Robby Riverton Mail Order Bride

by Eli Easton

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wednesday morning

  Robby couldn’t sleep. He went back and forth in his mind about what he should do, a frustrating loop that ground down his spirits and gave him a temple-throbbing headache.

  The Bowery Boys were coming, and they’d hired gunmen. At least six hardened killers were coming to the ranch, and they’d attempt to cut down anyone who got between them and Robby.

  Trace said he had a plan. He said the women and children would be safe. But Robby didn’t see how they could be. If bullets were flying at the ranch, everyone was in danger.

  Robby tried to imagine it. The intruders would be in the open, Trace and Pa-Pa and the others arrayed around the lane. But what if the men split up and went in six different directions? What if one of them circled back around? Approached the house from near the privy and woods? Robby could be in a back window with a gun. But what if the man saw him there and took him out without the men in front being any the wiser? Who would protect the women and children then? Robby was willing to fight to the death, but he knew in his heart he was no match for a professional gunslinger.

  A deep sense of fear and foreboding grew inside him, spreading out from the region of his bowels. Dread caused bits of ice to prickle in his stomach, in his throat.

  He was afraid for his own life, of course he was. He didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t imagine the guilt he’d feel if Marcy was hurt. Or young Billy. Or baby George . . .

  Or Pa-Pa. Or Clovis.

  Or Trace.

  The idea that any of them might die for his sake was unbearable. A noose of guilt tightened around his chest. They didn’t even know who he was. Only Trace knew. If the Crabtrees fought for Rowena, died for her, they’d be doing it under false pretenses. They’d be doing it to protect Clovis’s wife, a daughter-in-law, a fellow sister, a person who was an illusion, a ghost. Robby’s life would never be on the Crabtree ranch. He’d never be that person.

  He’d tried to express that to Trace multiple times, but Trace just acted like he had it all under control, that this was the best option. But how could he know that? He couldn’t.

  And if Robby caused the death of a member of Trace’s family, how long would it be before Trace began to hate Robby too?

  It was around four a.m. when he got out of bed. He lit the lantern and went through the house noiselessly, his bare feet cold on the chilly floor. There was a small room where they kept the laundry supplies—a tub, wringer, and clothesline, as well as a basket of castoffs and items to be repaired. Robby found an old gray dress and tattered apron of Emmie’s. He also grabbed an old pair of chamois gloves used for dusting and found a mob cap. From the row of pegs in the front hall where coats were hung, he took a beat-up old cane he’d noticed before, one Trace had used when he’d come home from the army wounded.

  Back in his room, Robby took out his stage makeup and set the lantern next to a mirror. He looked himself in the eye for a long moment. This was it. Once he did the makeup, it would be hard to back out.

  He nodded at his reflection and began to work. He used spirit gum to pucker the flesh around his eyes and on his cheeks. Light and dark pencils created the illusion of deep wrinkles from his nose to his mouth, around his eyes, and on his forehead. A gray tint hollowed his eyes and disguised their bright youthfulness. Finally, he threaded his hair with white powder and put the mob cap in place.

  An old woman looked back at him from the mirror. Mother Harper, he named her. In the lantern glow, she was convincing. But he would have to sell her in the broad light of day.

  Robby put a few items in a carpetbag—his own clothes, his makeup kit, his remaining cash. He wrote a letter with some stationary from Rowena’s trunk. He absolutely did not shed a tear over it. He left the back porch and circled around the outside of the house to the barn. This was the trickiest part. He had to get a horse saddled and out of the barn without waking Trace. The bunkroom was on the other side of the barn, but Trace was probably a light sleeper.

  Robby now knew where they kept the key to the tack room—at the top of a tall doorway. He found a saddle and took Bella from the barn and tied her to the corral, then went and got the saddle as quietly as he could. He put back the key.

  Out in the pre-dawn air, he saddled the horse and led her through the soft dirt at the side of the lane until he was far enough away to risk mounting her.

  As he rode away, he looked back. There was no sound or movement anywhere. The Crabtrees slept. Robby felt a pang of regret that Trace hadn’t caught him, hadn’t stopped him. But it was only a moment of weakness. Robby rode away.

  When he reached Flat Bottom, the little town was not yet stirring. The glow of a lantern lit only one solitary window. Robby tied up Bella at the general store where the Crabtrees would find her and walked to the schoolhouse at the end of town. He sat on the steps to wait for dawn. A strategically placed willow tree kept him from being too obvious to anyone who might walk about the sleepy town, while allowing him to keep a lookout for the stagecoach. And if the Bowery Boys rode in, he’d see them and be able to slip around the side of the building and find someplace to hide before he was noticed.

  He just prayed no one at the Crabtree ranch discovered his letter too soon—and that the stagecoach showed up on time. His stomach was in knots and he was filled with doubt. Was he doing the right thing? Or was he making a huge mistake?

  But it was too late for second thoughts now. He had to have confidence in his plan.

  The sun was rising when the stagecoach rolled out of the livery stable and over to the general store. Robby got up and walked toward it with his shoulders hunched over. He faked a hobble and leaned heavily on the cane. He shrouded himself in Mother Harper, becoming the role. Before he reached the coach, he saw a young couple cross the street from Mrs. Jones’s establishment with several bags.

  Robby waited until the couple had settled their fare and their bags had been secured on top of the coach. The driver, an older man with exorbitant blond mutton chops, an old blue army cap, and a tweed coat, hopped down and turned to Robby.

  “Yes, ma’am, and how can I help you?”

  “One way to Silverton, please,” Mother Harper said, her voice shaky with age.

  “Sorry, ma’am. This coach is goin’ to Santa Fe.”

  Robby’s heart gave a meaty thump. “But . . . it’s Wednesday! I was told Wednesday’s coach went east to Silverton.”

  “Well, now, it does normally.” The coachman scratched his chin. “Normally, I would have taken the Santa Fe run Saturday. But, see, Saturday’s coach was delayed, so it’s leaving today.”

  “What about the Silverton coach?”

  “Ah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen this week.” The man sounded vaguely apologetic. “But they might go next Wednesday.”

  “Next—!” Robby stopped himself before he could go into a full-on rant.

  “If you wanna go to Santa Fe, that’s two dollars. I’m leavin’ in ten minutes.” The coachman checked his watch, then strolled off for a smoke.

  Santa Fe.

  Of course, Robby wasn’t going to Santa Fe! But what other option did he have? If he went back to the ranch now, the Crabtrees would be stirring by the time he got there. And how could he explain the makeup, dress, and mob cap? Or why he’d left in the first place?

  And besides, then he’d be right back where he started—endangering the Crabtrees.

  Could he go to Santa Fe? He rolled it around in his mind. The Bowery Boys were heading to Flat Bottom. The stagecoach might not even pass them on the way—if the gang went off road, not wanting to be seen. Or if they did ride past, why would they stop the stagecoach? They expected to find Rowena Fairchild at the ranch. And even if they did stop the stagecoach, they were looking for Robby or Rowena. They weren’t looking for an old woman.

  It was a daring move to head right in their direction. Hiding in plain sight, as it were. Maybe that was smart?

  No, it wasn’t smart; it was terrifying. But R
obby was going to do it. He had to trust in himself, in his disguise.

  When the coach pulled out ten minutes later, Mother Harper was on it.

  Chapter Thirty

  Trace slept deeply. He figured the Bowery Boys and their thugs-for-hire wouldn’t get to the ranch until eight o’clock at the earliest, and he’d get a warning from Carson Meeps they were on their way. He’d made his plans; everything was ready. So he set his internal clock for six. But it was Clovis who shook him awake around then.

  After only a few seconds to orient himself, Trace sat up, anxious. “What is it? Is Carson here?”

  “Rowena’s gone.” Clovis’s expression was grim.

  “What?”

  “She left a note. Come to the house.”

  Clovis walked out. Trace yanked on his clothes as quickly as he could, strapped on his gun belt just in case, then jogged over to the ranch house. His mouth was dry, and his heart hammered an uncertain tune. Clovis couldn’t be right. Robby wouldn’t have done something that stupid. Would he? Trace glanced down the farm lane as he passed it. The sky was pink at the horizon and dim light was creeping across the landscape. But the air was clear and visibility good. No one was coming or going.

  Inside, Trace found Clovis, Wayne, Roy, Marcy, Emmie, and Pa-Pa in the kitchen. They all looked worried.

  “She left a note,” Marcy said, holding it out.

  Trace grabbed it and read.

  Dear Crabtree family:

  I will get right to the point. I am leaving to spare you the coming fight. This battle is mine and mine alone. You have offered me shelter—shelter and kindness and your friendship, and I will never forget it. But for that reason alone, I can’t bring danger to your doorstep. I just can’t.

  Trace will no doubt say I’m being incredibly stupid. And maybe I am. But my parents raised me to know right from wrong. And bringing a gang of murderers onto your heads to save my own skin is wrong. And Trace, please understand that it’s not that I don’t trust you, or think you aren’t the most wicked gun in the west. But I care too much to see you risk death for my sake. Or for your family to risk it. They would be fighting for me under false pretenses, and that’s not right.

  Please don’t worry. I’ll write to you as soon as I can, so you know I’m safe. I’ve grown to care about each of you, and I will always remember my time at the Crabtree ranch.

  With abiding friendship,

  Rowena (Robby)

  “That gal up and left!” Pa bellowed angrily. “After all we done for her, and all the ways I tried to please her, that gal up and hightailed it outta here!”

  “It’s because of those men, Pa,” Clovis said in a downtrodden voice. “She’s just tryin’ to protect us, I guess. But Trace, what the hell is goin’ on? What does she mean by ‘false pretenses’ or this ‘Robby’ she added after her name?”

  “Yeah,” Wayne agreed. “I always thought there was somethin’ fishy.”

  Trace was still numb with disbelief. Goddamn it, Robby! He’d been prepared last night for one catastrophe only to wake up to a different one. Why couldn’t Robby have just talked to him for God’s sake?

  Clovis poked his shoulder hard. “Trace! Answer me! You’d best fess up right now, or I swear to God . . . .”

  Trace looked up from the letter. Everyone was staring at him, angry and confused.

  “I can’t get into it right now,” Trace said with an impatient shake of his head. “I have to go after Ro—Rowena. Before she gets herself killed.”

  Pa’s eyes narrowed. “The hell you say! Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere until you answer Clovis’s questions. What’s goin’ on with Rowena? Now, boy!”

  Wayne, Roy, and Clovis crowded in closer. Wayne grabbed his arm and Clovis looked ready to hog-tie him if necessary. And knowing his brothers and pa, they would. Robby had left Trace with no choice. The letter laid too many hints.

  “Fine! I’ll tell ya. I just need to grab somethin’ from the bunkroom.”

  “We’ll all go,” Wayne insisted.

  So they did. The men trooped out of the house, leaving Marcy and Emmie to put on coffee. In the bunkroom, his brothers blocked the door making it clear no one was leaving until they were satisfied. So Trace pulled the WANTED poster from his saddlebag and grasped it for a moment, sighing. Then he held it up.

  Clovis grabbed it. His eyes scanned the text and he stared at the picture in disbelief. The others crowded around him to see it. Then Pa snatched it and held it close to his face, squinting. Then Wayne and Roy had a turn, gawking at it like it was a mirage. There was a long, stunned silence.

  Trace shook his head in frustration. “’Member I told ya about the fugitive on the wagon train? The man who’d seen a murder in New York by a big gang boss? Well that’s him, Robby Riverton. As ya can see . . .” He swallowed. “Robby is Rowena.”

  “Are you tellin’ me I contracted with a man to marry Clovis?” Pa-Pa said, bewildered. “What the ever-lovin’ hell?”

  “No, Pa. You contracted with a Miss Rowena Fairchild from St. Louis. She was on the wagon train with Robby. Only she decided she liked some other fella better, and she got off with him in Dodge City. Robby pretended to be Rowena when those Bowery Boys attacked the wagon train. If he hadn’t put on a dress and fooled ’em, they’d have killed him on the spot. Then I ran into him in Santa Fe before he could change and . . .”

  He looked at Clovis. “I’m sorry, Clovis. I hope ya ain’t too disappointed. From what Robby told me about the real Miss Fairchild, she wouldn’t have been the wife for you anyhow.”

  Clovis’s face was slack with surprise. “Rowena ain’t my bride,” he muttered, as if testing the idea on his tongue.

  “She ain’t even a woman!” Roy said in disgust. “I knew it all along!”

  “You did not,” Wayne snapped. “None of us did.”

  “Lemme get this straight,” Pa said, his face flushing red. “You’re tellin’ me the gal I sent two hundred dollars so’s she could pay her fare out here—that gal just up and ditched the wagon train way back in Dodge City?”

  Trace closed his eyes and nodded, praying for patience.

  “How did you know all this?” Wayne demanded. “And since when?”

  Trace rubbed a hand over his face. “I figured it out that day we picked him up in Santa Fe. Look, I wired the U.S. Marshals, and they’re on their way to Flat Bottom to take Robby into custody and protect him. But meanwhile, I . . . For god’s sake. I just wanted to save his neck! I figured the best way was for him to sit tight here on the ranch and keep pretendin’ he was Miss Fairchild. At least till the marshals got here. So that’s what I told him to do.”

  “Ya told him to lie to us?” Pa bellowed, outraged.

  “Pa,” Trace said seriously, needing to make him understand. “Ya know if Robby had revealed who he was that first day, you’d have thrown him out on his rear. And if the gossip had gotten around about him, those Bowery Boys would have been on him in a flash.”

  Pa pressed his lips tight, but he didn’t deny it.

  Trace hesitated, wondering himself how this had all gone so horribly wrong. “Look, I didn’t mean for it to go this way. I figured he’d be a guest in the house for a few days, and it would be no big bother. But Robby . . .” He shook his head with a growl. “It’s just beyond him to be meek and retirin’ and keep his nose outta things.”

  Pa grabbed the poster again and studied the drawing of Robby’s face. “He played me for a fool.” Pa’s voice wobbled a bit. He sounded so honestly crushed that Trace felt sorry for him.

  “Robby likes ya, Pa. All of ya. I am sorry for lyin’. But the person you took to your bosom is still a real person. Only she is a he, and his name is Robby Riverton. He left here tryin’ to protect ya. And I need to go save him right now before he gets his fool throat slit by those Eastern gangsters. So, if ya wanna yell at me some more, ya can, but it’s gonna have to wait.”

  With that, Trace’s patience dried up and fear got the better of him. He grabbed his hat and stuffed his
extra ammo into his saddlebags. His nerves were strung out like piano wire, and he was hardly aware of what he did. He had no idea how long Robby had been gone or where he was, but the first place to check was town.

  When he turned to go, his brothers and Pa were still standing there, looking pole-axed.

  Clovis spoke. “She—I mean he—Robby—was tryin’ to teach me how to court Miss Stubbens, give me advice and whatnot, help me out. And I still didn’t see it.”

  Trace paused to grasp Clovis around the neck with his palm. “I am sorry, Clovis.”

  Clovis shook his head. “Naw, I mean . . . Yeah. I guess I’m disappointed, but I ain’t heartbroken. I told ya, Trace. I never could picture bein’ married to Rowena. But—” His dark eyebrows furrowed, and he looked at Trace questioningly. “Is that why . . . I kindy got the feeling there was somethin’ between you and her . . .”

  Him, Trace thought. And that was the last discussion Trace wanted to have right then.

  “I’m goin’.” He walked to the door. “Ya can come with me for Robby’s sake. Or ya can come with me for my sake. Or ya can stay here and be mad. But whatever ya decide, I’m leavin’ now.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The young couple sharing the stagecoach with Robby were Mr. and Mrs. Heller. They’d been visiting relatives in Silverton and were now heading back to Santa Fe. The young woman was especially solicitous of old Mother Harper, asking if she needed a blanket and plying her with questions. Robby invented a list of descendants, talking with an old southern twang. But his heart wasn’t in it. Soon he pretended to nap to escape the conversation. Even with his eyes closed, he was as tense as a bow string and ready to snap.