The Genuine Lady (Heroines on Horseback)

by Sydney Alexander

  Patty was nearly dancing with anxiety. “For the love of God, would you just get out of here? They didn’t know I was in the house. And with this howling wind, they won’t have heard us yet. I’ll go and get help for Matt, but don’t put Eddie in danger!”

  Eddie was struggling in her grasp. “It’s cold,” he snapped. “Inside.”

  “You’re right, darling, let’s go inside.”

  Jared grabbed at her elbow. She glared at him, and was confused when he almost smiled. What did he think was worth smiling about at a time like this? “We might as well go in and face what’s going on, Jared,” she told him icily. “Standing out here and being frozen to death in the snow isn’t going to help. And besides -- the train hasn’t left yet. If we can get them to march straight back down to the train station, we won’t be forced to endure my uncle and cousin while we’re snowed in.”

  “That’s true,” Jared admitted. “But wait just a minute.” And he undid the buttons of his coat, slowly, and with some swearing, because his fingers were clumsy with cold. Then he pulled a gleaming pistol from his belt and checked the chamber. He nodded. “Alright then.”

  Cherry eyed the pistol. “How often do you carry that?” She’d never seen it before.

  He shrugged. “When I go for a long ride. I took a long ride last month.”

  “Indeed, I remember,” Cherry said dryly.

  “Cherry —” He reached out for her hand, and though at first she wanted to snatch it away, she let him take it. He squeezed her fingers in his, and she felt the comfort he was offering her. Comfort, and strength. And a gun.

  ***

  Anne Braithwhite was not happy with the way her afternoon was going. She had found herself in a tacky little parlor, overstuffed with brass-buttoned furniture and china figurines, while a cowboy that she was fairly certain was some sort of criminal — perhaps a bank robber, they went for that sort of thing out here, she had heard — tied up a nice-enough looking gentleman who had been carrying a sack of flour into the house when they’d arrived. The nursemaid was sobbing softly in the corner; she’d been dressed down by Richard for shrieking when the nice-looking gentleman threw a punch and the cowboy hit him in the nose and made it bleed, and Richard himself was pacing about like a jungle cat in a cage, muttering.

  The muttering was the most worrisome part of all. Her great-uncle George had been a mutterer for ten years. She didn’t know if he’d muttered after that; after he started leaving little nails on the chairs in the salon and carrying around a crucifix and a kitten his family locked him in a suite of rooms in the west wing of the house and that had been the last she’d heard of Great-Uncle George. But who would have the moral fortitude to lock up Richard if he began booby-trapping the divans and threatening to sacrifice kittens? Not weak-willed little Louisa, that was for certain. It would be the undoing of the family. A hundred times worse than what Charlotte had done with her harlotry.

  But Richard’s temper had always been a worrisome thing. Look what had happened with Charlotte. He had handled the whole thing very badly. The little slut could have been sent down to France for her health. Things could have been arranged. By now, a full two years later, she could already be married respectfully to someone not-so-choosy. But no, here they were in the Dakota Territory, tying up an innocent man, adopting a child by force, about to be caught up in a blizzard. Everything, Anne thought with a sniff, had gotten entirely out of control.

  “Look, man, you’re going to have to tell us where the girl is!” Richard suddenly snarled, whirling through the parlor and putting his nose very close to the fellow he’d had tied to the chair. “I don’t have time for any of your cowboy heroics. The train is going back east and I intend to be on it!”

  “I guess otherwise you’ll be stayin’ with us a few days, huh?” The man drawled. “Or a few weeks. Snow here can fall pretty fierce.”

  Anne frowned. He wasn’t nearly concerned enough about his precarious situation as a hostage. It was going to upset Richard even more.

  Richard nearly shot through the roof. “You disrespectful little bastard! The entire town says that Charlotte Beacham has been living here. Tell us where she is or Mr. Dupree will have to give you a little inducement.”

  The cowboy flipped his duster back to reveal the pistols gleaming at his sides. He grinned, showing off a set of rotten teeth. But the man in the chair just grinned back. “Dupree is it?” he asked genially. “John Dupree of Kansas City?”

  The cowboy actually took a step back. His face dissolved into a picture of confusion. Anne quirked an eyebrow at Richard. This was certainly unexpected.

  “What’s it to you?” John Dupree of Kansas City asked gruffly.

  “You rode with the Colonel, same as me. I was the one who caught that mustang mare and trained her up. Remember? I beat you in a race with that mare. She was real good. Sunny, I called her.”

  A tiny smile stole across Richard’s face, as if he thought that the hostage had just made a fatal mistake in reminding the cowboy of a race lost. But if he’d expected Dupree to start shouting and throwing punches, he was wrong.

  “Well goddamn!” Dupree slapped his knee and laughed. “That was a mighty fine mare. You did a hell of a job on her… is it Beatty?”

  “Barnsley.”

  “Barnsley! That’s right! And look at you now! Got this fine house an’ all. And a wife, too, I’ll bet!”

  Richard was looking at the pair of men with a kind of horror. Anne was starting to enjoy herself. Anything that upset Richard was perfect entertainment in her book.

  “Now seriously,” Barnsley said. “What’re you doin’ actin’ like some sort of hired gun for crooked foreign folks? This old man don’t have no claim to that baby he’s after. His mother’s a fine woman. Got herself a claim, got herself a business… she’s doing just fine, and the baby adores her.”

  Dupree nodded seriously. “What kind of business?” he asked, as if he was trying to make a decision.

  “Horse-trainin’,” Barnsley grinned. “And I tell you somethin’, Dupree — she’s better than I am. Her horses look like them statues of war-horses. Arched necks and high-steppin’ and all. And she ain’t scared of nothin’. Why, earlier she was on this crazy Thoroughbred she’s been trainin’ for some city slicker from back east and — ”

  “Charlotte Beacham is a horse trainer?” Richard interrupted in tones dripping with disdain. “A horse trainer?”

  “Takes a tough woman to be a horse trainer,” Dupree said with no small amount of respect in his voice.

  “She’s tough as nails,” Barnsley said reverently. “You oughta meet her.”

  Anne spoke up. “Well that’s why we’re here.”

  The men all looked at her at once.

  “So why don’t you bring her out of wherever you’ve got her hidden, and let’s get this thing hashed out once and for all.”

  Richard was frowning at her. “If by hashed out, you mean get her signatures on the documents…”

  “Not precisely,” Anne interrupted. “I think we should all have a conversation, face-to-face, and decide what’s going to happen.”

  “I’d like that very much,” said a voice from the doorway.

  And then all eyes were on the slim young woman with the glowing cheeks and fiery eyes who was standing in the open door, her arms across her chest and her chin set high.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Patty had gone into the Professor’s, batting snowflakes from her eyelashes, and started screeching for help from everyone in the room.

  The saloon went silent while the assorted drinkers tried to figure out just what Patty Barnsley was shouting about. Finally, Big Pete stood up and went over to her, putting a hand on her arm. Patty wasn’t tall, but Big Pete only came up to her shoulder, so she had to stop yelling and look down at him. She swallowed a scream and looked expectant.

  “Patty Barnsley, what in the name of the Good Lord are you screamin’ about?” Big Pete asked, very nicely, he thought.

 
Patty clenched her jaw and glared down at Big Pete. “If you’d stop flapping your pie-hole for about ten seconds and listen, you’d know that some crazy English people have showed up with guns and they’re tyin’ up Matt and they’re here to steal Cherry’s son!”

  Pandemonium ensued in the saloon. There was a general crashing of stools and chairs and tables, and here and there a few glasses tinkling as they met their end beneath boots on the heaving wooden floor, and then Patty had a little army of Bradshaw’s finest, or, at least, Bradshaw’s bachelors who didn’t have a woman at home screeching that they needed to fetch home more flour, more firewood, more coal, and they were all crowding around her and demanding to know the particulars. A few men were checking the chambers of their revolvers, and Patty opened her mouth to explain that they had to tread lightly, when a derisive voice cut through the smoke and chatter from behind them, at the bar.

  “That Englishwoman is a problem, isn’t she?”

  Slowly, Stetsons swiveled. Patty’s eyes narrowed with hatred. “Hope Townsend, you lousy slut, I’ve had just about enough of you in this town.”

  “Hey now,” Hope tittered. “That’s not very nice language from a woman who hardly knows me. I thought we could be neighborly. Friends even. It’ll be so hard on Matt and Jared if their wives don’t even like each other.”

  Big Pete was craning his neck, trying to see over the crowd of men between him and the bar. “Is that the whore from Texas?” he finally asked. “The one what stole Jared’s horse?”

  “That’s exactly who it is,” a tall homesteader said, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “I heard about that too.”

  “I was there,” Mr. Morrison said helpfully. “She rode that horse near to death. Jared loves that horse, y’know.”

  Everyone started giving Hope a cold stare. She shifted on the bar, trying to let her dress fall in more alluring folds. But there was no budging the attitude of nearly two dozen cowboys and homesteaders who owed their livelihood to the horses they rode and drove. A woman shouldn’t steal a man’s horse; that much was obvious. Riding that horse into the ground and laming it for no good reason? That was unforgivable.

  The Professor wobbled up to Hope on unsteady legs. It had been a long day of drinking for him already. Blizzards frightened the poor man. “I think you better leave, honey,” the Professor told her.

  Hope’s lip curled.

  “Town,” the Professor added.

  “Hear, hear!” shouted Mr. Morrison, who had good reason to protect the interests of Cherry Beacham if his livery stable was to succeed.

  “Git on! Git out!”

  Rose slithered down from the bar as the men of the saloon heckled her, scarlet face held high. She shoved through the crowd, fixing Patty with a cold glare as she passed her, and paused in the saloon door. She turned back. “Y’all are fools,” she declared. “I’ll go to Miss Rose’s, but you’ll have to do more than this to run me out of town.”

  Big Pete grinned. “You’re going to Miss Rose’s? Allow me to escort you.” He smiled over his shoulder at Patty. “She’ll be on the train in under ten minutes,” he whispered. Patty just nodded. It was nice to get rid of Hope Townsend, that much was for certain, but had everyone forgotten that Matt was being held hostage by some crazy old Englishman? She started waving her arms over her head to get everyone’s attention.

  “Are y’all just going to stand here all day?” Patty spat out. “We have to go rescue Matt and get these folks out of Bradshaw. They’re the ones who need to be packed on a train, not some silly Texas bar-maid.”

  “Train! Hell!” The Professor shouted, and threw back a shot. “They need to be escorted straight up to the sheriff in Opportunity.”

  “Well I don’t know about all that,” someone else said. “There’s a blizzard comin’. Who’s going to go with them?”

  “The deputy!”

  There was a pause. Patty looked around in an agony of confusion and frustration. Why had these drunk fools chosen today to start thinking?

  “We don’t have a deputy,” a homesteader said thoughtfully, his brow furrowed with deep thought. “We used to, but we don’t no more. Harris got shot in the leg and he turned in his badge.”

  “Nah, Marky Davis is the deputy!”

  “No I ain’t!”

  “Will someone give me their gun so’s I can go shoot these bastards myself!”

  The Professor slapped down his glass so hard that it shattered. “Come on, soldiers, forward march!” he cried, and went running through the startled crowd and out the saloon doors.

  And then the entire army of half-drunken homesteaders was marching down the street to Patty’s house.

  ***

  “Charlotte,” Uncle Richard purred. “How well you are looking.”

  Charlotte tilted her head back and regarded her uncle for a long moment. He hadn’t changed very much in the two years since she had left: perhaps a bit leaner. Certainly a lot meaner. “Thank you, Uncle,” she replied coldly. “But I do not think you came to check on my health.”

  From behind her, she heard footsteps; Jared had stowed Eddie in the kitchen with a picture book and a strict request to be quiet while the grown-ups talked. He came up behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes a moment at the pleasure of his touch. It was good — good! — to have him back again, no matter how much she told herself she was furious. But that was a problem for another time. For now, she had to worry about Eddie and her foolish Uncle.

  Her eyes wandered the room, taking in the scene: her Uncle Richard, pale and quivering with nerves and anger, Matt tied in a chair, a black-hatted cowboy with a gun in one hand and a queer, half-amused expression on his face. All very odd. And then she saw her Cousin Anne leaning against the mantlepiece. “Cousin Anne! How surprising to see you,” she said tonelessly, not really indicating that it was a good surprise. Anne didn’t look concerned.

  “I’m surprised myself,” she said off-handedly. “But your uncle seemed to think my presence was necessary.” She threw a pointed glance at the man behind Cherry. “Care to introduce us to your friend?”

  “Jared Reese,” he snapped. “I’m here to make sure all of you make that train waitin’ down there.”

  The cowboy standing next to Matt laughed. “Jared Reese, as I live and breathe, I didn’t even recognize you.”

  Jared cocked an eyebrow. “Who…?”

  Then Matt burst out laughing as well. It was a very odd sight, considering how he was tied hand and foot. “Jared, it’s old Dupree, that skinny bastard from the Colonel’s outfit. The one that couldn’t shoot straight to save his life!”

  Uncle Richard looked as if he’d been stung by a bee. Cousin Anne just started chuckling mirthlessly. Jared was gently moving Cherry to one side and going up to the cowboy and shaking his hand, the one without the gun in it. A woman that Cherry hadn’t even seen before came slipping out of the shadows behind the divan, threw Cherry one helpless glance of apology, and darted out the door behind her. She turned and watched the woman run down the hall and out the door, shutting it carefully behind her. Through the parlor window she saw the stranger go running down the street, hatless and coatless.

  Cherry began to think that today was the most bizarre day of her life.

  And then Uncle Richard turned on the cowboy with a roar of outrage and snatched the gun from his hand. He brandished the pistol, waving it above his head, and fired one shot that near deafened them all and brought plaster raining down on the men’s heads. Cherry shrieked and covered her ears, and was immediately shamed in the next second; her stalwart Cousin Anne hadn’t even moved, and was watching the action with cool indifference.

  “I won’t have it! I won’t have it, I say!” Uncle Richard was so angry spittle flew from his mouth. “What sort of nonsense is this? You’re all good friends, are you? All close as brothers, are you? And you —” he waved the gun at Dupree, who watched him warily. “You can’t shoot straight, eh? That’s not what you told me when I hired you! You
told me you could put out a man’s eye at fifty paces!”

  “Maybe I can’t do it at fifty paces, but I can do it at five,” Dupree growled, and in one smooth motion he had his other pistol in his hand, and pointed directly at Richard’s head.

  Richard stepped back, startled. Cherry wondered if he hadn’t known about the other gun, or if he’d simply forgotten. Either way, it was looking like a fatal mistake. She caught her breath. Dupree had gone from smiling laughter to deadly fury in the space of a moment. The room had gone very, very still.

  “Mummy?”

  Cherry whirled. Eddie was at her skirts, picture-book trailing in one hand. “Bang,” Eddie said simply.

  “Auuugh!”

  Cherry didn’t turn to see what was happening behind her, she just swooped down upon Eddie, snatching him up against her, and ran from the room. She heard a chair overturned, the sickening sound of a fist against flesh, and then a gun report that was closely followed by the shattering of glass. She ran down the hall and through the front door, not stopping for a coat, and out into the teeth of the north wind. She gasped with the cold. And then she stopped.

  All of Bradshaw seemed to be racing down the street towards her.

  Cherry stood in the middle of the road, the wind hard at her back, whipping her skirts around her legs, and clutched Eddie close to her chest, waiting for the crowd of men running towards her. She saw the Professor leading the charge, his bandy legs wobbling and his arm outstretched like a martyr in an engraving. She saw Mr. Morrison and Marky Davis and Mr. Wallace who owned Percival, and Wilbur — who was entirely too young to be drinking at the saloon — and at least two dozen other men, some she knew and some she didn’t. At the back of the pack Big Pete was scrambling to keep up, while Patty was shouting at him about something.

  They came to a ragged halt in front of her. The snow swirled in a great gust of wind. Cherry waited.

  Patty shoved her way to the front. “They’ve all come to help,” she panted. “What’s happening?”