Sahara Splendor
Page 26
“I was ready to go in and check for a pulse,” a voice teased from the direction of the corrals.
Madigan turned and answered Mike’s wave. He had a proud, prancing pair of blacks in harness, hitched to an old buggy they used for training, and the sight made Dan feel better immediately. “The message Jenny lured me home with said rustlers were stealing us blind, threatening her life. I gather her imagination was having an active day when she sent it?”
Glascock laughed. “We did ship out about fifty mounts, when the army informed us they needed additional horseflesh to carry out Mrs. Spade’s orders for station protection,” he commented wryly, “but I think the only threat to Jennifer came in the form of two proposals from her beaux in St. Louis. Or that’s what she told us, anyway.”
“Ah. Well, she was never cut out to be a spinster,” Madigan replied.” Hated like hell to announce we were kin the way I did, but she damn near killed me in that tub. Thanks for pulling her off.”
The trainer brought his horses to a halt at the fence, a teasing gleam in his eye. “Your new wife’s worn you out till you were too weak to defend yourself, I take it? I was a mite surprised she’d have you, contrary as she is, but then, you always had a way around women. Congratulations, Dan.”
Mike’s joshing pierced his heart, and he bit back a confession about the true state of his union with Sahara. “Things happen when we least expect them,” he said, hoping he sounded sly rather than sorry. “So—we’re all right here, then?”
“Till Miss Jenny came home, we managed just fine, thank you,” he replied wryly. Then he studied Dan a moment, stroking the shapely head of the Morgan that stomped impatiently beside him. “Found something in town day before yesterday that you might be interested in. Tucked it under my pillow so you’d see it before anybody else did.”
Madigan felt the bottom of his stomach drop a notch, and with a nod to his trainer he strode into the bunkhouse. His boots clattered on the plank floor as he went from one unmade bed to the next, lifting pillows, feeling vaguely uneasy and wondering why. What could Mike have possibly found that was so all-fired important?
The next-to-last bunk yielded a folded page from the Atchison newspaper, and he snatched it up. Already the low building felt airless with the July heat, but the sweat trickling down his spine was nerves, plain and simple. The ordeals with Sahara and Jenny had taken more out of him than he’d thought if he couldn’t focus on the large, black type.
The full-page advertisement, with its bold headlines and artful sketches of pine forests and brawny loggers—and a likeness of Sahara herself—knocked the breath out of him. He dropped onto Mike’s bunk, thunderstruck.
WANTED: WOMEN TO WED, the top line proclaimed in a large arch, and the paragraph below described the plight of decent, hardworking lumberjacks doomed to a lonely existence amidst the grandeur of the northwestern forests, in words only Phineas Jenkins could’ve penned, to bring Sahara’s latest high-minded scheme to vivid life.
There was a post office address, and instructions concerning letters and photographs…allusions to financial assistance and living quarters for eligible, adventurous women left alone by the war or other misfortune. The place made the glowing advertisements for stagecoach passengers and homesteaders—journalism designed to lure thousands with its idyllic descriptions and glowing turn of phrase—read like a letter to one’s mother, by comparison. Madigan hurried back to the corrals with the page rolled tightly in his grip, and found the trainer waiting for him, his equine charges being handled by other men now.
“Is your brother in on this?” he demanded in a terse whisper.
“After what you said yesterday, I assumed you’d know the answer to that.”
It was the damndest sensation, realizing that Glascock knew something was amiss with his marriage, yet he was decent enough not to ask nosy questions.
“Beats anything I’ve ever seen,” the trainer went on, “and if I was an eligible, adventurous female, I’d have had my letter and likeness in the mail yesterday. Andy and his boys’ll think it’s the Second Coming…and the third, and the fourth—why, they’ll be so worn out, rescuing all that womanhood, they won’t be able to get their…axes up anymore.”
“You’re disgusting,” Madigan hissed, but he had to laugh. It seemed Sahara had once again grabbed the imaginations of all who read about her, and no matter how impetuous and unworkable this larger-than-life plan appeared, it at least told him exactly where she’d be in the coming months.
He looked at the page again, his gaze lingering on the sketch of a windblown imp wearing the confident grin he knew so well. His mind filled in the red-gold of her hair and the vibrant glow of her skin until he swore he smelled wildflowers.
“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered under his breath. His in-sides were tightening with desire, just thinking about her. Even after the public embarrassment she’d caused him, and the grueling miles he’d traveled to escape her memory, Sahara Spade Madigan tormented him—and would continue to, until he set things right with her…and maybe taught her a lesson in humility and respect for her man’s decisions.
And Madigan knew exactly how to do that.
Chapter 25
“If…I should die before we…reach Oregon, please watch after…my boy, and consider my possessions…your own.”
“Charlie says it’s just mountain sickness that’s bothering you,” Sahara assured her paler-than-usual friend. “Once we’re past the Rockies, we level off for a while. You’ll be fine when you get used to the thinner air.”
Roxanne gave her a wan smile that expressed halfhearted belief at best. Since leaving Denver, they’d been climbing steep, treacherous mountain roads so narrow that from the private coach’s window there appeared to be no road at all—only vast blue sky with a bottomless chasm below it. Sahara found the downward runs exhilarating, when the carriage swerved around the bends so fast the horses had to gallop to stay ahead of it, but Roxanne and Mitch were cut from more delicate cloth.
“H-how much farther did…you say it was?” she asked in a wispy voice.
“Two more days should put us in Salt Lake City. With Charlie driving us and Bobby handling the freight wagon, we’re in good hands,” she replied with a gentle smile. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
Roxanne’s eyes drifted shut, and Sahara sighed. She longed to be riding alongside Oswald, drinking in the magnificent panorama from these lofty peaks, but she felt guilty for the Pruitts’ suffering. Their faces took on a sickly green cast in the dimness of the coach; Mitch was napping fitfully on the opposite seat while his mother’s head rested in Sahara’s lap. Her porcelain features felt clammy, and she had no appetite…and although it was doubtful this mountain malady would plague them for much longer, it put a damper on their previously buoyant mood.
“Sometimes it helps to think happy thoughts,” Sahara said quietly. “Just imagine how grateful Andy Glascock and his men will be that we’ve got wives coming for them! And think of the excitement, watching the houses go up, and reading the ladies’ letters. We can put your piano in the parlor for evening sing-alongs—and to play at the weddings! And that sewing machine’ll be the answer to our prayers, come time to make curtains. You can give our little world a woman’s touch like I never could, Roxanne. I—I’m awfully glad you came along, and everyone else will be, too.”
She caught the faintest smile on Mrs. Pruitt’s waxen lips. Perhaps if she kept on prattling about such inconsequential things, Roxanne wouldn’t ask about the total distance they had to travel for all these pretty dreams to come true: it was nearly as far from Denver to Salt Lake City as they’d ridden on the original trip from Atchison—and the road northwest across Idaho that looped up to Fort Walla Walla and then west toward Portland seemed to stretch forever on the map Charlie’d shown her. Blind faith and babying were the only things that would keep Roxanne from giving up and going back to Denver.
And to what? These long hours in the creaking, swaying coach gave Sahara too much time to pond
er the events of the past two weeks. Where was Madigan by now? Had he seen her newspaper advertisements—or would he care what she was doing? Late at night, when chuck holes jostled her awake, she realized she’d been
reliving the good times with Dan in her dreams…realized how long this new journey would seem without his teasing suggestions that they slip away to make love.
She felt a glimmer of regret when she recalled storming out of the restaurant without listening to his explanations, because more than once his reasoning had saved her from looking like an inexperienced fool to the men she had to deal with. But that was all behind her now. Mistake or not, she’d live with it…keep herself too busy with her new life in the Northwest to worry about a handsome blond whose arrogance and inconsiderate ways had caused their falling-out.
Sahara glanced down, noting that Roxanne’s breathing was shallow but even now. She settled her head against the cushioned leather seat, letting the coach’s rocking and the creak of the thoroughbraces lull her into semi-sleep… Happy thoughts would keep her spirits up, too, so she imagined it was Dan resting on her lap, grinning up at her with those even, white teeth…
When the carriage lurched and then raced headlong down the mountainside, Roxanne spilled onto the floor with a weak scream. Sahara jerked awake, her heart hammering. The coach was out of control—grunts and swearing—sounds of a scuffle in the driver’s box, punctuated by gunshots coming from behind them—
“Damn you, Underwood, let me go-o-o—”
Charlie Oswald’s hoarse cry sent her scurrying to the window, and one glance at the endless precipice stretching along below them convinced Sahara not to look down anymore! Gripping the wooden framework, she clambered outside, pressing her body tightly against the careening coach to keep from flying off it. Her hair whipped crazily around her face, and her pulse was pounding so hard she couldn’t hear clearly; but if that was Tom Underwood swinging the huge fist she saw, making Oswald bleat in pain, they were in big trouble. The maverick mule skinner, who’d eluded Bobby and Charlie’s earlier search, had apparently ambushed them from a vantage point up the mountain.
When another gunshot echoed around them, she realized it was Bobby firing from the other wagon: he’d seen Underwood jump aboard. Somehow she pulled herself up until she could hook her arms around the luggage railing, and then swung her legs up to the edge of the roof
It was then she saw the dark, familiar grin on Tom Underwood’s dusky face. Oswald was apparently crumpled down in the boot—or, God forbid, he’d fallen off and she hadn’t seen him—so she alone, unarmed, confronted the criminal whose vengeance could’ve cost her thousands of dollars, and now their lives.
“Nothin’ like a ride in the country!” he jeered, “except your driver’s in no condition to keep you and your coach from flyin’ off the mountain down there at that next sharp curve. Might be worth your while to hire me back, Mrs. Spade!”
“Like hell!” she gasped, and immediately regretted it. Sweet-talking him—at least until they got the coach stopped and gave Bobby a straight shot—would’ve been the better ploy.
But the agate-eyed desperado was already reaching toward her, looking bent on prying her from the roof so that he could toss her into the canyon. “Say you’re sorry!” he snapped. “I’ve still got time to rein in the horses before we all get splattered against these rocks.”
“You thieving, no-good—”
His grip cut to the bone when he grabbed her forearm, and he yanked her forward as though she were a rag doll. Indeed she felt like one, all limp and mindless as boulders and scraggly trees and the descending side of the mountain blurred past them, faster and faster. Underwood’s black duster flapped around him. His black hat rode low over his brow, lending his grizzled face an evil nastiness that told her he didn’t really care if any of them survived this dizzying death race. He was just in it for the meanness.
When Sahara sensed he was about to fling her forward onto the backs of her frantic horses, a shot rang out, and Tom looked blankly at her. A third, red eye appeared between his other two, and he fell against the luggage rail with a groan she knew she’d never forget.
But it was no time to celebrate. Despite a stomach that was lurching against her rib cage, Sahara eased down onto the driver’s seat. Charlie Oswald lay in a heap in the boot, but he’d miraculously fallen against the reins. Desperately afraid he was dead, desperately calling up the instructions Fergus McGee had given, she took the light leather ribbons between her fingers and began to croon loudly to the six Morgans that were hauling them to certain disaster. She could see now that the road hit bottom just as it cut sharply out of sight to the left.
Was that her own sing-song she heard? Sahara felt suspended out of reality, detached from the rattling, jolting coach and the clatter of flying hooves… Instinct took over, and she thought they were slowing down— yet the coach suddenly teetered on two wheels and swooped until bile and fear rose in her throat—
And then they skittered to a stop. She had the presence of mind to pull forward several yards, just in time for Bobby’s heavier freight wagon to round the curve and halt without crashing into them.
Without further ado, Sahara leaned over the side and retched.
The valley they were in seemed to hold its breath for a moment, so complete was the silence. The next thing she knew, her brother was scrambling up beside her while the Pruitts stepped warily out to assess their situation.
“Sary, you okay?” Bobby demanded. “Soon’s I saw that black duster a-swoopin’ down—knew that sonofabitch had to be—you did some driving little sister!”
Sahara smiled weakly. Her brother rarely got so tongue-tied from concern and admiration. “Good horses,” she mumbled, and then her gaze fell to the two prone men in the driver’s box with her. “That fine shot of yours took care of Underwood, but I can’t tell if…I hope poor Charlie’s not—”
Bobby shoved the outlaw’s black-clad body aside so that he could reach down below the seat. “Well, he ain’t cold,” he said tersely, “but I cain’t tell—he’s so crumpled up—”
Intense relief shot through her when Oswald swore incoherently. “Careful! Ease him onto the seat, so we can see where he’s hurt. Roxanne!” Sahara exclaimed when she noticed the Pruitts gazing up at them from the roadside. “Bring a canteen and a lantern. It’ll soon be dark, and we need to patch him up.”
The slender blonde nodded, and the mission seemed to instill a new purpose in her. She sent Mitch after firewood, and then surprised them all by hoisting herself up to the seat and then to the roof, to pull a small black satchel from her trunk.
“Let’s wrap him in a blanket, and then use another one as a stretcher to get him down, before he comes around,” she said firmly. “Men’re worse than little children when it comes to tending them.”
Sahara and Bobby did as Roxanne suggested and soon had Charlie Oswald stretched out beside a camp-fire. One side of his face was bloodied and badly bruised, and when they asked him if anything felt seriously injured, he coughed and held himself against the pain. “Rib cage feels…goddamn, sneaking—”
“Take a few sips of this whiskey, Mr. Oswald. By the time we’re through cleaning up your face, you’ll need it.”
Charlie opened his eyes as though he couldn’t believe it was Roxanne Pruitt ordering him around this way. He allowed her to raise his shoulders, and guzzled the liquor as she held the bottle to his lips.
Sahara grimaced along with her driver when they cleansed the gash in his cheek with the alcohol, and as she watched her friend apply some salve and a bandage, she sensed a competence that overrode Roxanne’s own physical infirmities. Without the least hesitation, Mrs. Pruitt unbuttoned Charlie’s shirt and began a thorough examination of his torso.
“We’ll wrap your ribs and get you checked over in Salt Lake City,” she murmured. “Meanwhile, we’ll spend the night here. Sahara needs her rest if she’s to drive us the rest of the way to town.”
Charlie opened his mouth to p
rotest, but his nurse shushed him with another swig of whiskey. “We owe you, Mr. Oswald. Your expertise at the reins while under attack saved us all from a grave at the bottom of the canyon. Please allow me to share my own capabilities. It’s the least I can do.”
“You’re a nurse,” Sahara mumbled in sudden revelation.
“I worked at a hospital during the war, yes,” Roxanne replied. “From that I can tell, Mr. Oswald will recover nicely, with a little pampering and a lot of rest.”
Sahara couldn’t describe the look in her driver’s blue eyes—defiance, but tempered with respect. By the time they made him more comfortable and had a pot of water on to start supper with, Bobby rejoined them. He had a black duster draped over his arm and was carrying Underwood’s hat.
“Got shed of our uninvited guest,” he said quietly.
“These duds’re too new ta throw out with ’im—and I may jest start me a Stetson collection. This’n’s got my bullet hole in it, as a memento of another low-down, crawlin’ snake who tried ta take my sister fer a ride. Madigan’s hat’s the color of dust, as I recall. It’ll look nice hangin’ beside this one—”
“That’s enough,” Sahara warned.
“—if he ever has balls enough ta show ‘is face in these parts,” Bobby continued in a rising voice. “Figgered he’s up to no good, a-marryin’—”
“End of lecture,” she stated, standing to face him down. “My business with Madigan was just that—my business!”
“And long as yer ‘is wife, yer hands’re tied, and he can spend every last dime ya got! Write that Dulaney lawyer-fella fer a divorce, ‘fore it’s too late!” he ordered, jabbing the air with his finger, “or runnin’ off ta the woods this way won’t do ya one bitta good, little sister. Cain’t latch on to nobody decent, long as Madigan’s got his fangs in ya, so—”
“We’re all exhausted, Bobby,” Roxanne spoke up pointedly. “And if your sister can handle six runaway Morgans on a mountainside, Mr. Madigan should be no challenge at all. We’ll be needing more wood to keep this fire burning tonight.”