Robby Riverton Mail Order Bride

by Eli Easton

  “Where you goin’?” Wayne asked.

  “I’ll circle around behind ’em. Got it?”

  Clovis brought his rifle up to his shoulder, holding the reins of his horse with his other hand. “We’ll keep ’em busy. Ya go take ’em out, Trace. Shoot ’em good for me.”

  The four of them rode closer and started firing. Trace waited until the men at the rocks were engaged, then turned to the right. He rode Jasper hard, making a wide circle.

  He cleared the side of the rocks, now well to their south, and got a sightline on the men. Got ’em. As he’d suspected, the rocks provided a single barrier line. From behind, his targets were out in the open, set-up nice and easy for him on a hill. And they’d be focused on firing at his pa and brothers. If he rode up from behind them, and shot fast, he could take out two before they even turned around, and the last two before they drew sights on him.

  He studied the layout as he rode. The remaining Bowery Boy was the closest, on the south end of the rocks. Robby was on the ground, possibly hurt. Possibly dead. Trace couldn’t think about that right now.

  He squeezed Jasper hard with his knees, bent low over his neck for speed. He needed distance, needed to hit them dead straight from behind. Finally, he turned Jasper toward the rocks. Gunfire covered the sound of his hooves as he galloped. Closer. Closer. One hand reached for his gun—

  That’s when the bottom fell out of the world. Robby was no longer lying on the ground, ignored. He was sitting up, arms bound behind him, and a Bowery Boy was leaning over him with a huge knife..

  With a shouted, “Ha!” and a clench of his knees, Trace pushed Jasper harder. His own body strained so intently, it felt like he could leave the horse and fly. Every second was too long. No. God’s sake, no.

  The Bowery Boy raised his arm.

  Trace was pure instinct now. He grabbed his right-hand six-shooter and took aim even as Jasper’s hooves pounded the dirt.

  Robby rolled away from Blue-Feather, pushing with his heels. The knife ripped through his left shoulder instead of his heart. He screamed at the bright, blinding pain, the violent invasion as steel entered his flesh, slicing through delicate tissue that should never see the light of day. A gush of warm liquid soaked his dress.

  Pure survival instinct made him flail. He was on his stomach, his body jerking, back bowing, as he tried to scoot across sharp-edged rocks. Get away! It was pure, animal panic.

  Blue-Feather grabbed Robby’s bound hands and, using them as a handle, jerked him backward, nearly dislocating his shoulders. He was flipped over. A fist crashed into his face.

  “I’m gonna carve you like a turkey,” Blue-Feather promised, his voice dark and gleeful.

  Robby tried to roll again, but Blue-Feather sat on his ribs, smashing his bound arms behind his back. A scream of pain got stuck behind the gag in Robby’s mouth, choking him.

  Blue-Feather raised the knife.

  Robby was about to die.

  Then a black dot appeared in the middle of Blue-Feather’s forehead. At first, it seemed like a trick Robby’s eyes were playing on him. Then a trickle of red spilled out of it like candle wax as Blue-Feather’s eyes widened with shock and glazed over.

  The knife dropped, nicking Robby’s arm. Blue-Feather toppled like a leaded weight, landing on top of Robby’s chest and head.

  Relief flooded through Robby’s veins, but it was short-lived. He couldn’t get enough air around the gag, not with Blue-Feather’s weight covering his face. His shoulder screamed as he tried fruitlessly to shift the body. Fresh blood gushed over his skin, onto his neck.

  Please, God, he just wanted one clean damn breath! And maybe to scream. He could scream for hours.

  But the breath wasn’t there. Things went fuzzy and the world fell away.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Robby woke to the sight of Trace’s golden-brown eyes. They were damp with worry and something more, something Robby couldn’t quite trust. His mouth was blessedly free of the gag, and he gulped in air—huge, fresh, wonderful lungs full.

  “You’re all right,” Trace said, cupping his face. “You’re all right.”

  “The— the—” Robby tried.

  “They’re dead.”

  “All of them?”

  Trace nodded solemnly, his gaze roaming Robby’s face as if he couldn’t quite trust that he was alive.

  “Yo-you?” Robby managed, trying to sit up. He hissed at the sharp agony in his shoulder.

  “No, now just sit tight.” Trace’s voice cracked a little. “Ya got a nasty wound in your shoulder.”

  He put an arm behind Robby’s back for Robby to rest on and Robby gratefully relaxed into it. His vision sparkled with black dots and his head felt like it would float away on its own. He closed his eyes.

  The next thing he knew, he was riding pillion behind Trace on a horse, slumped against Trace’s back. His hands were fastened around Trace’s waist in an effort to keep him upright. And he was drooling. It probably looked damned undignified, him with his tattered dress and apron hitched up to his thighs so he could sit astride, with his old-lady makeup and mob cap, and the bloodstain soaking one side of the dress. But Robby was perfectly content. If he had to be tied, being tied around Trace was a vast improvement. He felt quite smug about it just before falling asleep against Trace’s back.

  When he woke up again they were in Flat Bottom and Clovis was sliding him off the horse. Robby wobbled on his feet, blinking in the hot sunshine.

  “We’re gettin’ the doctor,” Clovis said, not meeting Robby’s eyes. He looked ashamed or embarrassed or both.

  Shit. Clovis knew.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, Clovis,” Robby said earnestly.

  “Aw, don’t worry about that right now. Honest. I ain’t mad.”

  “You’re a nice man. A gem—no, a paragon. Truly. I don’t deserve you. None of y'all.” His words were slurred, and his head felt funny. He thought he heard Trace snort a laugh.

  The ground rose up suddenly, but Clovis and Trace were there to catch him. They each took an arm and helped him into the sheriff’s office and up a flight of stairs.

  “I’m fine,” Robby muttered.

  No one was asking his opinion.

  A few minutes later an older man came in—the doctor, Robby surmised. His wound was cleaned with alcohol, which stung like a bitch. The doctor gave him laudanum then stitched the long gash and wrapped it. Between the laudanum and his already woozy head, the pain of the stitches was remote, distant. That was nice.

  He heard the doctor say he’d lost a lot of blood and needed to rest for a week or two. Whatever else he might have said, Robby didn’t process it. He figured he’d be on a stagecoach out of Flat Bottom as soon as possible. Now that the Bowery Boys were dead, he needed to move on before anyone else got any ideas or Mose McCann sent reinforcements. And anyway, he didn’t want to face the Crabtrees. They’d hate him now.

  When the doctor left, Robby forced himself to sit up on the bed, using his good arm to push himself upright.

  “Mrs. Jones’s house?” he asked, blinking up at Trace. He was so exhausted. He just wanted a bed he could stay in for a while. Preferably one where the room didn’t spin or stink so badly of wood smoke.

  Trace frowned down at him. “Ya can’t even walk.”

  “I can walk,” Robby insisted, getting to his feet.

  Whoo! The room went round, swoop-de-doo. Sounds were fuzzy, including the sound of Trace saying, “He’s goin’ down!”

  The next time Robby opened his eyes he looked up at a gray ceiling. The bed beneath him felt familiar, as did the quilt beneath his hand. He was on the porch at the Crabtree ranch.

  His shoulder had woken him. His arm was in a sling and the shoulder hurt like a son of a gun.

  He groaned and, a moment later, Marcy sat beside him on the bed. “Does it hurt? Doc said ya could have some more laudanum for the pain.”

  Robby shook his head. He needed to be able to think clearly. “What time is it?”
r />   “It’s almost noon.”

  “What day?”

  “Thursday,” Marcy said with a hesitant smile.

  Thursday. He’d slept for twenty-four hours. He went to reach for his hair to see if his bonnet was in place and was rewarded with a stab of pain in his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and switched to his right hand. There was no bonnet, just his own hair, still tacky with powder.

  Seeing the flash of hurt cross Marcy’s face reminded Robby that his secrets were out.

  “It’s almost time for lunch,” Marcy said, rising. “Do you want me to bring a tray, or do ya feel up to sittin’ at the table?” Her words were kind but reserved, stiff, like she didn’t know Robby at all.

  He swallowed. He might as well face the firing squad now rather than later. “I’ll come out.”

  Marcy nodded and left the room.

  Robby got up slowly. He felt incredibly weak and his body hurt everywhere. He found his mirror in Rowena’s trunk and looked himself over. His skin was pale and his eyes dull. There were big black-and-purple bruises on his thighs, hips, and ribs. His face was still lined with makeup that had been smeared with dirt and blood. Between that and the white powder in his hair he looked downright spectral, like a ghoul risen from the grave.

  In a way, he supposed he was. Rowena Fairchild was dead. Long live Robby Riverton.

  He found warm water in the pitcher and a clean rag and towel. He washed his face with soap and water, scrubbing the makeup off with his one good hand. He brushed his hair as best he could to remove most of the white powder. Then, finding the carpetbag near the bed—thank you, Trace—he put on his own clothes. He had to slip the sling off long enough to get his shirt on, which caused a fresh wave of pain, but he was determined to do this right.

  When he was finished, it was startling to look at himself in the mirror. Even he wasn’t used to this Robby—just an ordinary sort of young man, really. Yet so out of place in this room, in this situation.

  God, Pa-Pa was going to kill him. And Trace would be angry that Robby had run. Well, hiding wouldn’t change any of that. Robby squared his shoulders and left the back porch.

  When he walked into the dining room, everyone was at the table, including Trace. They all looked at him.

  Billy was the first to speak. “Oh my gawd!” he exclaimed. “Rowena, you really is a gosh durn man!”

  No one bothered to yell at him for cussing.

  “I can go back to the porch if I’m disturbing your lunch,” Robby said. His face was burning.

  Pa-Pa waved a hand. “Get your ass over here. Ya ain’t gettin’ off that easy.”

  He didn’t sound happy, but Robby supposed it was an invitation of sorts. He walked to the empty chair next to Pa-Pa and sat gingerly. Wearing pants again felt downright liberating, but he had to remind himself to drop the feminine mannerisms and not sway as he walked.

  He raised his eyes once he was seated. Everyone was still staring at him. If this was weird for him, he couldn’t imagine how weird it was for them.

  Pa-Pa crossed his arms with a grunt. “Well. Guess ya thought you’d never have to face us again.”

  “I guess I did,” Robby admitted. “But I’d like to say . . . I’m sorry.” He looked around the table. “I never set out to deceive you or hurt you. I guess . . .” He glanced at Pa-Pa. “I guess some lies just get away from you.”

  Pa-Pa huffed. “We already know the whole dang story,” he said in a disgusted tone. “What with that murder in New York, and ya bein’ chased, and hidin’ out here, and all that hullaballoo. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen the bodies of them Bowery Boys. They sure looked like some kindy Eastern criminals.”

  Pa-Pa spat on the floor to show his opinion of anyone who came from New York City. Robby was half of a mind to copy Pa-Pa and do it himself.

  “Did ya really see a famous gangster kill a man?” Billy asked, his eyes big.

  Robby nodded. “I did. It sure turned my life into a mare’s nest.”

  Marcy handed Robby a mug of hot coffee. “Well, I think you’re very brave to have gone through all that.”

  Robby gave her a grateful smile. She was trying, bless her heart.

  Trace spoke up, his voice dry. “Ya know what turned all our lives into a mare’s nest? Ya takin’ off like ya did, runnin’ right into the Bowery Boys’ hands at the last minute. Stupidest damn thing I ever saw.”

  Robby took a deep breath to keep calm. He sipped his coffee, saying nothing.

  “I swear to God, Robby. One more minute and you’d be dead. One more minute!” Trace was flat-out angry now. It had probably been simmering for hours. He jabbed at his potatoes with his fork.

  Robby pressed his lips together tightly and gave Missy, to his right, a tiny smile. “Would you pass the milk, sweet pea?”

  She nodded and reached out with her chubby hands for the little milk pitcher on the table. “Aunt Rowena—do I still call you Aunt Rowena?” She wriggled her nose like it itched and handed Robby the pitcher.

  “You can call me Robby. Or Romy. That’s what my baby sister used to call me.”

  “How come?” Missy giggled, finding that hilarious.

  “Oh, I suppose she just found it easier to say.”

  “Uncle Robby,” Paul said to himself, chomping on a piece of bread. He peered at Robby with a tilted head and a frown as if trying to see Rowena in his face.

  “And these guys—my so-called family!” Trace ranted on. “There they were, yackin’ away at me, demandin’ explanations for this and that, holdin’ me up. I could easily have been a minute later. But for the grace of God!” Trace jabbed his fork in the air. “Or ya coulda broken your neck falling off that horse when ya were hogtied. What kind of idiot wouldn’t secure ya to that damn animal? Or they could have killed ya right there at that stagecoach. Just shot ya dead! Dressing up like an old woman. Christ on a goddamn crutch, Robby!”

  Robby pressed his lips tight and gave Emmie a wide-eyed look as if to say, They do go on, don’t they?

  Emmie, who’d been sitting in her seat doing her quiet vanishing act, choked on a laugh.

  But the truth was, Trace’s scolding made Robby’s heart full to bursting with happiness. Trace cared. He really did. He’d been scared to death. Robby took a shaky breath and took a bite of potato. “You’re right, Trace. Completely,” he agreed sincerely. “And thank you for saving my life yesterday. And thank you Roy, Wayne, Clovis, and Pa-Pa too, for fighting alongside Trace. I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

  Trace just glared down the table at him.

  “Well,” Emmie spoke up, straightening her back. “I agree with Marcy. It was awful brave to try to protect us by leavin’ the way ya did.”

  “It was stupid,” Trace said. “Idiotic!”

  “Ya wouldn’t have had to take the time to explain it to us, brother,” Clovis said testily, “If ya’d told us about it days ago, like you oughta.”

  “Potatoes?” Marcy asked, passing the platter to Robby from the other side of Pa-Pa.

  Robby reached for it with his left hand and winced.

  “I’ll get it,” Pa-Pa grumbled.

  Pa-Pa held the bowl while Robby spooned some potatoes onto his plate.

  Pa-Pa looked at Robby side-eyed, his gaze moving up and down, his expression hurt. “Shoulda known. Never have met a woman with your kindy gumption.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Robby said. “My friend Jenny Daley in New York? She’s a famous actress. That woman can send a man to his knees with a few choice words.” He waggled his eyebrows at Marcy.

  “I wanna meet a famous actress!” Billy said, pronouncing it “act-less.” Which Jenny would not find amusing.

  “Ya sure the Bowery Boys didn’t kill the real Miss Fairchild?” Wayne asked, his face closed off.

  Robby shook his head. “No. Thank God. They caught up with the wagon train long after she’d left.”

  “I spent two hundred dollars on that gal!” Pa-Pa huffed bitterly. “Was she at least pr
etty?”

  Robby nodded. “She was very pretty. Actually, I have a letter for you.”

  Robby felt guilty that he’d forgotten all about Rowena’s farewell letter. He’d stuck it behind a bit of loose lining in her trunk. He went and fetched it, and Pa-Pa read it over with a scowl. Then it got passed down the table to Clovis.

  Clovis read it warily then scoffed. “True love! Well, Pa. So much for findin’ me a wife.” His attempt to sound bemused didn’t quite come off.

  “I can tell you about her,” Robby suggested. Because, well heck. Rowena was happily married hundreds of miles away. It wasn’t like she was ever going to visit Flat Bottom. And Robby didn’t want Clovis to feel too badly. So Robby told them how he’d met Rowena, about her bun in the oven, the bible salesman, and some of the amusing and silly things she’d said and done. He liked Rowena, but he wanted the Crabtrees to see she wasn’t cut out for the ranch.

  Soon most of the people around the table were laughing, Wayne and Roy included.

  “Oh, good Lord! Ya dodged a bullet there, Clovis,” said Roy.

  “Geez, Pa, told ya. Ya can’t just go around buyin’ a woman you never even met,” Wayne said, shaking his head.

  “Your brother wanted a wife! It’s not my fault we got took for fools. Took for fools more than once.”

  Pa-Pa’s words were harsh, and Robby didn’t know what to say. The rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

  After lunch, the men and Billy went out to work and Trace left with them, saying something about needing to go into town. He shot Robby a foreboding look as he left. Robby tried to help clear the table, the way he used to do. But with his sling it was awkward and the laudanum from the day before had him dragging.

  “You go rest,” Marcy insisted. She started to push his back, the way she might have done with Rowena. But then she seemed to think it was inappropriate to touch a man that way. She dropped her hands, blushing.

  Marcy and Emmie gave each other a bewildered look.

  “I’m sorry this is so strange,” Robby said. “But you don’t have to be different with me.”