Smith turned with a slow, lethal grace and shot him.
Owen screamed, while Sarah stood, frozen in horror.
“Too damn much noise,” Smith complained fretfully. Then he turned around again, backhanded Owen so hard that he fell and struck his head against the counter.
Sarah tried to go to him, but Smith slammed her in the temple with his pistol butt, a vicious blow that blinded her, sent her sprawling on top of Owen’s motionless body.
“Don’t you worry now, little lady,” she heard Smith say. “It’ll all be over in a couple of minutes.”
Sarah was aware of noise outside, men’s voices, shooting. She was bleeding, and though she did try to rise, she couldn’t move.
The door crashed open with such noise that Sarah thought the dynamite under the floor had been detonated.
Then she heard a familiar voice. Dimly, through a pounding haze of pain and fear.
“Get him out of here!” Wyatt yelled, probably referring to Charles.
Sarah felt herself dragged up from the floor by her waist. “Owen,” she whispered. “Owen—”
“I’ve got him,” she heard Wyatt say. Her eyes were blurred with blood from her aching temple; she couldn’t see him. “I’ve got him, Sarah.”
She felt cool air next, and hands reaching for her.
Voices, calling her name, calling Owen’s.
And then the world exploded with a roar. There was a flash of terrible heat, and more shouting.
Sarah opened her eyes, cleared them. She was lying on the sidewalk, on the opposite side of the street. Mr. Smith had been right, she thought dizzily. Money rained down from the sky.
But Owen was beside her, sitting up, clutching her hand.
Owen was alive, and that, for the moment, was all that mattered.
* * *
THE NEXT TIME SHE CAME AROUND, Sarah found herself lying on the examining table in Doc’s office. Wyatt bent over her, his face sooty, like the night the jailhouse blew up and burned. He held one of her hands in both of his.
“Am I dead?” she asked.
He chuckled, but his eyes glistened with tears. “No,” he said. “Thank God.”
“Owen?”
“Upstairs with Doc. Had to give that boy a dose of medicine, just like Lonesome, to keep him down.”
“How did—how did you know—?”
“One of the girls at the Spit Bucket heard some bragging about how the bank was about to be robbed, and she told Rowdy. He came and found me, then we both went hunting for Sam. Soon as we got back to town, Lark told me you’d been by, asking for Rowdy. I thought about where you’d go, and figured you’d head for the Stockman’s Bank to wait.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead. “Damn, Sarah, when I realized you and Owen were in there—”
“Charles—that man shot Charles—”
Sorrow moved in Wyatt’s eyes. “He didn’t make it, Sarah,” he said. “Doc tried to pull him through, but the bullet nicked his heart.”
“Owen saw it,” Sarah whispered brokenly. “Owen saw his father die. What will that do to him?”
“We’ll get him through it, Sarah. You and me.”
Her heart warmed and sweetened, as though a thin stream of honey flowed into it. Charles was dead, and as much as Owen had wanted to stay in Stone Creek with her and with Wyatt, with Lonesome and the grandfather he loved, he would mourn the father he wished Charles had been, perhaps always.
“Would you have shot Charles yourself, Wyatt?” The answer would be painful to hear, something to grapple with, inside herself, for a long time. But she had to know.
“If it had come to that,” Wyatt replied, “yes.”
Sarah closed her eyes. Opened them again. “Mr. Smith, and the other robbers—?”
“Got them all,” Wyatt said. “Sam and Rowdy and me, and a few of the townsmen. They’re all tied up and stowed in a back room, over at Jolene Bell’s. Did you know she had a meat locker?”
“No,” Sarah said drowsily. “I don’t frequent Jolene Bell’s Saloon.”
Wyatt laughed. “Only because she hasn’t got a ladies’ poker game running,” he said. “Sarah Yarbro, do you really smoke cigars?”
“Once,” she admitted. The pain in her head was receding, but so was waking consciousness. “It made me throw up.”
“Rest now, Sarah.”
“You won’t leave me?”
“Hell itself and a whole crew of demons couldn’t make me do that.”
“I love you, Wyatt Yarbro,” she murmured, going under. Owen wasn’t the only one Doc had medicated.
“And I love you,” she heard Wyatt say before the darkness surrounded her, lowered her into blessed oblivion.
EPILOGUE
Three months later
SNOW DRIFTED PAST the kitchen windows as Sarah sat at the table, reading her book of lies. She wasn’t going to need it, ever again, she thought, smiling, remembering the woman she had been before. Before Wyatt, before Owen’s arrival in Stone Creek, before her father’s illness.
Doc came down the kitchen stairway, and he was holding Kitty’s hand. She blushed like a debutante about to dance at her first cotillion.
Sarah studied them, smiled. She’d had her suspicions, of course. Her father had been rapidly improving over the past few weeks—he was confined to an invalid’s chair, but he could say a few words and even play halting games of checkers with Owen or Wyatt. Still, Doc had spent a lot of time in that sickroom, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that it wasn’t just Ephriam he’d come to see. It was Kitty.
Sarah got up from her chair, carried her book of lies to the stove, and shoved it into the hot winter fire. Wyatt had gone to Flagstaff with Rowdy on some sort of business, but it was Friday. He’d be back on the evening train. Owen had begged a day out of school and gone with them.
Turning to face Doc and Kitty, Sarah set her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side. Lonesome, lying on his quilt and all mended now, looked up at her curiously.
“All right,” she said, “what’s going on here?”
Doc flushed. “Kitty and I—”
“We’re in love,” Kitty finished for him, her scrubbed face shining. She’d heartened, lately, and she and Davina, though still not a doting mother and daughter, had established the bare beginnings of a truce. Davina, as Sarah had predicted, was engaged. Jody Wexler was the lucky man.
Sarah laughed for joy. Hugged Kitty, hugged Doc.
“I can still sit with Ephriam every day,” Kitty said, teary-eyed. “But as soon as Judge Harvey hitches us up proper, I’ll be moving out.”
Sarah nodded, teary-eyed herself.
Outside, familiar voices carried through the crisp winter night.
Wyatt was back, and Owen.
“Stay for supper,” Sarah said to Doc. “I’ve made stew—”
“I’m taking my future bride to the hotel dining room for an engagement supper,” Doc said, with a shake of his head. He took Kitty’s plain woolen cloak down from the peg next to the door and draped it gently over her shoulders just as Wyatt and Owen came in, stomping snow off their boots, their faces glowing.
Lonesome gave a yelp of joy and rushed to greet them.
Doc and Kitty slipped out.
“Wyatt’s rich now!” Owen piped, peeling himself out of scarf and coat and mittens.
“Not rich,” Wyatt said, ruffling the boy’s hair, then bending to do the same with the dog’s ears. He’d been working out at Sam’s, and coming back to the house at night, because Owen needed to go to school and Sarah, without the bank to occupy her time, had been developing her homemaking skills.
“What is all this talk about being rich?” Sarah asked, turning to stir the stew. She wanted to fling herself into Wyatt’s arms, but that would have
been unseemly, in front of a child. Besides, there would be plenty of time for holding each other later, when they were alone in their room.
“There was a reward on Billy Justice’s head,” Wyatt answered. “Fifteen hundred dollars. It’s enough to pay off that mortgage, fix the house and barn, even buy a few head of cattle, come spring.”
He drew her into his arms, kissed her lightly on the mouth. A thrill went through her.
“Wyatt bought us all presents,” Owen said. “Even Lonesome.”
Sarah noticed the bundle, wrapped in brown paper and string, resting snow-dampened just inside the door.
“Presents? It’s not even Christmas,” Sarah said.
“It will be,” Owen pointed out. “Next week. We don’t have to wait to get our presents, do we, Wyatt?”
Wyatt laughed. “No, boy,” he said. “You don’t have to wait. But we’d better be rustling ourselves up a tree, if you want Saint Nick to pay you a visit.”
Owen beamed. “There isn’t any Saint Nick. Just you and Mama.”
Mama. Sarah loved the sound of that word.
Somewhat shyly, Wyatt fetched the bundle, set it in the middle of the table, and carefully untied the string. There was a blush in his neck as he worked, and Sarah felt her already fathomless love for him deepen.
Lonesome got a bone, fresh from a Flagstaff butcher shop.
Owen received a book, finely bound, with gold lettering. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
There was a fine wooden pipe and tobacco for Ephriam.
And, lastly, a little box for Sarah.
Wyatt’s hand trembled, ever so slightly, as he offered it to her.
She opened it.
A golden locket lay inside, gleaming in the light of a warm, sturdy home on a snowy winter’s night.
Fumbling a little, Wyatt removed the locket, opened the little catch. There were two tiny pictures inside, one of her and Wyatt on their wedding day, and one of Owen with his arms spread as wide as his smile, cavorting in front of the marriage cake.
“Oh,” Sarah whispered. “Oh, Wyatt.”
He moved behind her, to clasp the delicate chain at the back of her neck. Kissed her nape, with just the barest touch of his tongue.
Sarah turned in his embrace, smiled tearfully up into his eyes.
“Jupiter and spit,” Owen said to Lonesome, with mock disgust. He considered this swearing. Sarah considered it better than a lot of other words he’d probably learned on the school grounds. “Now they’re going to start spooning again.”
“Get used to it,” Wyatt said, without breaking the hold of Sarah’s gaze.
“I’ll never get used to it,” Owen replied.
“Hard luck for you,” Wyatt answered. “Go work on your arithmetic or something.”
“You just want to get rid of me. So you and Mama can spoon.”
“Smart kid,” Wyatt said. “Go.”
Owen went, taking Lonesome with him. A few moments later, he began to pound industriously on the keys of Sarah’s piano. He had no musical talent whatsoever.
“I have a present for you, too, Wyatt Yarbro,” Sarah said, holding on to Wyatt’s shoulders so she wouldn’t tumble right into his eyes.
He chuckled. “I can hardly wait,” he said.
Sarah blushed. “Besides that,” she told him.
He looked puzzled then, even a little concerned. “What?”
With one finger, Sarah smoothed the crease in his forehead. “You’re going to be a father,” she said, very softly.
He was in the process of adopting Owen, with help from Judge Harvey. “I’m already—” Then the realization struck him. His face transformed in an instant, full of disbelief and joy. “A baby, Sarah? We’re having a baby? When?”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed the cleft in his chin. How she adored that cleft, and everything else about him. His strength, his integrity, his lovemaking, by turns passionate and tender, and the soft words he spoke afterward, when he held her very close.
She beamed. “About nine months and ten minutes from the day we were married,” she replied.
He threw back his head and laughed with joy.
And Sarah loved that, too.
* * * * *
ISBN-13: 9781488095559
The Rustler
Copyright © 2008 by Linda Lael Miller
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Christmas is a time for fresh starts, and in Mustang Creek, Wyoming, anything is possible—even an unexpected love between a graphic designer with deep country roots and a Hollywood executive who lives life in the fast lane.
Read on for a sneak peek of A Snow Country Christmas
an all-new Carsons of Mustang Creek novel
from #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller and HQN Books!
Raine McCall first frowned at the screen and then stared at the clock.
Her computer was right. Two in the morning? No way.
Oh, she’d be the first to admit that when she was working she lost track of time, but she was always there to put her daughter on the school bus and make sure Daisy had done her homework and had a healthy breakfast.
She’d always suffered from what she called WSS. Whimsical Sleep Schedule.
Awake at all hours, losing track of time if the muse was in the mood, and she’d been guilty of falling asleep in the chair at her desk. Daisy had told her more than once, with a maturity beyond her years, she thought she worked too hard, but then Raine didn’t really think of it as work. Spinning dream images into reality was a unique joy and she felt sorry for every person in the world that had a job they disliked.
She wasn’t the only one awake either. Taking a break, she checked her email and was startled. Mick Branson? The Mick Branson had sent her a message? Hotshot Hollywood executive, way too focused, and no sense of humor—though come to think of it, he did smile now and then. He was good-looking, but she couldn’t get beyond the sophisticated polish. She was a Wyoming girl through and through and thousand dollar suits weren’t her preference. Give her a hat, jeans, and some worn boots.
Of course she’d met the man quite a few times at the ranch because he was the driving force behind the documentaries that Slater Carson, her ex-boyfriend and father of her child, made, but getting an email from him was a definite first. Sent five minutes ago? She was too intrigued not to open it.
I’m going to be in Mustang Creek for the holidays. Can we have a business meeting? Maybe over dinner?
That was interesting, but currently she was up to her ears in deadlines trying to produce artwork for the labels for Mountain Vineyards wines. Her graphic design business had really taken off, and she wasn’t sure she could handle another project.
From what she knew of Mick Branson, it wouldn’t be a small one either.
She typed back. When did you have in mind?
Tomorrow night? If you don’t already have plans, that is.
On Christmas Eve?
Well, Daisy did usually spend that evening with her father’s family and Raine spent it alone with a nice glass of wine and a movie. They always invited her, but she went the next day instead for the big dinner celebration and skipped the night before in favor of solitude. It was never that they made her feel like an outsider; quite the opposite, but Slater needed some time with his daughter to make memories without Raine always in the background. So while she appreciated the invitation, she’d always declined. It had been difficult when Daisy was little to spend such a magical evening away from her, but he was entitled. He was a wonderful father.
She typed: On the 24th of December, I assure you no place is open in Mustang Creek. This isn’t California. You’d have to come to my place and I usually just eat a hamburger and drink wine.
He wrote back: That sounds fine. I like burgers and I enjoy wine. Let me bring the beverages. Please excuse me if I’m inviting myself.
She couldn’t decide if he had, or if she’d done it. She really did need to get more sleep now and then. She typed: Mountain Vineyards for the wine.
You got it.
Have a safe flight.
Thank you, but I’m already here. See you tomorrow. Don’t mention to anyone, especially Slater, that I’m in town please.
Raine sat back and let out a breath. She hadn’t ever anticipated spending an evening with someone like Mick Branson, much less Christmas Eve.
Luckily, she thought, she’d thoroughly cleaned the house the day before when she realized that sound she abstractly heard in the background was the vacuum. Daisy was voluntarily doing a chore she usually argued over? Raine decided then and there—once she recovered from her shock—that maybe she had been spending too much time in her office. Sure enough, the house needed dusting, the kitchen floor had crumbs on it and the laundry room was in dire need of a workout.
Not that someone like Mr. Hollywood Executive Mick Branson, who probably lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills, would be impressed with her small and eclectic house anyway, no matter how tidy. Wait until he got a look at her Christmas tree. There was no theme to the ornaments; if something caught her eye, she bought and it put it up. There were owls, glittery reindeer, a glass shrimp with wings wearing a boa, all right alongside her grandmother’s collection of English traditional antique glass orbs in brilliant colors. Those heirlooms were hung up high thanks to Mr. Bojangles, her enormous Maine coon cat. He was somewhat of a reclusive character, but he became positively playful when the Christmas tree went up. Walking past it usually meant an unexpected guerilla attack on your ankles because he considered it his covert hiding place every December. Therefore the ornaments on the bottom were soft stuffed squirrels and bunnies with a few fake pine cones he could bat around. Add in Daisy’s giant dog, Samson, who accidentally knocked an ornament off every time he walked by, and her tree had no hope.
A Stone Creek Collection Volume 1 Page 92