Sudden fear, real and physical, lodged in her throat.
“Emma!” She barely breathed the name, and was relieved to the point of tears when her sister appeared at her elbow.
They clambered out of the wagon as silently as they could. Two dark forms, larger than men, moved in the grass nearby. The horses, unhitched from the wagon and ground tied.
“Let’s ride out,” she whispered to Emma.
“But—”
“It’ll be quicker.”
“But there aren’t any saddles. And the horses are huge.”
She was right on both counts, but the increasing urgency Fran felt had her tugging her sister toward the animals.
There was a rustling behind them, close to the wagon. Fran’s heart pounded in her ears, drowning out their footsteps, making her strain to hear.
If it was one of Edgar’s brothers or one of the cowboys, why hadn’t they called out? Surely they would know she and Emma were frightened and seek to reassure them.
The only answer was that it wasn’t one of Edgar’s men. It had to be one of Underhill’s.
Fran pulled Emma to the nearest horse. She reached out to touch the animal’s shoulder and it neighed softly. She didn’t dare whisper a greeting to the horse.
It took one step away from Fran.
Edgar had told her the animal could sense fear—no doubt it was picking up the chills that were running through her that very moment.
But they didn’t have time for her to comfort the animal.
Fran made a cradle out of her hands to boost Emma onto the animal’s back.
“Fran!” Emma squeaked.
“Shh!” she hissed.
The trousers made it easy for Emma to straddle the animal’s wide back, but Fran knew well how awkward it felt.
She curled her sister’s hands around the horse’s mane, barely able to reach.
“Hold on tight,” she breathed.
“They ain’t here,” a man’s voice said quietly.
Fran scrambled to where the horse was tied. Her hands shook so badly that she couldn’t get a good grip on the leather ties. And in the darkness, she couldn’t see what she was doing.
“Please, God.” She whispered the fervent prayer, unable to find words but hopeful that He understood her urgency, her fear for Emma.
If Underhill took her, Fran could lose Emma forever.
The ties loosened, and Fran flipped the leather reins over the horse’s back.
“Fran!” Emma cried softly.
“They’ve got to be here somewhere.” That was another growly male voice, not one Fran recognized.
The grass rustled, getting closer. She was out of time to spirit Emma away.
“You’ve got to go,” she told her sister.
“Not without you.”
She attempted to reach to the horse’s back, but her foot caught in her skirt and there was no way she could pull herself up on the large animal without help or a stepping block.
“Emma, go!”
She slapped the horse’s rump at the same moment that a yellow square of lamplight shone on them, lighting Fran’s form and the horse’s backside.
Blessedly, Emma remained in shadow as the horse thundered away into the night. Fran prayed it ran fast and right to Edgar.
“Hey!” an unknown male voice called out.
She lifted her skirts and ran. The long grasses clung to her.
She could hear the loud huffs of someone, several someones, following her.
There was nowhere to hide. In the open prairie, there were no trees or bushes.
She was disoriented, trying to remember in which direction the cattle were located.
She dared not call out. What if Underhill’s men had done something to Edgar and the cowboys? If she made too much noise, it would be a beacon for the men behind her to find her.
Her breaths came in gasps. She tried to stifle them, trying with all her might to be silent as she ran through the night.
“Get her!” came a shout from behind—closer than before?
Could she just lie down in the grass? What would keep the men from finding her?
She kept running, desperate.
Where were Edgar’s cowboys? Surely she should have run right into them by now.
Lungs burning, mind spinning, she cried out when someone grabbed her arm and twisted it brutally.
“Gotcha now, girl,” said an angry, huffing voice.
She struggled, jerking and kicking and spitting. Trying everything she could to get away.
She connected with something—the man’s shin, maybe?—and his hold loosened. She ripped her arm away and tried to run again, but smacked into a hard body. A second man.
She screamed as loudly as she could.
Until a dirty hand clapped over her mouth. “No one close enough to hear ya, missy,” said a smooth, cold voice.
She struggled again, but it was no use. One of them cruelly yanked her arm behind her back, sending a spike of pain up through her shoulder and making her cry out, the sound muffled behind the hand blocking her breathing.
“She ain’t going nowhere,” the man holding her grunted. “What about the other one?”
“She wasn’t at the wagon. Abe thought he saw a boy rushing away on a horse. Hard to see in the dark.”
“Let’s go see if Abe caught up to the kid, then.”
Fran struggled frantically as they dragged her back toward the wagon.
Thoughts screaming, she couldn’t find air and the edges of her vision began to blacken.
Emma. Did Emma get away?
Chapter Sixteen
The sky was slate gray when Edgar startled awake.
In the swirling haze between sleep and consciousness, he’d remembered the wedding vows he’d spoken to Fran days before. He’d promised to honor her and comfort her.
And to love her.
He wasn’t a man to break a promise.
The shock of the realization—what he’d promised all those days before—held him immobile, leaning back against the large, flat rock he’d found in the night.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, not with the threat of Underhill’s men hanging around.
Now, trying to shake the sleep from his noggin, his promise from their quick wedding service stuck in his mind, stuck in his craw.
He’d said he would love her.
And he did.
He loved her.
No matter that she might be a fugitive from the law or might’ve omitted something important the whole time he’d known her. None of that kept his emotions in check.
None of it kept his heart safe.
He already loved her.
She’d challenged him to be more than his past.
And he’d pushed her away.
From the start, she’d done more than he’d asked of her, even when what he was asking—like driving a team all day—was difficult for her.
She’d done everything she could to protect her sisters.
And wouldn’t he have done the same? He’d pitched that snake out into the night to keep it from even having a chance to bite Seb.
Would she be able to forgive him for not listening to her the night before, when she’d come to him?
He would imagine so.
Because unlike him, when bad things happened to her, like her parents’ death or her brother’s abandonment, she hadn’t shut down. Somehow she’d kept her heart open for a big lug like him.
He was astounded by what she’d given him, even if she hadn’t said the words.
He had to go to her.
He pushed himself off the ground, heading for his horse a few feet away. He’d left the animal saddled in case there w
as trouble in the night.
He was a little surprised that things had been quiet. He’d half expected Underhill to attempt something—either against the cattle or with the girls.
And then he registered the silence.
It was almost eerie in its totality.
No cowboys whistling. Not even a cricket chirping or a whippoorwill calling. The cattle were still, as if they were poised on the edge of...
Shots fired broke the early morning stillness and startled him.
His horse nickered and bobbed its head, but didn’t bolt.
Unlike the cattle.
They scattered.
He heard several surprised shouts from the other cowboys, but didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Several steers headed right for him and he jumped into the saddle, quickly guiding his horse to join them.
They jostled him until he was sure his leg was bruised. He gripped the horse with his thighs, fighting to stay on. Then he gained his seat and his horse got a burst of speed. He got in front of them far enough to look behind.
The cattle had gone in all directions, and he caught glimpses of the other cowboys riding along, trying to guide them into one cohesive group. Without much luck.
The largest group of cattle was headed to the east. Without anyone out front to try to turn them.
His stomach dropped, and fear coalesced in his veins.
Those cattle were headed straight for the wagon, where Fran and Emma were.
He hesitated.
Among the cattle like he was, he couldn’t turn his horse too sharply. If a steer plowed into the side of his animal, they’d both go down and be trampled.
He urged his horse in that direction as best he could, fighting through the cattle.
It was like riding through molasses. Like trying to swim across a raging river.
Nearly impossible.
He started praying that the girls had been awake, had heard the thundering hooves and had somehow known to get on one of the draft horses. If they could stay on the horse long enough for it to outrun the cattle, they might have a chance....
But then he remembered they were city girls. What if they’d thought the noise was a thunderstorm? After the last disaster, would they even stick their heads out of the canvas wagon cover to see?
Fran was smart. He had to remember that, to think positively.
They were going to survive this.
He kept pushing his horse, fighting through the cattle, but he could tell it was a losing battle.
Then he caught sight of Ricky doing the same from the opposite direction. Ricky was a little closer.
But the first of the cattle were also closing in on the wagon.
Edgar couldn’t see any movement around the wagon. Where were the girls?
The horses weren’t where they had ground tied them the night before.
Had the girls managed to escape somehow?
Or had the animals panicked and managed to tear their ties from the ground, only saving themselves?
Fear and desperation drove him to push his horse too hard. The animal stumbled, and Edgar desperately tried to right the both of them.
To no avail.
He cried out as his horse went down, surrounded by the horde of racing beasts.
* * *
“The big one went down.”
The man with the binoculars spoke, his voice slightly muffled.
With her hands tied in front of her and sitting on the horse behind one of Underhill’s men, Fran could only see some of the cattle racing around.
At the man’s words, everything went perfectly still and silent.
The big one?
Edgar?
She could see the other men’s mouths moving, knew the stampede must still be unfolding in the slight valley below them.
She couldn’t hear any of it.
Edgar had fallen? In the midst of the stampede?
Could he survive that?
She didn’t know, and the fear and desperation choked her. She closed her eyes, praying for Edgar, praying for Emma—the men, including the federal marshal, hadn’t found her in the dark, and Fran could only hope she’d reached one of the cowboys or was far, far away.
Edgar couldn’t be gone. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him what she should’ve told him the night before. That she loved him.
She’d chickened out because he’d distanced himself from her and because he’d been right—she should have told him about Underhill’s accusation from the start.
If she had, would they have gotten to this point? Would Edgar still be hurt—or worse? Emma lost and alone?
She didn’t know.
The horse shifted beneath her and she struggled to keep her balance with her hands bound.
“Let’s get her back to the boss,” one of the men said.
She ducked, hoping that her unbound hair obscured her face enough for them to think she was Emma. The longer they went without chasing after her sister, the safer Emma would be.
* * *
Edgar shoved to his feet, trying to shake off the jarring sensation of falling.
The horse had stumbled, and they’d both gone down, but blessedly, the animal seemed to be okay.
It struggled to its feet, eyes rolling and white around the edges, head raised in fear.
“Easy, boy,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the thundering hooves.
A steer brushed by, close enough to knock into Edgar’s shoulder. He staggered.
Kept his feet by sheer force of will.
He had to get to Fran.
The horse seemed to know the danger they were in—if they didn’t get up, they could be killed.
Edgar waited as the animal pushed to its feet and then threw his leg over its back.
They were moving again, Edgar feeling that he’d be battered and bruised tomorrow morning.
It didn’t matter.
He had to get to Fran.
He pushed his horse, edging toward the wagon.
He could see cattle crashing over where the wagon had been.
Heart in his throat, he wondered if they’d survived. They had to. He had unfinished business with Fran.
Ricky got close enough to take a look and shouted back to him, waving his hat.
That was either good or bad.
Edgar quit fighting the herd and spurred his horse.
He passed one of the rangy beasts. Another.
He kept going, even though his eyes blurred with emotion, and sweat poured into them and stung.
He kept pushing, because he had no choice.
An eternity passed, watching the backs of the steers, until he edged out in front. Looking to the side, Ricky had done the same.
There were two ways to stop a stampede. Wait for the cattle to tire themselves out, or get out in front and lead them in a circle.
Edgar and Ricky signaled each other and started turning the herd back to the south. It took time.
Time they didn’t have.
But the other choice was to let the cattle run and possibly hurt themselves, possibly damage homes or other people who might be out on the prairie.
Soon Matty, John and Chester joined them, pushing the cattle into a tighter and tighter circle, until they didn’t have anywhere else to go and had to stop in a tight bunch.
Edgar took off his hat, waving it in front of his face to cool the sweat from his brow. Ricky untied a handkerchief from around his neck and mopped his face.
“You all right?” Ricky asked. “Thought you were a goner. Nasty spill you took.”
“You fell?” Matty asked.
Edgar rolled his shoulders. “I’ll be sore in the morning. What about the girls
?”
Ricky shrugged, mouth tight. “Wagon was smashed to bits by the time I got there.”
Heart thundering, Edgar wheeled his horse. He trusted the other cowboys to take care of the cattle. He had to see for himself what had happened to the girls.
Ricky and Matty trailed him.
“What of Seb?” Edgar called over his shoulder.
“Dunno. He was on last watch with the girls. Didn’t see him with the cattle, either.”
Edgar had hopped off his horse even before they’d reached the wagon. Ricky was right—the wagon was crushed. One side had been completely obliterated; the other was in large pieces. Remains of food were mixed with grass and mud.
There was no sign of the girls.
Heart in his throat, Edgar turned over the largest piece of the wagon—part of the bottom panel. He was afraid of what he would find beneath, but only found hoofprints and smashed grass. No blood.
“They’re not here,” he said. “They’re not here.” Repeating the words sent a wave of relief spiraling through him. Sharp and painful and joyful enough to cover his eyes with the sheen of tears.
Fran was still alive. Somewhere.
“You all right? You got pale all of a sudden,” Matty observed.
“Yeah.” He turned in a circle, scanning the horizon. “Any sign of the draft horses?”
Ricky took a turn looking around. “I haven’t seen ’em since last night when they were tied by the wagon. What’re you thinking?”
“The girls have got to be somewhere,” he said. “Either they got on the horses and escaped—”
“Or Underhill and his men have got them.”
Edgar went to his horse, grabbed his rifle. “You thinking the stampede was meant to be a diversion?”
“Could be.” Matty shoved back his hat.
Ricky had been quiet and serious since they’d gotten back to the wagon.
The morning sun was bright and warm on his shoulders. Edgar’s mind spun, trying to determine the best course of action.
He was a planner, someone who looked at every angle before he acted.
But if Underhill had the girls, he didn’t have time to plan. If the man had caused the stampede to delay Edgar from following him, he could already have a lead on them.
And where was Seb?
Where were the horses? If they tracked down the horses, would they find the girls?
The Wrangler's Inconvenient Wife Page 19