Wyoming Bride

by Joan Johnston

  One day he was in love with Emaline and making no effort to deny it. The next he was supposedly in love with her. Only an idiot would believe that sort of turnaround.

  Hannah was no fool.

  The problem was, she was softhearted. Or softheaded. Because somehow she’d developed feelings for Flint. She hadn’t known they existed—hadn’t even admitted them to herself—until Flint had asked her straight-out whether she loved him.

  She’d started to say no and realized that wasn’t the truth. She had feelings for Flint, but she didn’t know how to define them, because she wasn’t sure how it felt to be “in love.”

  On the Oregon Trail, she’d asked herself whether a person could make herself fall in love. She’d never imagined someone could fall in love without even trying. That was what she was afraid had happened with Flint.

  She’d taken one look at the tall, handsome, fairy-tale Prince Charming, with his thick black hair and silvery gray eyes, with his strong nose and chiseled cheeks and chin, and had fallen for him like some stupid fairy-tale princess. Hannah wanted to give her love to a man who deserved it, not one who seemed to have stolen it while she wasn’t watching.

  She’d desperately wanted Prince Charming to love her back, to no avail. She had some inkling now of how Mr. McMurtry must have felt, loving her and getting nothing in return. It hurt.

  Mostly, Hannah felt terribly confused, which Flint had made worse with his declaration of love. She didn’t believe he was telling the truth. But why would he lie about something so important? Hannah tried to imagine what could be going through his head.

  Maybe he hoped to talk himself out of loving Emaline by professing love for Hannah. Maybe he hoped to make Hannah more willing to lie with him. Hannah snorted. Soon she would be too big to lie with him, so what would be the point?

  Maybe Flint wanted her to feel cared for during these last months of her pregnancy. If so, she was grateful. Hannah had a lot of doubts about how good a mother she would be and what kind of father Flint would be and whether a tiny, fragile baby could survive the rugged life into which it would be born.

  Hannah was torn from her reflection when Flint jerked on her arm. She turned and saw he’d been jostled by another man.

  “Watch your step,” Flint said to the man.

  The cowboy’s coat was open, and Hannah saw he had a Colt .45 belted at his waist.

  “Or what, yellow belly?” the cowboy said.

  Hannah watched the blood leave Flint’s face. She waited to see how he would react to the insult.

  “I don’t know you, do I?” he said.

  The cowboy sneered. “We ain’t met, but I heard about you at Goldie’s Saloon last night. You’re the major who ran at Cedar Creek.” He glanced over Flint’s shoulder and said, “And that’s your chickenshit brother.”

  Hannah had never seen anyone move as fast as Ransom.

  “Why you—” Ransom never finished what he had to say, he simply threw a punch that landed on the cowboy’s jaw, knocking him backward. The man reached for his Colt, but Flint was there before him, pulling it from the man’s holster and holding it aimed at his chest.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  Ransom apparently didn’t hear Flint, because he threw another punch that knocked the cowboy off his feet.

  “I mean it, Ransom,” Flint said. “Cut it out.”

  “You gonna let him get away with that?” Ransom snarled at Flint.

  “I’m not going to beat him to death for it,” Flint said quietly. He turned to the cowboy and said, “Keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “Or what?” the cowboy said, smirking as he swiped blood from his lip and struggled to his feet. “I ain’t scared of no lily-livered coward.”

  Flint said, “I’ll leave your gun with the sheriff. You can pick it up when you leave town.”

  Hannah saw Ransom’s knuckles were bloody where they’d hit the bones in the cowboy’s face.

  “We better make a stop at the doc’s office and get those hands wrapped up,” Flint said.

  Ransom glared at Flint and said, “I’ll go by myself. Come on, Emaline.”

  Ransom stalked off, and Emaline hurried after him, glancing over her shoulder with a worried look on her face.

  Flint tucked the gun in his belt, took Hannah’s arm, and continued on his way, his jaw rigid, his eyes focused straight ahead.

  “What was that all about?” Hannah asked. “What did he mean about Cedar Creek?”

  “I was one of the soldiers who retreated at Cedar Creek during the war. Yesterday, at the Association meeting, Patton accused me of being a coward. Ransom admitted he was one of the soldiers under my command.”

  He shook his head and said, “I was surprised when the members of the Association didn’t condemn me. I should have known that wouldn’t hold true for folks who don’t know me. It doesn’t take a mental giant to figure out that Patton or Tucker or both spent some time slandering me at the saloons in town last night.”

  “Then maybe we should go,” Hannah said. “Leave town.”

  He stopped and turned to her and said, “I didn’t run then. I’m not running now.”

  “But you don’t wear a gun!”

  His lip curled, and he glanced down at the gun at his waist. “Maybe I’ll hang on to this one until we leave town.”

  What Hannah saw in her mind’s eye was Clive and Joe killing each other in a senseless showdown. “I don’t feel like shopping anymore. I want to go home.”

  “I’d oblige you, but I don’t intend to make another trip back to Cheyenne before Christmas. If you want Christmas presents, I have to get them now.”

  Hannah saw the mulish look on his face and realized he couldn’t leave town without giving credence to the cowboy’s accusations. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  Hannah marched across the street at the corner and entered Taylor’s Dry Goods, determined to do her shopping as quickly as possible and dodge another confrontation.

  Unfortunately, word had spread beyond the cowboys in the saloon. The other customers in the store were eyeing Flint with disdain and edging around corners to avoid getting near him. The man at the counter waited on everyone else before him. When Flint finally set his can of paint on the counter, the merchant said, “That’ll be cash.”

  “I have a monthly account with you, Curtis,” Flint replied.

  “There’s a lot of bad stuff being said about you, Flint. Might be you and Ransom won’t be around to pay that bill at the end of the month.”

  Hannah saw a muscle work in Flint’s jaw, but he didn’t argue. He simply took out some coins and laid them on the counter.

  Hannah felt sick to her stomach. Her breakfast was threatening to come back up. Whatever Flint had done in the past, she owed him her life. And he was her husband. Besides, Wentworths were born with guts and gumption. She wasn’t the kind to run, either.

  So Hannah took her time shopping. Flint stood by the door, paint can in hand, waiting patiently. Hannah asked about patterns, about ribbons, about fabric and buttons. She asked about men’s gloves. About ready-made men’s shirts. She inquired about knitting needles and yarn. She was aware the entire time of the whispers behind hands and the looks of contempt being aimed at Flint. She kept swallowing her gorge, unwilling to give in to the urge to vomit.

  At last she crossed to Flint and said, “I want to buy something for you, and I don’t want you to see it. Would you mind stepping outside for a moment?”

  He gave her a handful of coins and said, “If you need more, shout.”

  Once he was gone, Hannah went to the counter with her purchases. While they were being wrapped, Hannah said to the man Flint had called Curtis, “I’m disappointed in your behavior toward my husband.”

  Curtis lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Have you heard what’s being said about Flint? He ran. Cowards don’t last long out here.”

  “Flint’s already lasted nine years,” Hannah replied. “I don’t think that would have happene
d if he was a man afraid to face danger. After Flint deals with whoever has been spreading these lies, I’ll expect you to extend him an apology.”

  Curtis stood with his mouth gaping as Hannah paid him and collected her purchases. “Good day, Mr. Taylor. It was nice meeting you.” Then she turned and walked out the door. The bell rang as it closed behind her.

  She looked up into Flint’s stony face and realized he must have endured a lot of ugly stares while he’d been waiting for her. She handed him her package—several handkerchiefs she intended to monogram with his initials—which was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “I’m ready now. Can we go home?”

  “I thought Ransom would be here by now. He and Emaline still have to shop.”

  Hannah frowned. “What do you suppose happened to them?”

  Flint stared down the street toward the doctor’s office and said, “Maybe I better find out.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Hannah said.

  “I think you should go back to the hotel and wait for me.”

  “All by myself?” Hannah wasn’t the least bit afraid to walk down Main Street on her own, but she didn’t want Flint walking Main Street by himself with a gun in his belt. That seemed like an invitation to a gunfight.

  Flint huffed out a breath. “Fine. Let’s go put these things in the buckboard at the livery. Then we’ll go find out what’s happened to Ransom and Emaline.”

  When they arrived at the livery, Flint went to his saddlebags and took out the gun and holster he kept there. He saw Hannah’s eyes go wide when he set the cowboy’s Colt aside and buckled on his own gunbelt.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Making sure we get out of town without any more trouble.”

  “By putting on a gun? I don’t want you to fight.”

  “I don’t want to fight, either, Hannah. I may not have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice. People get killed in gunfights.”

  Flint saw the worry in Hannah’s eyes. But Ashley Patton and his henchman had sown ugly seeds that had grown into noxious weeds overnight. Flint didn’t want a confrontation, but the more he backed down, the more likely it was to happen. And it was clear that, if challenged, Ransom wasn’t going to give an inch.

  “I’d be happier if you went back to the hotel to wait for me,” Flint said.

  Hannah put a hand on her bulk and said, “No one’s going to shoot with a pregnant woman around.”

  Flint flushed. Now his wife was offering to let him hide behind her skirts. Her heart might be in the right place, but he felt humiliated by her lack of confidence in him. How could she love a man she didn’t respect?

  He felt her hand on his arm, and when he met her gaze he saw the apology there. At least she didn’t say anything to make it worse.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go find Ransom and Emaline.”

  They started at the doctor’s office. It was empty. No doctor. No Ransom and Emaline.

  “Where do you suppose they went?” Hannah asked.

  “Let’s go by the sheriff’s office. I want to turn in this Colt. He can tell us if there’s been a ruckus anywhere in town.”

  That was also a dead end. The sheriff was out of town, but his deputy took the Colt and told Flint the town was quiet as Sunday morning, even though it was Wednesday.

  “Maybe we missed them at the dry goods store,” Flint said as they left the sheriff’s office.

  They headed back to Taylor’s. Flint took a look inside while Hannah waited on the boardwalk. He stepped back out and shook his head. Flint’s stomach churned. There was no reason to believe Ransom was in trouble, but his gut was telling him otherwise. “Maybe they’re waiting for us at the livery.”

  They hadn’t taken three steps when Hannah cried, “Flint, look!”

  Flint followed Hannah’s pointing finger to where Ransom stood, legs spread wide, in the middle of the street, which was suddenly barren of people. He was faced off against Sam Tucker, who stood twenty feet away from him. Emaline was backed up against a wooden church nearby, her eyes wide with fright, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other held protectively over her unborn child.

  Flint grabbed Hannah’s arm, dragged her into the nearest alley, and snarled, “Don’t move. I mean it, Hannah!”

  Then he headed down the boardwalk toward his brother, his bootsteps loud on the wood planking, his spurs jingling in the silence. Ransom had either provoked this gunfight or been provoked into it. Flint’s heart was caught in his throat. Ransom didn’t stand much of a chance drawing against the gunfighter.

  Even so, Flint could do—would do—nothing to stop the showdown. Live or die, Ransom had to fight his own battles.

  But Flint knew too much about men like Sam Tucker to believe the gunman would leave the results to chance. Somewhere out there, Flint knew, Tucker had another gunman hidden, waiting for his chance to kill Ransom—either backshoot him, or shoot him from ambush, or provoke another gunfight right after the shoot-out—when Ransom, if he was still alive, would be at a disadvantage.

  Flint didn’t intend to let that happen.

  He would have given anything to have his rifle right now. Chances were, that secreted gunman was watching the street from behind closed curtains in an upstairs window or was concealed in one of the dark alleys between wooden buildings. Flint stood in the frozen shadows beneath an overhanging porch, his glance flicking from point to point along the street looking for anything out of place, searching for trouble.

  Suddenly, to his utter disbelief, he saw his wife marching down the street toward Ransom. He didn’t dare yell at her and distract his brother. Tucker might take advantage of the moment to draw his gun.

  However, he’d mistaken the matter. It was Tucker who was distracted. His eyes goggled at the sight of a hugely pregnant woman in his line of fire.

  “Hey!” he shouted, keeping his hands away from his body and jerking his chin in Hannah’s direction. “What’s she doin’ here?”

  Flint watched as Ransom hesitated, then turned and spotted Hannah.

  “Get out of the street!” Ransom yelled, keeping his hands still, not giving Tucker an excuse to draw.

  To Flint’s horror, Emaline joined the fray.

  “Hannah’s right,” she said, stepping off the boardwalk into the street. “This is ridiculous. Both of you stop it right now!”

  Flint watched Ransom’s face flush and his eyes narrow into angry slits as the two pregnant women approached him arm in arm.

  Ransom shot a helpless look at Tucker, who smirked and said, “Figures a fraidy-cat like you would hide behind a couple of skirts.”

  Flint watched as Ransom spoke angrily to the women, urging them to get out of the way. His efforts were futile. The two women stopped right between the men with guns, obstructing their line of fire, and didn’t move another inch. Two stubborn chins rose in defiance.

  Flint had stepped into the street in a vain attempt to intercept Hannah, and his gaze was focused on Tucker, so he missed the moment when Ashley Patton appeared at the entrance to an alley across the street. But he heard his name called.

  “Flint!”

  Flint realized Hannah and Emaline had played right into Patton’s hands. Flint couldn’t shoot while they were at risk, and Ransom didn’t dare take his eyes off Tucker or the two women to watch for an ambush himself.

  The wealthy rancher stayed in the shadows as he called out, “You’re in my way, Creed. Time to move on.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Flint said.

  “Then say good-bye to your brother.”

  Flint looked for a way Ransom could escape the trap Patton had set, but his brother had no way out. Sooner or later, Tucker was going to find a moment to shoot, and Ransom was going to die.

  Flint stood his ground and said, “Too many sets of eyes watching for you to get away with this, Patton.”

  “We’ll see about that. Your brother called out my man. I’m only here to make sure it’s a fair fight
.”

  Flint heard Tucker say to Ransom, “What do you say, boy? You ready to finish this?”

  “Better go get those women out of there,” Patton said. “Otherwise, somebody’s wife is liable to get hurt.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Flint said.

  Patton said, “Wouldn’t I? Accidents happen all the time.”

  Flint’s heart jumped to his throat and his stomach churned. Patton was a man who’d dared a great deal over the past year. Killing and burning and stealing with impunity. Still, Flint wondered if he was bluffing. No one was going to shoot a woman in the West. That was an invitation to a hanging.

  But Patton was pushing for a confrontation. Why?

  Because he has another gunman hidden somewhere to ambush me. He isn’t worried about Ransom. He’s sure Tucker will take care of him. He wants me dead, too, and he knows I’m too cautious to get drawn into a gunfight like my brother.

  Which meant the instant Flint went for his gun, he was going to be a dead man, and Patton was going to come out of the situation smelling like a rose.

  Flint kept Patton talking as he began searching each darkened corner for that other gunman. “You’re done around here, Patton. No decent person will have anything to do with you now that the Association has thrown you out. Word will get around, and you’ll find yourself unwelcome in the Territory. You should leave now, while you still can.”

  “You Creeds talk big,” Patton said through tight jaws. “When you’ve got your women to protect you.”

  “Flint, look out!” Hannah cried.

  To Flint’s horror, Hannah was running straight for him, all the while pointing to a spot behind him to his left.

  Everything happened at once.

  Flint drew his Colt and dove for Hannah. First and foremost, he wanted her safe. He ignored her cry of outrage, shoving her down and putting his body between her and the danger as he searched for the gunman she’d spotted.

  Flint found him in the next alley over. He shot at the same time as the gunman. The sound was deafening, but not loud enough to keep him from hearing Hannah cry out in fear as a bullet blasted past his head.