by Pam Hillman
Where is the carriage? Isabella?
He craned his neck, trying to see through the dust, dirt, and horses rearing in fright. There was no sign of Wainwright’s carriage.
Mews and Toby were somewhere up ahead, and he prayed they could get to the women and keep them safe. He rolled to the left, stuck his pistol through a crack in the undercarriage. He squeezed off a shot, the pistol jerking violently. Before the smoke cleared, he tucked the weapon into his waistband and crab-crawled forward. A shot punched into the road to his left, spewing dirt in his face. The horses reared, pushing, pulling back, and snorting in fear.
Connor dove under the unmanned vehicle, crawling through the flying dust. A quick glance at the driver who’d been shot revealed there was nothing more to be done for the poor soul, so Connor hauled himself up to the driver’s seat, grabbed the reins, and slapped them against the horses’ withers. “Hi-yah!”
The animals surged forward up the incline, Connor ducking down to avoid any shots fired at him. Bullets slammed into the wood.
Whap! Whap! Whap!
Long seconds later, he cleared the sunken roadbed into an open area. The horses needed little urging to break into a run, traveling a mile or more until he caught up with the rest of the party. Wainwright had stopped the group in a small clearing, where they were busy circling the wagons for protection.
Connor sawed on the reins to stop the wagon before it plowed into those nearest him. He spotted Wainwright shouting orders, giving instructions on forming a barrier with the wagons, putting the injured in the center, and protecting their perimeter.
Standing on the seat, he looked over the chaotic scene. Panic slammed into him with the force of a percussion ball shot at close range.
Mr. Wainwright’s fancy black carriage was nowhere to be seen.
He jumped from the wagon, fell to his knees, then scrambled up. Heart pounding, he dodged around the barricaded wagons, the injured, the remaining drivers, looking for Isabella, Mews, and Toby.
“Connor.” Toby ran toward him, his face leached of color, his freckles stark against his pale cheeks.
Connor grabbed the boy in a close embrace, grateful to see him uninjured. Just as quickly he set him on his feet, clasping him by the shoulders. “Where’s your da? Is he all right?”
“There.” Toby pointed toward Mews, propped against a wagon wheel. “Shot in the leg, but—but it’s ju—just a flesh wound.”
Connor jogged toward Mews and knelt at his side, ripping the man’s breeches above the knee to see for himself. As he worked to stanch the flow of blood, he gritted out, “Where’s Isabella?”
“They took the carriage. That way.” Mews pointed down the winding road, then pushed Connor away. “Find her, Connor. Get her back. Toby can take care of this.”
Torn between making sure that Mews would be all right and rushing off to find Isabella, Connor hovered over Mews, his hands covered in the man’s blood.
“Go, man. There’s not much time.”
Connor gripped Mews’s shoulder, then glanced at Toby. “Stay with him. Keep the pistols primed and ready.”
“Yes, sir.” Toby’s bottom lip trembled.
“I’ll be back soon as I can.”
“Isabella, are you all right?” William’s pain-filled gaze met hers as the carriage careened wildly around each curve, slamming them from one side to the other without mercy.
“I’m fine.”
She held tight to the traveling strap with one hand, while trying to support William with the other. He held on with one hand, the other clasping his middle as the carriage tossed them to and fro. The more they jolted over the rough road, the more ashen he became. Across from her, Mrs. Wheeler’s wide, terrified eyes met hers, her daughter LouAnn clinging to her, weeping hysterically.
What had happened to the rest of their party? To Toby, Mews, Connor, and Mr. Wainwright? She prayed they were all right, but there was nothing she could do for any of them at the moment.
The pace of the carriage changed, the jouncing becoming less prominent, as the man who’d shot their driver applied the brakes. “Whoa. Whoa, there!”
William straightened and awkwardly drew a pistol from his waistband with his left hand. He leaned forward, addressing Mrs. Wheeler. “Madam, when we stop, I’ll try to take out the driver. You and your daughter stay back as far as you can. I’ll only have one shot.”
The woman nodded, holding her daughter close, trying to shush the girl.
Isabella gripped William’s arm. “William, it’s too dangerous. You could be killed.”
“This man—this barbarian—won’t hesitate to kill me—all of us—regardless.” His eyes bored into hers. “Killing him first is our only hope.”
Tears pricked her eyes, and Isabella searched his face, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Knowing he was right, she nodded as the carriage came to a complete stop. The only sound was LouAnn’s weeping accompanied by her mother’s whispered admonitions to hush. A sudden dull thump on the roof of the carriage caused the girl to yelp in terror.
“All right, ladies and gent. Come out of there, and don’t try nothing foolish, or I’ll blow your heads off.”
The door swung open, and William’s single shot blasted through the opening. Acrid smoke filled the inside of the small space as William fumbled to reload.
An answering gunshot exploded through the door, ripping a hole in the padded seat inches from the girl. LouAnn and Mrs. Wheeler screamed. Isabella blinked against the smoke rolling in the enclosed space, her ears ringing from the close proximity of both blasts.
“I said get out here now!” the outlaw screamed. “The next bullet will go through somebody’s heart. Don’t know whose and don’t care. But somebody’s gonna die soon if you don’t do as I say.”
There was nothing for it but to obey. Isabella lifted her skirts and exited the carriage. The outlaw grabbed her and held the gun to her head, moving to where William could see him.
“All right, mister, if you don’t want me to blow her pretty little head off, you’ll throw your weapons out and come out with your hands up.”
Silence followed his ultimatum, but then William tossed his pistol out the door and it landed in the dirt with a thud. William followed.
“All of you, out.”
Mrs. Wheeler and her daughter stepped to the roadway, clinging to each other, the mother shielding her daughter as best she could.
“You.” Their captor jerked his bearded chin in William’s direction. “Unhitch the horses.”
Isabella wanted to protest. William wasn’t up to the task, but he caught her eye and shook his head, so she kept silent. It wouldn’t do any good to argue anyway. And as long as the man had a need for William, he’d keep him alive. William moved to the horses and started unbuckling the traces.
“Now, which one of you pretty little fillies am I gonna take with me?” Nuzzling Isabella’s neck, the man tightened his arm like a vise around her waist, his stench almost suffocating her. Her stomach roiled in protest, and she thought she’d lose its contents right there on the spot. What would he do if she deposited her breakfast on his scuffed and dirty boots? Would he blow her head off like he’d promised?
Maybe that would be better than the alternative.
Lord, help us. She closed her eyes and concentrated on praying for help, desperately blocking out the sound of the highwayman’s heavy breathing in her ear, the stench of his rancid body pressed against her back, the feel of his hard arm clutching her against him so tight she could barely breathe. Suddenly he jerked around, and clutched against his side, Isabella flopped like a trussed goose.
He pointed his gun at William. “Hurry up if you know what’s good for you.”
William eyed the man over the back of one of the horses. “You won’t get away with this.”
“Wal, looks like I already have.” The highwayman laughed, an evil sound that didn’t leave any doubt that he intended to kill them all.
Dear God, help us.
&n
bsp; Isabella’s gaze latched on to LouAnn. No longer crying, the girl stood within her mother’s embrace, rigid, eyes glazed, staring at nothing. She had to do something to get the girl to safety. No matter what, none of them could allow this monster to take LouAnn. Unless he had more than one brace of pistols, he had only one bullet left before he’d have to reload.
She caught Mrs. Wheeler’s attention and flicked a glance toward the woods, tipping her chin up a notch. Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes widened, but she nodded.
William finished unhooking the horses and led them out of the traces. Isabella leaned back, trying to see the highwayman’s face. “I’ll go with you if you’ll leave the others unharmed.”
“Isabella, no—”
“Well, well, well.” The man snagged her closer, a lurid grin cracking his face, showing a row of putrid, rotting teeth. “Don’t look like I’ll have to make a decision after all.”
William stepped forward, hands held out. “If you hurt any one of these women, every decent man in these parts will be after you.”
“They are already.” He shrugged. “Don’t matter none.”
He shoved Isabella toward one of the horses, pistol cocked and aimed at William’s head. “Help her mount, and if you try anything, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Isabella knew he meant every word. She put a hand on William’s arm, silently beseeching him. “Trust me,” she mouthed.
He searched her expression, then relented and gave her a boost up. She hadn’t ridden bareback since she was a child, but she didn’t plan to be on the horse long.
She grabbed the horse’s mane, dug her heels into the mare’s flanks, and aimed straight at their captor, screaming with all her might.
A scream and a shot reverberated through the forest, and Connor gouged his heels into his mount’s flanks.
The horse flew around one bend, then another, as he urged the animal forward, faster and faster. He rounded a bend and saw the abandoned carriage in the road. He sawed on the reins, sliding off the horse’s back. He pulled his pistol, not seeing anyone.
“Isabella!”
Mr. Wainwright and another man rode up behind him.
“Frances? LouAnn? Where are you?” The man ran toward the empty carriage.
A rustling in the woods drew his attention. The two women stumbled down an embankment toward them. “George, we’re here.”
“Frances, are you all right?” The man gathered his wife in his arms. The girl threw herself against her father, sobbing.
Mr. Wainwright stepped near. “Where are Miss Bartholomew and my son?”
“Father.” William’s faint voice reached them from the other side of the carriage.
Connor rushed toward William, the senior Wainwright close behind. William’s face was covered in blood.
“William?” Mr. Wainwright sank to his knees, a tremor in his voice.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” William winced. “The bullet just creased me.”
“Where’s Isabella?”
Cold dread snaked through Connor when William’s pain-filled eyes met his.
“He took her. I tried to stop him, but—” William attempted to sit up, but Wainwright pushed him back down. “I must have blacked out—”
“Lie still. We’ve got to get this bleeding stopped.”
“I’ve got to . . . go after her. I’m sorry. I tried to stop . . .” William’s eyes began to glaze over.
“I’ll find her.”
“Go.” Wainwright jerked his head, his attention on his son. “Kill that blackguard, and bring Isabella back.”
Connor swung himself up on the closest mare and spurred the mount forward.
How will I ever find her?
Chapter 24
BILE ROSE in Isabella’s throat.
The heartless outlaw had shot William in cold blood.
She’d taken matters into her own hands, but charging the highwayman had gone horribly wrong. He’d sidestepped, grabbed her, and jerked her off the horse, then shot William where he stood.
Everything after that was a blur. She’d been so horrified, she hadn’t even resisted when he’d roughly tossed her onto the back of one of the horses, mounted another, grabbed her reins, and took off.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
Oh, Jonathan, is this how you felt when outlaws ambushed you on this very road? When they shot you and left you for dead? Did you regain consciousness, knowing you were dying but unable to go for help?
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
The prayerful litany kept time with her pounding heart, beating out a terrified rhythm.
Terrified but numb.
The man leading her away from William, Connor, Mews, and Mr. Wainwright had more in mind for her than a quick death at the end of his pistol. If a quick death had been his intention for her, he would have shot her after he shot William.
Oh, William.
She wanted to believe that he might still be alive, but the image of him falling, lying still in the ditch, blood covering his face, mocked her hope. The only blessing in this nightmare was when Mrs. Wheeler had plunged into the thick undergrowth with LouAnn as Isabella charged toward the outlaw. Isabella sent a prayer heavenward for the women’s safety and clung to the horse as they careened around another sharp curve in the road. She slid sideways and tumbled off the back of the horse, grunting when her body slammed against the ground. Her mount took off, hooves pounding the dirt as it vanished around the next bend. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed at her skirts, and made a dash for the woods.
She’d taken less than a dozen running steps when her captor grabbed her by the hair and jerked her off her feet, leaving her dangling in midair against the side of his horse. Sharp pain tore at her scalp, and tears spurted from her eyes. Gasping for breath, she clawed at the horse’s mane, the saddle, trying to get a grip on something, trying to ease the excruciating pain of the vile highwayman’s fingers twisted in her hair.
“I oughta slit your throat.” He shook her, and she flopped like a rag doll, feet inches off the ground.
“Please.” The word, barely more than a whimper, escaped her lips.
“That won’t be the last time you’ll beg for mercy, you little chit.” He laughed, a crude, guttural sound that turned her stomach. Then he yanked her upward, tossed her over the horse’s withers in front of him, the impact knocking the breath out of her. She scrabbled for a handhold, anything to keep from sliding face-first into the dirt.
Her clawing fingers encountered something cold and hard strapped to his leg.
A knife.
She slid it out of the scabbard, gripped it with both hands, and drove it with all her might into his thigh.
He roared, jerking on the reins of the horse at the same time. The animal reared, and Isabella took the opportunity to jackknife upward, the back of her head slamming into her captor’s chin. The upward movement propelled them over backward, the horse screaming in fright, the highwayman spouting a string of curse words and threats.
They spilled onto the road, and she rolled away.
A roar of fury exploded from her assailant’s throat, and desperation drove Isabella. She hiked her skirts and plunged into the dark, vast wilderness.
Faster, faster, faster.
Connor’s heart kept time with the horse’s hooves pounding against the roadbed. He prayed Isabella’s captor didn’t leave the road. He prayed he found Isabella before—
No, he wouldn’t let his thoughts go there. He would find her.
He rounded a bend and spotted a lathered horse, head down, munching the vegetation along the side of the road. He sawed on the reins, pulling his mount to a stop, then slid to the ground and crouched by the side of the road, watching.
The horse continued to pull clumps of grass, meandering along the road. Connor stayed in the shadows and circled around, looking for Isabella or her captor. When he’d made a full circle and found nothing, he paused. It was obvious Isabella and the highwayman were long gone, but why would the
y leave the horse?
Had Isabella somehow gotten away? And what of the other horse?
As Connor approached the draft animal, she shied away.
“Whoa.” He reached out a hand to soothe the mare, and his palm came away covered in blood.
Isabella’s?
Please, God, no.
Connor rubbed the sticky red substance between his fingers, his gaze taking in the surrounding area. A steep bank bordered one side of the trail, so it stood to reason that if Isabella managed to get away, she wouldn’t attempt to climb the bank.
Connor wasn’t much of a tracker, but he was a woodsman, and he could spot a broken limb, scuffed ground cover, or scattered leaves better than most. Yet if the man who’d taken Isabella had any skills at all in the woods, he’d find her before Connor did.
Methodically he searched for signs. The only way he’d find Isabella was to locate her trail and keep a clear head. Running off half-cocked wouldn’t do her any good.
As he searched, a cool breeze ruffled the treetops, and clouds rolled in from the west. Frowning, he glanced at the sky. Rain might keep Isabella safe from her pursuer, but it would also make it almost impossible for Connor to track her.
Finally he found evidence where she’d left the roadway. He plunged into the wilderness, praying he wasn’t too late.
Nolan waited an hour; then, along with half a dozen recently purchased slaves and a dozen men from Braxton Hall, he rode along the trace to join Wainwright’s caravan.
He’d met with Governor Gayoso while in Natchez. Nolan was in his element making small talk with the Spanish governor. Miss Watts had been in attendance, and she’d been fascinated with his knowledge of the arts, the theater, and London’s latest scandal.
If he didn’t miss his guess, Miss Watts would soon be the next First Lady of the Spanish Natchez District, and being one of her favored guests would put him in good stead with the governor.
He’d even dropped hints of his impending marriage, much to Miss Watts’s delight. By the time the weather cooled and Natchez became a hotbed of parties and soirees, he’d have Isabella Bartholomew on his arm, a bride sure to impress the Spanish governor and his American lady.