Special Delivery

by Gini Rifkin

  “Well now, ain’t you a pretty bit of fluff,” the man leered and scrambled to his feet.

  “Who are you? What do you want? I don’t have any money with me.”

  “I needs a ride, not money,” he barked.

  “There’s no room in the wagon. I’ve a very sick patient in there. She has the cholera.”

  The horrid dirty man took a step back from her. Good, that had scared him. Maybe he would let her go without incident. As he stood pondering the situation, she hurried toward the wagon intending to quickly get underway.

  “Mariah, what’s going on? Do you need any help?”

  In her mind she willed Mrs. Newsome to be silent and not say anything more. To her dismay the woman actually stood up in the buckboard to see what was happening. “Who is that man? He’s holding a gun.” There she was in all her pregnant glory, big as a house and hard to miss.

  The man rushed over and grabbed Mariah by one arm. “She ain’t sick, you little liar, she’s got a bun in the oven is all. Get moving.”

  Dragging her the remainder of the way to the wagon, he shoved her up onto the seat and leaped up beside her.

  “You,” he said waving the pistol at Mrs. Newsome, “sit down and close yer yap or this one gets a bullet.”

  With a strangled sound, Mrs. Newsome crouched down in the straw, wrapping her arms around her belly as if to protect the babies to which she’d yet to give birth.

  Mariah sat frozen in fear, heart pounding, her mind racing but going nowhere. What should she do? Protecting her patient was her utmost concern.

  “Why don’t we let Mrs. Newsome out of the wagon? She’d be more comfortable over there in the shade. There’s no point in having her slow us down on the way to town.”

  “I ain’t leaving no witnesses lollygaggin’ around, and we ain’t going to town. Now get a move on and take that turnoff to the right.”

  “You want to go to Morgan Blackwell’s ranch?”

  “I don’t know who owns the place, but that’s where I wants to go.”

  Seeing no choice, she clucked at Tillie and the wagon jerked into motion.

  “Faster,” he demanded, poking her in the ribs with the muzzle of the gun.

  She cast a glance in Mrs. Newsomes’ direction. The woman was white as a store-bought sheet, her face grimaced in what Mariah hoped was fear and not pain.

  “We really shouldn’t—”

  Her protest was cut short as the man reached over and slapped the reins across Tillie’s rump. The mare gave a snort of surprise and picked up the pace.

  “When we get to the house, you tell them the lady couldn’t make it to town and she needs to rest inside a bit.” He raked his hat from his head and laid it over the pistol to hide it from sight.

  As they careened to a halt at the ranch house, the man gave out a halloo that brought Morgan running. To her surprise Molly Malloy was right behind him, her eyes big as gander eggs, her mouth open in silent wonder.

  “What goes on here?” Morgan demanded, stepping closer to the buckboard.

  Mrs. Newsome gave a yelp capturing all their attention and making any further explanation rather moot. “I think the babies are coming,” she gritted, grabbing onto the sideboard until her knuckles turned white.

  “Holy… Well, get her inside,” Morgan said, with surprising compassion. “Who the hell are you?” he added, sizing up the other passenger and apparently not liking what he found.

  “Why, I’m no one for you to be concerned about, Gov’nor,” the man replied, sliding to the ground.

  Mariah debated on telling Morgan the truth, but the man still held his gun hidden beneath his hat and this was no time for bullets to be flying.

  Molly, her female sympathy apparently overriding her dislike for Mariah, lent a hand getting Mrs. Newsome out of the wagon and into the house.

  “There’s a bedroom up that flight of steps and then down the hall,” Morgan instructed.

  “It’s too late,” Mariah countered, nodding toward the wet floor.

  Mrs. Newsome’s water had broken and the babies were on the way. They guided her to the nearby divan and covered her with a quilt.

  “We need towels, more blankets, boiling water, and some twine to tie off the cords.”

  For a moment it seemed people were running in every direction. Then a gunshot rang out and everyone came to an abrupt halt.

  “Dammit to hell,” Morgan growled, taking a menacing step forward.

  “You want to explain it, ducks, or should I?” the man with the gun asked, staring straight at Molly.

  “He’s my cousin, Benny,” Molly spat. “And a curse on the family if ever there was one.”

  “And…” Benny prompted.

  “And he needs money. Oh Morgan,” she pleaded, turning toward Blackwell, “he promised to leave the country, but he needs more cash. I’ll pay you back. You know I’m good for it. Just do as he says. He won’t hesitate to use that gun.”

  “You’re the murdering s.o.b. who killed the Englishman,” Morgan said. “And you’re the reason that Scotland Yard fellow is here. For a while, I thought...” He never finished the sentence, and an expression of relief relaxed his features. “I have a few dollars on hand. You can have it if you leave peaceable.”

  “I make the rules, mister. And now I sees this place, I think I’ll be getting more than just a fistful of cash.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Virgil jammed his hat on tight and rode hard toward Morgan’s ranch. He’d been scoping out another area in the foothills when he’d spotted Mariah in her buckboard down below on the main road. Mariah and a man with a gun.

  Fear churned in his stomach and bile burned in the back of his throat. At this distance, he’d been lucky to see her at all. If only he wasn’t so far away. Jaw clenched, he tried to concentrate on the downhill pebble-slick trail he was flying over rather than the terrible scenarios playing through his mind.

  This had to be the man he and Wentworth were hunting, but what was he doing heading for Morgan’s place, and why did Mariah have to cross paths with him? If anything happened to her, he didn’t know if he would survive. Didn’t know if he’d want to. Was the old adage true? Lucky in cards, unlucky in love. He swore he’d never gamble again, never touch a deck of cards as long as he lived—he’d bargain anything to keep her safe.

  His horse took the last hillock on its haunches, hit flat prairie, and sprinted forward. Please God, let me be in time. When he’d been in prison, he’d thought in increments of minutes, hours, and days. It was the only way to not go crazy. Now he’d begun thinking of the future, a future including Mariah.

  A cloud of dust on the road up ahead grabbed his attention. Someone was coming this way at a flat-out gallop. Virgil careened to a halt at the turnoff and waited. It was Wentworth, on a big gelding belonging to Jed, the saloon keeper. Arthur sawed on the reins trying to stop the spirited horse, but they kept on going. Then with a curse and sheer willpower, he turned the animal and came up alongside.

  “Glad you’re here,” Virgil began. “Follow me. The man we’re after is up at Morgan’s, and Mariah’s there too.”

  “Mariah? This is worse than I thought. I just stopped by Molly’s to speak to her, but she wasn’t around so I searched her room. Found a note from Morgan inviting her out here today, and found evidence someone was staying with her.”

  “What kind of evidence?” He slowed to a canter so he could hear Wentworth’s reply.

  “Two plates and cups, a makeshift bed on the floor, and this.”

  Virgil caught the coin Arthur tossed in the air. It was a small foreign looking piece with a picture on it.

  “It’s an English penny. Apparently our boy has been staying with Molly. I ran across her earlier today in the stables. She was renting a pony and cart, and when I asked to see her this evening, she flat turned me down. Was cold as hoarfrost, wouldn’t look me in the eye or tell me where she was going. After such an abrupt change in attitude, I knew something was up.”

 
“Dang, they must all be holed up in there together. I say we cut through those pines and come up on the south side.”

  ****

  “Molly girl, let’s go see what this palatial abode has to offer.”

  “I’ll do no such thing, Benny. Take the cash and get the hell out of here.”

  Mrs. Newsome let out a cry of pain, and Mariah’s attention snapped back to her patient. The contractions were coming faster. “We’ll be just fine,” she whispered reassurance and readied two thick towels to receive the infants. The babies had turned, that was a good sign.

  “Just keep breathing, pant like a dog on a hot summer’s day, don’t push yet,” she instructed.

  As she leaned over to place a pillow behind Mrs. Newsome, Benny grabbed it, stripped off the case, and threw the pillow back in her face. He thrust the empty cotton case at Molly.

  “Fill this up with some of that expensive bric-a-brac,” he ordered.

  “I won’t,” she refused.

  “Don’t make me shoot me own cousin,” Benny threatened.

  Turning her back to the room to create a bit of privacy, Mariah helped Mrs. Newsome into the birthing position. The first baby was crowing. “Push now,” she encouraged, “push hard.”

  As her brave patient cried in pain and followed orders, Mariah guided the infant’s shoulders out, and the first babe slipped free into the world. “It’s a boy,” she announced. Not quite full term, he was smaller than he should be, but he gave a lusty cry, arms and legs waving. She tied off the cord, cut between the twines, swaddled the baby, and prepared for the arrival of the next.

  “Stop all that caterwauling,” Benny shouted.

  “You truly are a heartless bastard,” Molly hollered back. Fist raised, she took a step forward.

  At the sound of unexpected gunfire, Mariah nearly jumped out of her skin, and this time Mrs. Newsome screamed in fear not pain. Molly staggered backward, collapsed beside the divan, and passed out. A bloody stain appeared on her right shoulder growing larger and larger. Mariah grabbed a spare towel and pressed it to the wound to staunch the bleeding. Good Lord, what next?

  “I think the second baby is coming,” Mrs. Newsome moaned.

  ****

  Virgil could hardly breathe for the fear crowding his chest. He swung down from his horse, crouched low, and ran toward the house. He was sure he’d heard gunfire.

  His own revolver out and ready, he gained the outside wall, flattened his back up against it, and edged sideways toward an open window. Wentworth was only one step behind, and as they drew closer, both men stopped short and looked at one another.

  “Is that a baby crying?” Virgil whispered.

  “I believe so,” Wentworth agreed.

  Easing forward, Virgil peeked in the window then quickly drew back.

  “Holy crap”

  “What?” Wentworth prodded.

  “They’re in there all right, all of them plus Mrs. Newsome and a new baby. It looks like Molly’s been shot and our murderer has the drop on Morgan.”

  “Bloody hell. What’s the plan?”

  Plan? He didn’t have a damn plan, and everything he quickly considered seemed liable to place Mariah in more danger. His guts tightened into a knot. Doing nothing wasn’t an option either.

  “This one’s a girl, Mrs. Newsome.”

  He heard Mariah’s joyous voice and was filled with pride. There she was in the midst of deadly chaos delivering babies. Bringing new life into the world at the risk of her own.

  “You sneak around to the front door and make some noise to distract them,” Virgil said. “When you have their attention, I’ll go in through the window. Once I’m inside, you come in and cover me, but be careful of crossfire.”

  Wentworth nodded. “Good luck old boy,” he whispered and slipped away.

  A few moments later, Virgil saw the man with the gun jerk to attention and turn toward the door. When he hurried across the room to investigate, Virgil grabbed the casement of the window and catapulted through the opening. He hit the floor rolling and fired off two rounds. Their quarry lay on the floor writhing in pain. Wentworth burst in through the door, kicked the man’s pistol out of reach, and held him at bay.

  Virgil scrambled to his feet, rushed across the room to Mariah, and crouched down at her side. She was sitting on the floor, holding a baby in one arm and applying pressure to Molly’s wound with her other hand. Mrs. Newsome was all smiles holding another baby. There was blood everywhere, on her clothing, on her hands, on the floor.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, frantically awaiting her answer.

  “I’m fine,” she reassured. “That man is Molly’s cousin, but she didn’t want anything to do with him. That’s what got her shot. We need to get her to Dad right away. And that man’s also the one who killed Mr. Underhill, and Mrs. Newsome had twins, just like Dad thought. One girl and one boy and I thought we were all going to die and…”

  He brushed her hair back from her face. She was wound tighter than a clock spring, talking so fast he could barely understand her. “Hush now.” He captured her mouth with his to stem the flow of chatter. When they came up for air, she leaned against him and sobbed.

  “Thank you for saving us. I was so scared.”

  “Who wouldn’t be,” he acknowledged, slipping one arm across her shoulders. “But you’re all right now, darlin’,” he crooned and rocked her to and fro. “You’re all right now, my brave and beautiful Mariah. And after we’re married, I intend to make sure you stay that way.”

  Epilogue

  Clover City, two months later.

  A smile on her face, Mariah sashayed down the boardwalk to the marshal’s office—make that her husband’s office. Not long after the case was solved, they had been married, and today was their one-month wedding anniversary.

  Her smile grew wider as she glanced at the beautiful ring on her finger. She loved Virgil with all her heart, adored their cottage, and as the season turned to true fall, she reveled in her happiness as if it were warm sunshine. Dad was fully recovered and had been proud as a rooster walking her down the aisle, the Newsome twins were hale and hearty, and all was right with the world.

  Pie in one hand, she pushed open the door with the other, and caught Virgil sitting at his desk ready to nod off.

  “Good thing I’m not a no-account with ill intent. You’d have been a goner,” she teased.

  He leaped to his feet, gave a sheepish grin at having been caught near napping, and then sauntered over to her side. “It’s your fault I never get any sleep at night.” He kissed her hard on the mouth. “And if your intent is not ill then exactly what is it?”

  She presented him with the pie, barred the door, and hand upon his chest walked him backward to his desk. “In order to properly celebrate our one month anniversary, I thought we should re-enact the first time we made love. My intent is therefore naughty, wicked, and wayward.”

  “Works for me,” he laughed, and set the pie aside.

  “What’s that?” she asked, noting the special delivery letter on his desk.

  He snagged the envelope. “It’s from Wentworth, addressed to the both of us. Here, read it.”

  She urged him into his chair and sat crosswise on his lap. “Read it to me,” she suggested, cuddling against his chest.

  He wrapped one arm around her and cleared his throat.

  “We arrived safely in London following a brief stop in New York City. Molly’s Aunt was in excellent health, Benny’s threats having been all bark and no bite. Benny did not fare as well. His wounds became infected and he died before we left for England. I believe it to be a blessing as it will relieve Scotland Yard of a lengthy trial involving the Queen and will also relieve Molly of the horror of losing a relative to a Newgate hanging.

  Hope all is well with the two of you. Are you married yet? Keep in touch old boy, and don’t let her get away.

  With gratitude and fond memories.

  Chief of Detectives, Arthur Wentworth”

  “Chief
of Detectives,” she noted. “He’s been promoted then. Do you think he’ll take his own advice and marry Molly?”

  “They make quite the pair,” Virgil admitted. “Molly turned his world upside down, and he straightened hers out.”

  “In the end she was a decent sort. I hope things work out for her.”

  She nuzzled Virgil’s neck, and he groaned in that special way meaning he was interested.

  “Enough talk,” she insisted.

  Reaching for his waist, she tugged at the leather and released his belt.

  “You’re a hardheaded woman, Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “And you’re just plain hard, Marshal” she noted, inching her fingers down inside his denim pants.

  Their lips met with familiar need, remembered passion, and renewed desire. Virgil played his hands up her spine and entwined his fingers in her hair. The letter from Wentworth crackled between them as her bosom crushed up against his chest. The sharp edge of paper nipped at her skin where her dress was open at her neck. She drew back. Virgil grabbed the parchment and tossed it aside.

  “If we keep this up,” he declared, sliding his hand up under her skirt, “it won’t be long until we have a special delivery of our own.”

  “Let’s make sure,” she murmured, surrendering to his touch.

  A word about the author...

  I live and play in Colorado on a little patch of land near the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

  When I’m not reading or writing, I’m caring for my Noah’s ark of abandoned farm animals including ducks, geese, goats, donkeys, and cats. Having grown up with only a small dog and a hamster for pets, it’s been a real learning experience. In a few more years, I’m sure they will have me perfectly trained.

  I hope your life is filled with love. For an extra spoonful, keep reading those romance novels and come visit me at http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com and www.ginirifkin.com.