My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2)

by Lori Copeland

  “No, you would have fell for it just like me,” A.J. grumbled. “It sounded on the up-and-up, so I marched myself right over to the bank and got the money real quick like before the sisters could change their minds.”

  “Guess you wish you’d marched a little slower?” Ferris appeared to be having a hard time hiding a grin behind the rim of his cup.

  “I was there to buy cattle, and the price was right,” A.J. said sullenly.

  Ferris broke out laughing. “And you never once suspected them women were pullin’ a fast one on you?”

  “Do I look like an idiot, Ferris? Of course I didn’t know I was bein’ played for a fool! Why, that one over there even wrote me out a bill of sale, right there in the saloon, big as all get out.” He snorted. “I should’ve known something was wrong when they hightailed it out of town as soon as they had the money in hand. No one’s seen hide nor hair of ’em since—not until I saw that one ridin’ into town with the Indian, the both of them as brazen as a two-bit floozy.”

  The Crow suddenly got to his feet and walked to the front of the cell.

  His black eyes pinpointed Anne-Marie. “Gentlemen, twenty-four hours ago I didn’t know this woman existed.”

  Anne-Marie’s jaw went slack and she stared back at him. “What?” Had he said what she thought he’d said? Why, the nerve—

  “I said”—the man’s eyes locked with hers and he repeated in perfect English—“I am not with this woman. I do not know her; I do not want to know her.”

  She knew it! He had been deliberately making her think that he couldn’t understand English, and now he not only understood it, but he was speaking it as flawlessly as a professor.

  Chairs scraped against the floor. Ferris and A.J. got to their feet.

  “You were sure enough with her in the mercantile a while ago,” A.J. reminded him.

  “True, but it appears that Mr. Donavan and I have met with the same misfortune, that of being taken in by a wolf in sheep’s clothing… or”—the Indian’s eyes returned to Anne-Marie—“as is the more applicable case, a thief in nun’s clothing.”

  “Care to say how she took you?” the sheriff inquired, clearly surprised by the sudden turn of events.

  The muscle in the Crow’s jaw tightened visibly. “I rescued her from a jail wagon.”

  “Rescued her from a jail wagon, huh?” Goodman and Donavan exchanged amused looks.

  “The wagon was being pursued by Comanches. When I saw what I assumed to be three nuns in danger, I rode to their aid.”

  “And the other two nuns?” Ferris smirked. “Where might they be?”

  “I don’t know. Two other men rode to assist the women at the same time I did.”

  “My, my, was that a stroke of luck on them women’s part or what, A.J.? Three men, all ridin’ in to help them nuns at the exact same time?”

  “More than a stroke of luck, Ferris. I’d say it was a miracle.” A.J. crowed.

  The Crow gripped the bar tightly. “I’m telling you exactly what happened.”

  “Well, Injun, you speak real educated-like, but the fact is you rode in the company of a cattle thief, and right now, since I’ve got no way of knowing if you’re telling me the truth about all this jail-wagon and band-of-Comanches stuff, I’m bound by the law to let my decision stand.”

  “You are making a mistake,” the Indian warned.

  “Could be, but if I was you, I’d just sit back and keep quiet.” Ferris glanced at A.J. and winked. “You and the little lady got yourselves a big day ahead of you tomorrow. Sal?” He spoke to the deputy lounging in the corner. “Keep an eye on things whilst me and Donavan visit the café.”

  The man nodded and stretched.

  “Well, if that doesn’t beat all.” Anne-Marie whirled to confront the Crow when the door closed behind the two men. “How dare you make me think that you didn’t understand a word I was saying?”

  “How dare you pose as a nun?”

  “What difference does it make who I am?”

  “The difference is that I wouldn’t have given you or your friends a second thought if I hadn’t believed three nuns were about to be scalped.”

  “But I was about to be scalped!”

  “But you’re not a nun.”

  Ripping aside her veil, Anne-Marie freed her long hair to tumble loosely over her shoulders. Her usual way of worming out of tight situations wasn’t working, so it looked like she would be forced to resort to drastic measures. No man, no matter how infuriating, could resist a helpless, simpering female.

  Covering her face with her hands and dropping her chin, she began to sob. After a few moments of theatrics, she spread her fingers, peering out to witness the Indian’s reaction. He was ignoring her. Completely ignoring her.

  Discarding the tactic, she switched to her wounded look, a method absolutely no man could survive, no matter how unsympathetic. “Some protector you are,” she accused with trembling lower lip.

  Walking back to the cot, he sat down. “Why should I protect you?”

  “Because you appointed yourself my protector when you rescued me from the jail wagon yesterday.”

  “Today I unappoint myself your protector.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I believe I just did.”

  “Fine.” She sat down on the cot, crossing her arms and giving him a cold stare, another surefire tactic to bring a man to his knees, no matter how mean and hateful he was. And this man was the meanest one she’d ever had the misfortune to meet.

  “Fine,” he said, and met her cold stare with icy contempt.

  They sat in stony silence, staring at each other.

  Finally Anne-Marie heaved an aggravated sigh and loosened her confining collar. Reaching into the large pocket sewn into the front of her shirt, she pulled out a piece of ribbon and tied her hair back out of her face.

  She caught his glancing look. “Who are you and why did you pretend not to understand English?”

  His gaze slid over her impersonally. “Have you no shame? Why would you choose this disguise?” he asked.

  “Don’t you question my integrity. I have my reasons.”

  His eyes darkened to a dangerous hue. “Only godly women wear the habit. It is a sign of their devotion to the Lord’s work; it is not worn as a ruse to steal from unsuspecting men.”

  “I have no idea what that A.J. person was talking about,” she said. “I haven’t duped anyone out of anything and I didn’t sell any cattle. It’s all a mistake, I tell you, a big mistake.” She wasn’t proud of her actions but sometimes a person had to do what she could to survive—and it wasn’t as though she hadn’t cringed a few times when she wondered how the Lord would judge her means of support. Abigail said that since the money went to a worthy cause it wasn’t really stealing—they were just helping people make donations.

  The man shook his head. “Do I look gullible enough to believe that?”

  “Well, it could be that you’re no more Indian than I am a nun. You certainly had me fooled into thinking you didn’t speak a word of English.”

  He settled back on the cot, leaning against the wall. “At least I’m not impersonating a priest.”

  He did for the world look exactly like a full-blooded Indian, but he sure wasn’t acting like one.

  “You’re not a normal Indian,” she scoffed. “And if you are, you’re not uncivilized and uneducated like you want everyone to believe.”

  He laughed—a cold, mirthless sound in the small cell.

  “What do you find so amusing?” They were sitting in a cell, hopeless for the moment. She didn’t have money for bail and he wouldn’t help her. She might sit here for weeks. The sheriff couldn’t be serious about hanging them, of course. He was just trying to scare her.

  The Crow shifted. “If what I’ve gotten myself into couldn’t be judged ignorant, I don’t know what would. I’m sitting here in jail with a con artist, waiting to be hanged at sunrise.”

  “They’ll never hang us,” she said. “
By morning they’ll realize their mistake… ” Her voice died away as the sound of hammering reached them. Stepping to the windows, she peered out, her heart filling her throat when she saw the large platform being erected in front of the jail. “Will you look at that,” she whispered. “What do you suppose they’re building?”

  “A gallows.”

  Her cheeks burned. “You’re not serious.”

  “Do I look like I’m attempting to amuse you?”

  She turned to glance over her shoulder at his solemn features. He didn’t look like he was teasing; he looked dead sober.

  Shuffling back to the cot, she sat down, sighing. She had always been smart, too smart for her own good, so if the two of them put their heads together, they could think of a way out of this. “Who are you, honestly?”

  He shook his head. “It is not important that you know.”

  “Tell me your name.” If she was going to die with him, she’d at least like to know his name.

  “Creed Walker.”

  “That isn’t an Indian name.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “What is your Indian name?”

  His eyes fixed straight ahead. She’d met stubborn men, but this one took the prize.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned that you talk too much?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Consider yourself informed.”

  “You look like an Indian, but you don’t sound like one,” she said. He was just a man. A rather striking and dangerous one, it would seem, but still a man.

  Stretching his full length on the bunk, he closed his eyes. “Let’s assume I’ve not been living among my people for many years.”

  “Why did you pretend not to understand me when I talked to you?”

  “Because it suited my purposes.”

  “Well, Mr. Walker, does it suit your purpose to get us out of here?”

  His brows drew together autocratically and he sat up. “What can I do? In case you haven’t noticed, those are steel bars I’m looking at.”

  “We have to do something. We can’t sit here and let them hang us.”

  He looked at her, shaking his head with disbelief. “Hasn’t it sunk in yet? We’re not getting out of here. The jail is too tight, the sheriff is too crooked. We are going to hang.”

  “Pooh. Something will happen—it always does.” After all, yesterday when her circumstances looked bleak, God had rescued her. He still looked out for her, didn’t He? If only Abigail were here—she’d figure a way out of this.

  They glanced up as the front door opened again. An unkempt man entered this time, followed by a black man. He was wearing the fanciest duds Anne-Marie had ever seen. He must be a gambler. From the top of his black derby to the equally black patent-leather shoes, he reeked of success. The dark broadcloth suit fit his physique like a second skin. There was a slight bulge beneath the red satin vest, and Anne-Marie surmised that the man was heavily armed. A brown cravat that matched the color of his eyes accentuated his flawless white shirt.

  The man grinned as he spotted Anne-Marie and the Indian huddled together on the dirty bunk.

  “Yes sir, that’s her all right. She’s the woman who stole Grandma Edna’s brooch and then took off like a scalded cat. She’s the one.”

  Striding over to the cell, the stranger pointed his bejeweled finger at Anne-Marie. “Thought you’d get away with it, did you, Sister? Well, I can promise you this, I’m not going to let you, you hear me? Now hand it over.”

  Wide-eyed, Anne-Marie backed deeper into the cell. She’d never seen this man before in her life, much less swindled him out of a brooch. “I… don’t have Edna’s… brooch—”

  “She’s lying. Sir, I insist you open that cell door and search this thieving wench. She stole my grandmammy’s brooch, and she’s not going to get away with it. I have my papers; I’m a free man and I refuse to be treated this way.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “I am Cortes, and I will decide how you are to be treated. Now, Señor—what did you say your name was?”

  “John Quincy Adams, sir.”

  Cortes studied the dandified man. “John Quincy Adams?”

  “That is correct. My mother named me after the president. Now, here I was, showing the nice sister my dear ol’ grandmammy’s brooch—she’s dead now, God rest her sainted soul—the very brooch her dear sainted mammy had given her, when the sister, she says, ‘Oh, it’s so lovely, may I share its unusual beauty with Sister Louise, who is this minute buying flour and molasses in the mercantile?’ Well, like the fool I can be, I handed it to her and I says, ‘You and Sister take your time looking at the fine piece of jewelry while I go over and sit down under a tree and wait.’ And I wait and I wait for her to get back, but she never gets back. She up and disappears. Gone, vamoosed!”

  “I don’t know what this man is talking about. I haven’t stolen any brooch!” Anne-Marie’s fists balled into tight knots and the blood vessels in her temple throbbed. What was he babbling about? She hadn’t taken a brooch!

  Apparently John Quincy Adams had said all he intended to say on the subject. “Open the cell door, Cortes, and we’ll see who’s telling the truth.”

  “I do not know. Sheriff Goodman is across the street—”

  “Won’t take a minute to clear up the matter. All I want is my brooch back and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Well.” Cortes glanced out the window. “I will search her, but you’ll have to stand back and let me do it.”

  Adams nodded. “Fine with me. All I want is my brooch back.”

  “I don’t have his brooch!” Anne-Marie protested when the deputy slipped the key in the lock and opened the cell door.

  She gasped when she heard a sound thump. Cortes slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  “Now, you have youself a nice little snooze, Mr. Cortes,” the man said calmly.

  “What took you so long, Quincy?” Creed snapped when Adams handed him a pearl-handled pistol.

  “What took me so long? I’ve been trailing you from the minute you got involved with this woman—which, I might point out, was pretty reckless—and then when I saw you were in this fine mess, I had to go rustle up some clothes and come up with a plan to break you out.”

  “We don’t have time to discuss the merits of my decision,” Creed interrupted. Striding to the window, he said, “Ferris and Goodman are busy hammering nails into the scaffolding. Get us out of here.”

  Anne-Marie listened to the men’s exchange, her bewilderment growing. “Do you two know each other?”

  The men ignored her.

  “We’ll have to make a break for it,” Quincy said in a low tone, and it suddenly occurred to Anne-Marie that his speech was as educated as the Indian’s.

  Why, those low-down, conniving—these men topped her when it came to deceit.

  “If we’re quick, the sheriff won’t notice a thing,” Quincy predicted. “With all that banging and sawing, we should be able to get out of here without causing a stir. Let’s go.”

  Creed stepped out of the cell and the two men headed for the door.

  Anne-Marie watched, dumbfounded. They were going to leave her.

  “Wait a minute! Aren’t you going to take me with you?”

  When they didn’t answer, she scrambled to her feet. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not going to hang!”

  Racing out of the cell, she pressed against Creed’s back when he opened the front door a crack and peered out.

  “There’s a buckboard sitting in front of the bank.”

  Quincy rolled his eyes. “Too risky. Let’s separate and make a run for horses.”

  Creed studied the nearly deserted street. “Not a chance. We take the buckboard.”

  The three shoved through the door at once and raced toward the wagon. Anne-Marie shot a glance toward the men at the gallows. The sheriff looked up and straightened. “Run faster!” she shouted, panic raising her voice an octave. “Run!”

  Dro
pping his hammer, Ferris shouted, “Hey! Where do you three think you’re going?”

  Anne-Marie held her skirts high and raced toward the wagon, fighting to keep her footing in the rutted street. She didn’t fool herself into thinking Creed would rescue her a second time if she fell.

  Scrambling aboard the buckboard, Creed reached out and grabbed Anne-Marie’s hand. With a mighty push, she heaved herself up beside him as Quincy scrambled for a position on the small board seat.

  “Hold on!” Creed shouted as he swung the horses into the street. Anne-Marie felt a hard jab in the ribs when Quincy reached for a shotgun lying on the wagon floor.

  “Hee-ya!” Creed shouted. The buckboard raced past the newly constructed platform, scattering lumber, nails, and men in its wake.

  A burst of gunfire rained over the careening wagon as it rolled out of town.

  Clinging to the wooden seat, Anne-Marie clamped her eyes tightly shut. The buckboard bumped and banged along the rutted road as Creed cracked a whip over the horses’ heads, urging them on to even greater speed.

  Quincy attempted to hang on to the shotgun as the wagon lurched crazily across the countryside.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Anne-Marie felt her heart pounding. There were riders in the distance, hot on their trail.

  “Faster, faster, they’re gaining on us!”

  Creed swung the whip harder, snapping it smartly over the ears of the team.

  The old buckboard wheeled along. A tarp covering two wooden boxes in the wagon bed came loose and began flapping in the wind. Before Quincy could secure the rope holding the tarp, the canvas ripped free.

  Anne-Marie’s eyes widened when she spotted the two strongboxes with Wells Fargo emblazoned on the sides.

  Quincy glanced over his shoulder and yelled, “Holy moly!”

  “What’s wrong?” Creed shouted.

  Quincy shook his head, his eyes frozen on the two strongboxes. The buckboard hit a deep rut and bounced awkwardly on its side. Quincy and Anne-Marie held on for dear life.

  The wagon struck another rut and the gun flew out of Quincy’s hand.

  Anne-Marie made a grab for the firearm and the gun discharged, the explosion propelling the shotgun to the floor of the buckboard.