Duffel Bags And Drownings

by Howell, Dorothy

  “I need a receipt,” Nick said.

  Carmen was busy counting the day’s payments so I wrote out a receipt. When I looked up again I caught him eyeing the office, using his police detective X-ray vision to check out my trash can, no doubt.

  “Here,” I said, distracting him with the receipt.

  Nick tucked it inside his checkbook, then headed for the door. I followed. Once outside, he looked back and gave me a half grin.

  Nick had a grin other men would have paid serious bucks for. The kind of grin that made women melt into their shoes. For a second, I got lost in that grin. I started to melt.

  Katie Jo had reacted the same way. How many other women had, too?

  I locked the door, shut down my computer and left the office.

  * * *

  The neighborhood seemed oddly quiet when I pulled up in front of the Sullivan house. No one was outside. No kids played in the yards. No music blared from the nearby houses, no dogs barked. The sun was going down, the light fading.

  I got out of my car and climbed onto the porch. The front door stood open a few inches. I knocked and the door swung open a little more. A lamp burned in the living room and the television played softly; it sounded like a basketball game was on.

  “Mr. Sullivan? Hello?” I called.

  I figured I’d find him asleep in front of the TV so I stepped inside and leaned around the corner.

  No one was there. I walked farther into the room. Movement off to my right, down the hallway, caught my attention a fraction of a second before a man barreled into me. He hit me on the right shoulder and knocked me backwards. I stumbled over something and sat down hard on my butt, my feet flying into the air, my head thumping on the side of the recliner. Stunned, I sat there for a second or two, then scrambled to my feet more mad than hurt.

  “Hey!” I shouted. But I was talking to myself. The man was gone, the front door slammed shut.

  I straightened my clothes, restoring some sort of personal dignity. A minute passed before it occurred to me that I still hadn’t seen the Sullivans.

  “Mr. Sullivan?” I called.

  I crept down the hallway and peered into the first bedroom on the left.

  Mr. Sullivan lay on the floor. Dead.

  In the mood for a little mystery and romance?

  You’ll find it in the light, funny historical romance

  Maggie and the Law

  that Dorothy writes under the pen name Judith Stacy

  When young, pretty academic Maggie Peyton heads West on the trail of a stolen ancient artifact, she finds more than she bargained for when she butts head with Spence Harding, a man who seems to know her every move!

  Chapter 1

  Colorado, 1889

  Men looked different when you were flat on your back.

  At least, this one did.

  Maggie Peyton gazed up at the man whose face hovered above hers. Dark, smoldering eyes bored into her. A corner of his lip turned back in a snarl. Hot breath puffed from his nose.

  The hard floor pressed painfully against Maggie’s back. His knees brushed her thighs. His long fingers pinned her shoulders down.

  Bewildered, Maggie just stared at him.

  For the last two hours he’d sat on the stagecoach seat across from her, rudely stretching out his legs to take up most of the room, but slouched down with his hat over his face seemingly sleeping—seemingly harmless. They were the only two passengers on board, and he’d barely spoken to her, except to introduce himself.

  Then suddenly, a moment ago, this Mr. Spence Harding had bolted upright, grabbed her, dragged her onto the floor and jumped atop her. She’d been too stunned to think, to move. Now—

  “Get off of me!” Maggie swung at him. Her palm slapped against his ear and jaw with a loud crack. His head whipped around. He loosened his grip.

  Maggie scrambled away, kicking at his thighs. She rolled onto her side, trying to get to her feet.

  He grabbed her, easily turning her onto her back again.

  A scream tore from her throat. Blindly, she batted at him, slapping his face, his shoulder, his chest.

  “Settle down!” His voice, deep and guttural boomed as he grabbed both her hands. “The stage—”

  “Let me go!”

  “Be still!” He stretched her hands above her head and held them down.

  Maggie’s thoughts raced. No one else on board. No one to help her, except perhaps the driver up top. But could he even hear her screams above the thundering of the horses’ hooves, the creak of the coach, the rush of the wind?

  Panic overwhelmed her. Maggie kicked wildly, blindly, furiously.

  “I told you, lady, just—yeow!” Spence grimaced, then anchored his leg over hers and slapped his hand across her mouth.

  Maggie’s heart pounded. She struggled, desperate to escape his grasp. He’d pinned her to the floor. She was helpless, totally at his mercy.

  Bile rose in Maggie’s throat. Her worst fear. When she’d made the decision to leave New York, take this trip west—totally alone—her personal safety had been a concern. But she’d never expected this.

  Maggie gulped as she looked up at Spence Harding. Beneath the brim of his black hat, his thick dark brows bunched together. His jaw tensed as his lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

  The man was an animal. A beast. And he was huge. She’d noticed that the instant the two of them had boarded the stagecoach this afternoon in Keaton. Big shoulders and arms. Long legs. Meaty hands.

  He’d ravish her. Murder her. Toss her body out of the moving coach. She’d never be heard from again. Her father would wait and worry, wonder what had become of his only child.

  A little mewl gurgled in Maggie’s throat as the man leaned down. She squeezed her eyes shut, her mind screaming in revulsion.

  His leg shifted against hers. Maggie’s eyes popped open. No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let this happen. She hadn’t come this far, traveled for so long on such an important mission to have it end like this.

  Maggie lurched, bared her teeth, and bit into his hand.

  Spence jerked away. “Goddamn, son of a—”

  Maggie wrestled from his grasp, groping for the seat, struggling to escape. Two big hands grasped her hips and sat her down hard on the floor. Spence glared at her, his eyes blazing.

  “Stay down, before you get your fool head shot off,” he commanded. “The stage is being robbed.”

  Maggie froze. Her gaze darted to the window, then back to him again. “The—what?”

  “Outlaws are riding in.” Spence drew his gun and rolled onto his knees, creeping toward the window. “The stage is being robbed. Stay on the floor.”

  She realized then that the stagecoach had picked up speed, bouncing and bucking worse than usual.

  “Well, why didn’t you simply say so?” Maggie demanded. Anger bubbled up inside her, chasing away the fear. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand? That I couldn’t grasp the concept? Did you—”

  “For chrissake, lady, shut up!” He glanced back at her. “And get down on the floor!”

  “Well!” Maggie glared right back at him. “Why don’t you get on the floor?”

  He raised from a crouch to peek out the window, then dipped his head and looked back at her.

  “I’ve already been slapped, kicked and bit,” Spence said. “I’ll take my chances with the outlaws.”

  He turned back to the window and eased upward, his gun at the ready. Maggie rose to her knees, craning her neck to see around him.

  Outside, men on horseback raced through the rugged terrain alongside the stagecoach. They would overtake the stage in moments.

  Such a spectacle. Maggie stared, mesmerized by the churning of the horses’ legs, the men’s dusters snapping behind them, their hat brims bending in the wind, their drawn weapons.

  She’d never witnessed such a sight. Not once, in all her travels with her father to the farthest corners of the world. Oh, if only he could be here to see this. How intrigued he would be.r />
  A gunshot pierced the air. Spence retuned fire, then ducked, saw her peeking over his shoulder and pulled her to the floor.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, lady? Stay down.”

  Another volley of gunfire sounded. Answering shots rang out, and Maggie guessed it came from the driver up top. A bullet tore through the door of the stagecoach, splintering the wood. Maggie gasped and flattened herself against the bucking floor. Spence pressed himself atop her.

  “They’re—they’re really shooting at us,” she whispered.

  His face hovered inches above hers. Their gazes met and held in a long, lingering look. His features that had seemed so hostile, so forbidding only a short while ago, softened. The moment stretched endlessly. The two of them—strangers—caught in an age-old struggle for life itself.

  “Are they going to kill us?” she asked.

  His jaw tightened. “Not if I can help it.”

  He tried to rise but Maggie grasped his shirt with both hands and yanked him down again. Visions of her life at her father’s side flashed in her mind. Endless hours spent in lecture halls, dusty libraries and museums. Treks to tiny towns, remote villages, ancient ruins.

  “I can’t die,” she wailed. “I haven’t even lived yet.”

  Spence caught her wrists. “Look, lady—”

  “I’ve never married,” Maggie exclaimed. “Never produced a child, never even known a man!”

  “I’d be happy to oblige you, honey, but all that takes a little more time than I’ve got right now.” Spence pulled her hands free of his shirt and crept to the window.

  Maggie pushed herself up, the meaning of his words dawning on her. Her cheeks flamed. “You think I wanted you to—to … right here in the stagecoach!”

  Spence swore an oath, then fired his pistol out the window. Gunshots answered. He ducked, bobbed up and fired again, then dropped to the floor, his back braced against the seat.

  “There’re three of them coming in, covering both sides of the stage,” Spence said, his fingers quick and sure as he reloaded his pistol.

  The stagecoach slowed. Maggie lifted her head. “Is it really a good idea to stop now?”

  He spared her a quick glance. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “Well, no. Actually, I’m from—”

  A gunshot boomed outside. Maggie gasped and ducked. The stagecoach stopped with a lurch. She lifted her gaze to see Spence pointing his pistol at one of the outlaws through the coach window. He didn’t fire, though, as the other man pointed a rifle back at him. She looked out the window on the other side of the stage and saw two more outlaws pointing guns at them.

  “Give me that gun and come on out of there,” one of the outlaws said.

  Spence glared at him for a few seconds, then glanced behind him and saw the others.

  Maggie gulped. They were caught in a crossfire. Their situation was hopeless. He didn’t stand a chance. Yet several tense seconds dragged by before Spence tossed his pistol out the window and got to his feet.

  Bending low, he caught Maggie’s arms and helped her up. Her limbs felt stiff, wooden. She wasn’t sure she could stand on her own.

  Spence leaned into her and spoke quietly. “Do whatever they say. Give them whatever they want.” His brows drew together. “And keep your mouth shut.”

  Maggie followed him out of the stagecoach, her heart pounding and her knees trembling. He lifted her to the ground and stepped in front of her.

  Good gracious, the man was tall. Maggie couldn’t even see over his shoulder. He was wide and sturdy and strong, a formidable wall of protection in front of her.

  She caught glimpses of the outlaws as they went about their work. Hard, weather-beaten faces. Dusty, unkempt clothing. If not thieves, they could have been farmers or miners. What had caused these seemingly ordinary men to turn to a life of crime? Maggie wondered.

  While one of the men—the leader, she supposed—remained on his horse holding them at gunpoint, the other two climbed aboard the stagecoach.

  “Driver’s dead,” one of them called out.

  Maggie’s stomach lurched. Dead? The man was dead? She gulped and said a quick prayer.

  An oath so vile Maggie didn’t know what some of the words meant rang out from the top of the coach. “There’s no strongbox.”

  The man on horseback cursed, then shook his head. “We’ll take the team,” he said, then waved his rifle toward Maggie and Spence. “See what they got on them.”

  Both men jumped to the ground. The bigger of the two began unhitching the horses from the stagecoach, while the other approached Spence.

  “Empty your wallet,” he said.

  Spence shifted his weight as he towered over the robber. Maggie sensed the tension in Spence, coiled like a snake ready to strike. His face in profile, she saw his tight jaw, his eyes as they flickered from the robber in front of him to the leader holding the rifle. For an instant, Maggie was sure she saw his mind working. Calculating. Looking for a way to get the upper hand.

  Then finally, Spence pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed over a handful of bills.

  The outlaw turned to Maggie. He was young, she realized, seeing his smooth jaw and the few whiskers that had pushed through. Not much taller than herself, he was thin and bony in ill-fitting clothes, a shock of unruly hair sticking out from under his battered hat. She guessed him to be considerably younger than her own twenty-two years.

  So young and already his life had taken this desperate turn. Maggie just looked at him. Oh, if only her father could be here to see this.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He squinted at her. “How’s that?”

  “Your name,” Maggie repeated.

  “It’s Henry,” he said, and shifted uncomfortably. “Now, you gotta give me your money, ma’am.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, how old are you?”

  Spence turned and looked at her with bulging eyes. “Shut up,” he hissed.

  The boy glanced at the man on horseback, then back at Maggie again. “Look, ma’am, you’ve got to—”

  “Fifteen? Sixteen?” Maggie asked. She looked him up and down. “Where is your mother?”

  Spence glared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “My mama’s dead,” Henry said, and stole a furtive glance at the gang leader once more. “Now, would you just give me your money—”

  “Your mother is dead and this is what you’ve chosen to do with your life?” Maggie shook her head, trying to comprehend. She spread her arms. “What on earth made you do such a thing? Does it seem exciting? Did you do poorly at school? Have you no education? What was the turning point for you?”

  The boy turned to Spence. “Is she not right in the head, or something?”

  “Crazy as a loon.” Spence caught her arm and leaned down. “Give the kid your money.”

  Maggie jerked away from him. “I am not crazy. How dare you say such a thing! I’m merely asking—”

  A gunshot pierced the air. Maggie jumped. The gang leader nudged his horse and rode closer. “What the hell is going on over here?”

  Henry gestured to Maggie. “Something’s wrong with her.”

  The gang leader gave her a slow once-over. “She looks okay to me. Looks damn fine.”

  Maggie flushed at the man’s bold gaze. Yet she couldn’t let go of her concern for the boy.

  “What possessed you to employ this boy in your … organization?” she asked. “Have you no regard for the young mind that is, at this very moment, being warped—perhaps permanently?”

  “See?” Henry waved his hand at Maggie, as if she’d just confirmed his point.

  All the men stared at her, bringing a new flush to Maggie’s face and a wave of anger with it.

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Now see here—”

  “She’s my wife’s sister,” Spence said. “I’m taking her to the asylum at Henderson.”

  “What?�
� she exclaimed. “How dare you suggest that I am somehow—”

  He caught her arm again. “Calm down now, Sis. It’s really for the best.”

  She jerked away from him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Shut up!” The gang leader waved his rifle again. “Tie them up and let’s get out of here.”

  Henry fetched rope from his saddlebag and tied Spence’s hands behind him, then turned to Maggie. He eyed her warily, as if afraid to come too close.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I got to tie you up. But first, you gotta give me your money.”

  Maggie felt Spence’s gaze boring into her. She ignored him. “My handbag is inside the stagecoach.”

  Henry slipped behind her and tied her wrists. Maggie pressed her lips together to keep from crying out as the rough material dug into her flesh.

  She watched helplessly as the boy hopped into the stagecoach and emerged with her handbag.

  “Excuse me?” she called. “But, if you don’t mind, could you leave me just a little money?”

  “For chrissake …” Spence mumbled.

  Henry looked down at the handbag. “I don’t think I’m allowed to do that, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, at least leave me the bag itself.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Do you feel you must take it? Why?” Maggie asked. “Is it some sort of trophy? A keepsake? Do you feel compelled to take everything you possibly can, as a way, perhaps, to make up for no longer having your mother?”

  Henry frowned, then shook his head and threw Spence a sympathetic look. “Good luck.”

  “Wait!” Maggie called, as he walked away. “If you could just tell me—”

  “Shut the hell up!” Spence roared.

  Maggie pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes at him, then jerked her chin and turned away.

  The outlaws mounted up. Maggie’s stomach lurched. They rode off with the four-horse team from the stagecoach, as well as nearly every cent she had in the world.

  Not only that, but they’d left her trussed like a Christmas goose, alone in the wilderness, miles from civilization, in the company of this dreadful Mr. Spence Harding.