning at each other, ushering their women down over the hill, in the opposite direction of the cabin. No doubt, the horses were tethered there.
“Come here,” Gideon said again.
Willow took in his unkempt clothes—his shirt was open almost to his waist and half untucked from his trousers, his vest was unbuttoned and smudged with dirt—and stood her ground. “I would like a divorce,” she said.
“Oh?” Gideon arched one eyebrow, then bent to pluck a blade of grass from the rocky ground and ply it between his fingers. “Why?”
“I can’t live with a man who would destroy my family, that’s why!”
“I see.”
“You don’t see!” cried Willow, suddenly too tired to hold in her emotions. “How long will it be, Marshal Marshall, before you arrest Steven? Now that you’ve finally found him, how long until you get him thrown in jail for the rest of his natural life, or make sure he hangs?”
Gideon took a folded paper from the inside pocket of his vest and held it out. “Here,” he said. “Read this.”
“Is that a warrant?” Willow asked suspiciously, unwilling to advance so much as a step toward Gideon.
“It’s a pardon, signed by the territorial governor.”
Willow stared at him. “F-for Steven?”
“It isn’t for you, hellcat, you’re still in major trouble. And I’m not Marshal Marshall any longer, remember? Lot Houghton is wearing my badge.”
“You’ll go back to San Francisco now,” Willow mourned, forgetting her determination not to let this impossible man know how deeply the loss of him grieved her.
He executed a Lancelot-like bow. “With your permission, fair damsel, I will remain here, minding my ranch and cattle, siring a respectable number of children, storming the occasional castle wall . . .”
Willow stared at him, unable to speak for the dry lump of hope widening in her throat.
“I love you, Willow,” Gideon said.
Willow flung herself at him and felt his arms close around her, strong and yet gentle, too. He kissed her, his lips sipping at hers, and then laughed and swatted her rounded bottom firmly. “You are a harridan, Mrs. Marshall, covered with cobwebs and all manner of dirt. What am I going to do with you?”
“Might I say that you are something less than clean yourself, sir?” challenged Willow, smiling up at him. “As for what you’re going to do with me . . .” she paused, letting one teasing fingertip stray inside his shirt and trace the circumference of a nipple, “it just so happens that I have a few things in mind.”
“Beginning with a bath, I hope,” said Gideon, his mouth close to hers again, drawing her lips to his, kissing her thoroughly. His hands were on her bottom again, pressing her close, forcing her to feel and acknowledge the extent of his desire.
“Beginning with a bath,” confirmed Willow breathlessly. “Am I still in trouble?”
He bent to nip at her earlobe briefly. “Ummmm—dreadful trouble, Mrs. Marshall. But I think a pardon can be negotiated.”
Willow trembled, but with anticipation, not fear. “Are the terms equitable?”
“Oh, yes,” he breathed, “but you won’t get off easy, hellcat.”
Willow laughed. “I never do,” she replied.
Gideon grinned, swept her up into his arms, and carried her down the hillside to his horse. The other riders, Devlin and Dove, Steven and Daphne, were far ahead. After settling Willow in the saddle, Gideon swung up behind her. Brazenly, he lowered her dress so that her full breasts were bared, and cupped them in his hands for a long, exquisite moment of very welcome mastery. He teased the straining nipples with the sides of his thumbs thoroughly before releasing her and righting her bodice again.
“To the castle,” he said, into the tingling flesh of her neck. “Lancelot would bed his lady.”
* * *
Daphne looked patently miserable, for all that she’d spent two full days resting and being fussed over by the proprietary Maria, who regarded her as a part of the family. “Papa insists!” she wailed. “If I don’t go home with him and start behaving like a proper lady, he’s going to disinherit me!”
Willow came to sit beside her friend on the stone bench in the judge’s garden. “Your father knows about Steven’s pardon—knows Steven is wealthy in his own right. Didn’t those things make any difference at all to him?”
Daphne’s lavender eyes brimmed with angry tears. “It might have made a difference to Papa, but it certainly didn’t bother Steven! He doesn’t seem to care one whit that I’m leaving for home today. I haven’t seen him since . . .” she paused and blushed profusely, “since the day we were rescued.”
Willow took one of Daphne’s hands in her own. “We rescued ourselves,” she reminded her friend archly. “And do you plan, Daphne Roberts, to leave without even talking to Steven?”
“It appears that I’ll have to, doesn’t it?” snapped Daphne. “That reprehensible outlaw! Now that he’s free to live like a decent man, hold his head up high, and go where he pleases instead of hiding out, he’s probably gone and found himself a not-so-decent woman!”
“Daphne!”
Daphne covered her face with both hands and wept softly for long moments. Then, with a sniffle, she looked up at Willow. “I think, I think I’m go
ing to have a child,” she confessed. “Whatever will I do?”
Willow ached with sympathy and with a need to strangle Steven Gallagher. “Then you must stay here with Papa and Dove, or at the ranch with Gideon and me. We’ll look after you and the baby for as long as necessary. And Steven might come to his senses . . .”
“I couldn’t bear to be so beholden to all of you,” sniffled Daphne, though pride flashed in her beautiful eyes. “Besides, even if Papa does disinherit me, both grandmothers left me sizable sums, and I’ve done some investing of my own. I can take very good care of my child.” She paused, thinking, and shook her head. “No,” she said decisively, “I am not going to wait about for that arrogant man like some, some concubine!”
Secretly, Willow respected her friend’s pride, though she was certainly going to miss her if she left. Besides Daphne, she’d miss the baby, even though it wasn’t born yet. “You’re not the only one, you know,” she confided gently, “who is going to have a baby.”
Daphne looked into Willow’s eyes, gave a delighted cry, and hugged her. “Then one of us will be happy, Willow. I’m so glad for you, and for Gideon, too.”
“Thank you,” said Willow, with dignity, and then she and Daphne fell into each other’s arms and wept shamelessly at the prospect of parting.
* * *
“Son of a bitch!” bellowed the engineer to the brakeman, grasping for the whistle cord. “Stop the train!”
Somewhat stupidly, the brakeman peered out. Seeing the blazing bonfire on the tracks, maybe three hundred yards ahead, he put his full weight into the lever, muttering an oath of his own.
* * *
Daphne was nearly flung from her seat, even though her father was quick to put out an arm to protect her.
Worried murmurs broke out all over the railroad car; passengers peered out of soot-blackened windows, trying to see what was happening.
“It’s another train robbery,” Daphne told her father and, for all that little prickles of alarm poked at virtually every inch of her flesh, she was strangely excited, too. Everything within her quickened.
“Probably just a dead cow on the tracks or something,” Jack Roberts assured her. “These things happen, Daphne. We’ll be on our way again in no time.”
“I wouldn’t count on that, mister,” allowed a rundown cowboy, turning from his window. “There’s a fire on the tracks up ahead. I can see the smoke.” He shifted in his seat, drew a pistol, and brandished it, causing the other passengers to gasp. Some even ducked behind the seats in front of their own.
A lone rider passed the windows on the side of the train opposite where Daphne sat. He wore a long canvas coat, gunslinger style, and his hat was pulled low over his eyes.
Daphne would have known him anywhere.
Seeing her—she had crossed the aisle and was struggling in vain to open the train window—he smiled and got down off the horse. Then he climbed the outside steps and entered the car.
No one spoke. Even the cowboy with the pistol seemed awed.
Daphne turned and watched as Steven Gallagher moved between the rows of seats until he was beside her. He took off his hat and held it against his chest, his honey gold hair rumpled and much too long, his eyes full of hope and amusement and the combined blues of every sky since the beginning of time.
Mr. Roberts, Daphne’s father, finally found his voice. “Here, here, now,” he said. “This is—”
“This is a marriage proposal,” Steven said, never taking his eyes off Daphne’s face. “I’m a man of some means, you’ll find, and I’m willing to buy a ranch, or a business in town, or whatever else suits you, Daphne,” he went on. “I’ll be the best man I can, the best husband, and the best father, every day of my life, if you’ll just leave with me now. I’ve got a preacher waiting over at the church.”
An incomprehensible joy rose up within Daphne, something she could barely contain.
“Oh, Steven,” she said, putting out her hand.
He took that hand, bent his magnificent, tawny head, and brushed his lips very lightly across her knuckles, sending sweet shivers through her entire body.
“Daphne,” her father interjected, but the stern note in his voice was faltering. “Do not give in to wanton impulses.”
Daphne ignored Jack Roberts, looking straight into Steven’s impossibly blue eyes. “We’re going to have a child,” she told him, very gently.
The look on Steven’s face was priceless; Daphne knew she would remember his expression forever.
“In that case,” Mr. Roberts put in, “let’s get back to that church so you two can stand in front of the preacher and make this right.”
Steven just grinned, never looking away from Daphne’s face.
She gazed at her father, though, hopeful. Even a little amused. “I thought you wanted to disinherit me,” she said.
“That was before I knew I was in line for a grandchild,” Roberts said. “Go on, with your fellow,” he added. “I’ll figure out how to get back to Virginia City, too. This is one wedding I don’t want to miss.”
“Wedding?” an old woman trilled, three rows back. “You mean this isn’t a train robbery?”
Steven grinned and reached for Daphne, then scooped her easily up into his arms and smiled at all the passengers. “I’m stealing this woman,” he said. “And nothing else.”
With that, he carried Daphne down the aisle and out of the train car. His horse waited a short distance away, and Steven hoisted his stolen bride up into the saddle before climbing up behind her and wrapping his strong arms around her as he took the reins.
He bent his head and nibbled lightly at her earlobe once before nudging the restless horse into a trot.
“Is there really a preacher waiting to marry us?” Daphne asked, when they were well away from the train, sheltered in a copse of cottonwood trees with shimmering leaves forming a moving canopy overhead.
“Yes,” Steven said, but he climbed down from the saddle and stood beside the horse, holding his arms out to her.
“S-Shouldn’t we go and get married, then?” But she let Steven take her by the waist and bring her down off the horse’s back.
“We’ll be married before the day is out,” he told her, his voice husky as he drew her close. “I promise.”
“And in the meantime?” Daphne asked, looking up at him, her heart going a little faster with every new beat.
“In the meantime,” Steven said, “I want to make slow, sweet, gentle love to the woman who is carrying my baby.”
Daphne slid her arms around his neck, then stood on tiptoe to kiss the cleft in his chin.
The bride and groom, as it turned out, were quite late for the wedding.
* * *
The Gallaghers’ parlor was filled with well-wishers that afternoon, and even though the windows were open, it was insufferably hot, in Willow’s opinion. Oh, to be in the pond at home, naked and cool.
Gideon squeezed her hand and smiled, as though he’d heard her thoughts and wanted to suggest a few touches of his own. When the pastor took his place in front of the hearth, however, he looked dutifully in that direction, as did the other guests.
At that moment, Devlin appeared beside Gideon’s chair, looking distracted and impatient. “Steven isn’t here!” he said.
Gideon smiled. “I’ll fill in for him, Judge,” he volunteered cheerfully. “Where’s the ring?”
Frantically, Devlin delved through every pocket in his suit coat and finally found the requested item and brought it out. With a nervous laugh, he stretched to plant a kiss on Willow’s forehead and then followed Gideon to the front of the room.
Lot Houghton’s Alice sat down at the small organ under the windows and began to play, while her husband escorted a beaming Dove Triskadden into the room, resplendent in scarlet and dripping with pearls. When she had taken Devlin’s arm, the ceremony began.
Willow listened in delight as the words were spoken, and felt tears of love burn in her eyes as Dove and her father drew closer
together.
Finally, the pastor came to the part of the service that had proven so momentous the day Willow had almost married Norville Pickering. “If anyone here can show just cause,” he boomed warily, no doubt remembering himself, “why these two should not be joined in marriage . . .”
Devlin turned and assessed the congregation of guests in comically dire warning, raising a twitter of amusement from the assemblage.
“Let him,” the pastor finished, bracing himself, “speak now or forever hold his peace.”
There was no answer, and the preacher actually sighed with relief, bringing soft laughter from the congregation. Reddening, he rushed on to demand the vows from the bride and groom and to pronounce them husband and wife.
Despite the fact that she was sitting at the back of the room, nearest the open windows, Willow was among the first to reach Devlin and fling her arms around his neck in congratulations. After kissing him soundly on each cheek, she turned and hugged Dove, too.
Later, in the kitchen, Willow pumped cold water into a basin and repeatedly splashed her face. Her tears, however, would not be washed away.
“Willow,” Gideon said softly, from beside her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter,” lied Willow, in petulant tones, trying to turn away so that he wouldn’t see her face. He turned her back, easily.
“Willow,” he said, not to be put off.
She stiffened. “I’m just happy for Papa and Dove, that’s all.”
“I would have sworn you were thinking about our wedding,” mused Gideon, and though his face was solemn, his hazel eyes were dancing.
“Our wedding!” scoffed Willow angrily, sniffling just a little. “Norville Pickering was the groom at our wedding!”
Gideon laughed. “So he was, if you don’t count the other ceremony, back in San Francisco.”
The memory of that was still painful to Willow. “I most certainly don’t!”
“In that case, hellcat, we’re living in sin.” He paused, his lips twitching, and wedged his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I’d better stop the preacher before he leaves and demand that he marry us.”
Willow: A Novel (No Series) Page 29