by Beth Ciotta
Paris looked over her shoulder and waved farewell to the stationmaster. She wondered if Josh had passed this way. He’d hinted that they’d be traveling in the same direction, yet she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the infuriating man.
Her disappointed sigh caught Mr. Wiggins’s ears. “What is it, Miss?”
“Nothing,” she lied. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. His eyes. His lips. His kisses. Blast! Wasn’t it bad enough that he haunted her nights? Now he was ruining her days.
Disgusted with herself, she swung back around and focused on the desert scenery. So different from the lush hills and valleys of home. So invigorating. The rough and wild landscape filled her with a sense of awe. If it weren’t for a certain lawman sidetracking her thoughts every three seconds she would have composed a melodic tribute by now.
I’m an entertainer. Destined for the stage. Destined for greatness. No time for men. No time for kissing. She never thought she’d see the day when she’d issue a self-directed lecture.
Mr. Wiggins pointed out various sites. She was happy for the distraction. In the hours that passed, she found herself hanging on the driver’s every word. She not only learned the founding history of Yuma, but she could tell the difference between a Prickly Pear and the Cholla cactus. Her favorite was the Giant Saguaro.
The Saguaro stood as high as fifty feet, some sprouting as many as a dozen arms from its prickly green body. According to Mr. Wiggins, a yellowish-white flower would bloom from its tops in May. The flower would develop into a fruit resembling a small reddish-brown pear somewhere about June. Paris doubted she’d be around to see that. May was a good eight months away. She’d be lucky if she made it eight days without her brothers closing in.
“Here I been carryin’ on and ya’ look as if ya’ can barely keep your eyes open.”
She stifled a yawn. “Nothing personal. I haven’t been getting much sleep.”
“You’re welcome to curl up on the roof if you like. The sun’s hot as the devil’s kitchen, but there’s a good breeze blowin’ today. We got a ways ‘fore we reach our next relay station.”
She hesitated, feeling bad for deserting the kind, old man in the middle of one of his stories.
“Go on,” he insisted, nudging her in the side with his bony elbow. “I’ll wake ‘ya once we get to Maricopa Wells.”
Too tired to argue, she worked her body around and climbed up over the shoulder high backrest. By some miracle she managed not to topple overboard as the stage bounced over the rocky mason track. She positioned herself as comfortably as one could on a stagecoach roof, and pulled the corner of a canvas cloth over her face to protect it from the baking sun.
Exhausted, the rhythmic pounding of horse hooves along with Mr. Wiggins’s whistled rendition of Jim Crack Corn soon lulled Paris into a bone-weary sleep.
Sure you won’t stay for some vittles, Sheriff Grant? I can rustle you up some thin’ real quick like.”
Thorn Butte’s stationmaster was as well known for his longwinded story-telling as he was for his hospitality. If Josh stayed much longer, he’d be joining the lonely man for a walk down memory lane. “Much obliged, Ben, but I’m in a hurry to be on my way. Only stopped long enough to rest Buckshot and stretch my legs.”
“Where you headin’?”
“Chance.”
“Never been there.”
“You haven’t missed much.” He gripped his saddle horn and vaulted into the leather seat, not bothering to elaborate. As far as he was concerned, the less thought he gave to his new life, the better. Besides, Ben’s attention had drifted to a point on the horizon.
The stationmaster squinted against the noonday sun and scratched his head. “What in tarnation?”
Josh squinted in the same direction. “What is it?”
“The Overland Stage. But I ain’t never seen Moe Wiggins drive a rig that hard. They’re comin’ in fast. Too fast.”
An invisible knife twisted into Josh’s gut. A knife held by Hank, I-told-you-so, Fedderman.
Paris was on that stage. Sure enough, somehow, some way, she’d gotten herself into another fix. The knife plunged deeper as a vivid image of Mason’s runaway buckboard flashed in his mind. Fearing the worst, he raced his horse toward the rolling cloud of dust.
His heart leapt to his throat as he neared the careening stage. That wasn’t Moe driving. It was that accident-prone hellion, and she was doing a damn poor job.
Closing in, he whipped Buckshot around and pulled up even with the rocking coach. Moe was either drunk or dead. Turkey Dan was plumb missing.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah!”
Paris was singing Battle Hymn of the Republic at the top of her lungs. “Are you crazy?” he shouted over the ruckus. “Pull back on the ribbons!”
“Are you blind? I am pulling back! It’s the horses who aren’t doing their part. His truth is marching on!”
“Stop singing!”
“Stop yelling!”
“Stop arguing!” A wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked man hung out the window. He shook a ringed finger at Josh. “Do something, man! I’m not ready to die! Oh, my Lord, my demonstrator model, my … ”
The man’s whining faded as Josh spurred Buckshot forward in line with the lead sorrels. He grabbed onto the rigging and, using all his strength, gradually slowed the lathered horses into a winded walk.
The coach rolled to a stop just shy of Thorn Butte’s relay station. Ben hurried forward and took the snorting team in hand. The door slammed open and two men jumped out of the stage as though their seats were on fire.
Josh’s gaze drifted over the unidentified whiner and landed on Burgess Riley. Why was he here, and where in the blazes was Turkey Dan? Though curious, he was more concerned with Paris. Peculiarly silent, she’d yet to budge from her rooftop position.
He dismounted and scaled the stage. To get to her he had to climb past Moe. A quick examination proved the driver dead, the reason unclear. Josh squeezed his bony shoulder before moving on to the uncharacteristically silent girl.
Even though she was dressed in trousers and a man’s shirt, she looked feminine and fragile and, dammit, that chafed. His heart hammered knowing how easily she could’ve been thrown from the coach. Mason, a superior horseman, had met that very end, breaking his neck in the process. Josh breathed easier, noting the battered hat mashed down over her tangled hair. He thanked God for that hat. It reminded him that underneath that ruffled gambler’s shirt beat the heart of a spirited lunatic.
“You can let loose of the ribbons, sweetheart. Ben’s got hold of the team.” He gently pried the leather lines from her hands, frowning at the welts marring her palms. He wouldn’t blame her if she cried, but hoped she held strong. He’d never been good with weepy women. “Where’s Turkey Dan?”
“Gila City. Sick.”
At least he wasn’t dead, which is more than he could say for Moe. He glanced at Paris and swore. White as milk and trembling like a treed cat. “Safe to assume you haven’t driven too many rigs?”
She nodded, but didn’t answer.
He tried a different route. “Mind if I ask why you were singing?”
“Music soothes the savage beast.”
Biting back a smile, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe away the sweat on her upper lip. “Just a suggestion, but you might want to try a lullaby next time. You sang as though you were leading those horses into the heat of battle.”
“This is all very touching,” Burgess shouted from below, “but I’ve got a bone to pick with the one who was supposed to be driving this stage in the first place.”
“Yes,” the roly-poly man with the matching gray bowler and shoes whined. “What happened to Mr. Wiggins?”
Startled out of her daze, Paris lurched forward.
Josh caught her by the waist and held tight. “Nothing you can do, darlin’. He’s gone.”
A tear escaped through her lowered lashes, slid down her cheek, and smacked against his hand. Shit.
“The old goat picked
a devil of a time to up and die!”
Josh glowered. “Shut up, Burgess, and give Ben a hand getting Moe into the stationhouse. You too, Mr. … ”
“Hinklemyer. Horace Hinklemyer at your service.”
Josh kept an eye on Paris as the men maneuvered the driver’s body down from the stage and into the small wooden shack.
“I don’t understand,” she began in a shaky voice. “He seemed fine when I climbed up here to take a nap. Next thing I knew … ”
Her voice cracked, but instead of giving in, she looked away and blinked back tears. The fact that she was holding strong did little to ease Josh’s misery. Needing to comfort the both of them, he pulled her into his arms. He knew her tears would rattle him, but this was ridiculous. It felt like someone was squeezing his heart. What in the Sam Hill was wrong with him?
Had to be the circumstances. Moe’s death. The runaway stage.
Breathing easier, he removed the girl’s hat and smoothed away the long strands of hair plastered to her dusty, tear-streaked face. “Moe lived a long, full life, darlin’. My guess is his old heart just gave out. He wouldn’t want you to fret.”
“It’s just that he was so kind. He asked me about my nightmare … offered me … biscuits. He saved me from Mr. Hinklemyer’s bobbin-thing-a-ma-jigs and Mr. Riley’s … ” She choked on a sob and shook her head.
He was curious about the nightmare and Hinklemyer’s bobbins, but it was Burgess’s antics that roped and tied his interest. He stroked Paris’s back, willing her to continue. “What did Burgess do?”
“Nothing,” she said in a small voice.
Several dicey scenarios tramped through Josh’s head. His patience slipped another notch.
He hooked a finger under her stubborn chin and looked directly into her red-rimmed eyes. “All right then, what did he say?”
“Nothing. I just didn’t like … the way he looked at me, it made me … uncomfortable.” Color returned full force to her face. She averted her eyes, used the heel of her hand to wipe them dry. “I’m blowing things out of proportion. I’m overly tired, that’s all.”
“Right.” He believed that about as much as he believed she hadn’t run away from home. It didn’t take much imagination to guess why Burgess made her uncomfortable. The troublemaker had been a pain in his backside for going on two years. A bully for hire, the man spent most of his time committing crimes outside of his jurisdiction. Later, he’d stroll back in with a smug smile and money to burn. Aside from nailing him for setting fire to the livery and inciting numerous bar brawls, he hadn’t been able to prove Burgess Riley guilty of anything more than pure meanness. Society would be safer with Burgess off the streets. Paris certainly would. Unfortunately, a man couldn’t be locked away for making a woman uncomfortable.
As much as it rankled, Josh knew what he had to do. If Mason were here, he’d pop him in his ever-lovin’ interfering snout. This was sure as shootin’ his fault. “Come on,” he ordered Paris, trying to keep the irritation out of his tone and failing. “Let’s get you down.”
Paris feared her knees would buckle when her feet touched the ground, but Josh’s strong grip kept her upright. He guided her to a bench pushed against the stationhouse wall.
“Wait here. I’ll be inside seeing to Moe’s passage back to Yuma. I’ll also have a few words with Burgess.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Even though she’d only been defending herself, she knew she’d made a dangerous enemy. “It might make things worse.”
“Let me worry about that.” He squeezed her shoulder before disappearing into the stationhouse.
Despite her frazzled nerves, her heart swelled to twice its normal size. He reminded her of Rome when he got all riled in her defense. Only her feelings for Josh were far from sisterly.
She blew out a shaky breath. This was absurd. Craving the attention of a man she barely knew. Then again, she hadn’t been herself since she’d hit Yuma. Maybe there was something in the desert air. Even though the runaway team and Mr. Wiggins’s sudden death had shaken her senseless, she couldn’t believe she’d taken comfort in Josh’s arms and given in to tears. She almost wished she’d been thrown and trampled by the horses. Sure, she’d be dead, but she’d still have her dignity.
She glanced at the door, worrying suddenly that Josh’s few words would turn into a brawl. Not that Burgess didn’t deserve a good beating. Just the same, it bothered her to think of Josh risking harm on her behalf. He’d already rescued her two or three times. As much as it pained her to admit, she’d be in a heck of a pickle if it weren’t for Sheriff Joshua Grant.
Sharp voices pierced the stationhouse walls. The heated exchange ended with bone cracking against bone. Someone hit the floor with a thud.
Josh marched out of the stationhouse and kept going. “Come on.”
Wide-eyed, she hurried after him. “You hit him?”
“What do you think?”
Right. Next question. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to Florence.”
“You are?”
“I am.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“I’m not.” He patted his horse then readjusted the saddle.
His foul mood bewildered her. Moments ago he’d been so tender. So sweet. “I could wait here. For the next stage.”
“Forget it.” He gave the cinch a final tug and turned to her, hands on hips.
What had she done to deserve such a grim look? “Honestly, I don’t mind—”
“Stop arguing.”
“I’m not!”
“I’m a man who enjoys his sleep,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I refuse to spend my nights staring up at the stars wondering whether or not you’ve been thrown from a runaway stage or violated by the likes of Burgess.”
“Those thoughts don’t appeal to me either.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“My valise—”
“—stays where it is. Ben doesn’t have a horse to spare, so we have to double up. He’ll put that overloaded satchel of yours on the next stage to Florence.”
“I need my toothbrush.”
“I’ll get your toothbrush.”
“And my sheet music.”
His eyebrow shot up, a clear warning that he was fast losing patience. “Necessities only.”
“My music is a necessity.” These were her personal compositions. Her life’s work. She couldn’t, wouldn’t leave them behind. Intent on standing her ground, she threw back her shoulders and cocked a stubborn chin, refusing to give in to a new batch of tears.
“For the love of … ” Josh hustled to the back of the stage. He returned with her toothbrush, comb, soap, and a bundle of music. Muttering to himself, he stuffed her personal items into his bulging saddlebags. In one fluid movement he mounted the tall buckskin, leaned down and hoisted Paris up onto his lap. “Here’s the plan,” he grumbled into her ear. “I’ll deliver you to Florence then you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine.”
His close proximity momentarily obliterated her fear of the spirited horse. If he moves a breath closer, she thought, he could actually nibble my earlobe. Ever since she’d caught Boston nibbling on Lydia Ivey by the creek last summer, she’d always wondered what that would feel like.
“Agreed?”
She’d sworn she’d heard Lydia purr. “Pardon?”
“I’ll go my way—”
“—and I’ll go mine,” she said, catching on. Nibbling earlobes? What was it about this man? He made her crave the most ridiculous things.
“Seeing it’ll be just you and me for the next day or so we best forget what happened back in Yuma.”
“You mean the kissing.”
“Precisely.” He urged the horse into a brisk walk.
She grabbed hold of the saddle horn and held tight. She’d never forget the kissing. No, sir. She had a sinking feeling she’d think about it at least twice a day for the rest of her life. But she wouldn’t let him know that. “D
on’t flatter yourself. I haven’t given you a second thought.”
“Same here.”
Was he serious? Had she been that forgettable? “I don’t even like you,” she lied, her pride wounded.
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” She swiped her hair out of her eyes and tugged her hat low. The last few days had been disastrous. The jail incident. The runaway stage. Burgess. She couldn’t get her mind off of Moe Wiggins. Death had a way of twisting her heart and turning it inside out. “So long as we understand one another,” she mumbled.
“I doubt that I’ll ever understand you, kid.”
Closing her eyes against a vivid image of her over-protective brothers and the narrow-minded citizens of Heaven, she whispered, “You’re not alone.”
Torture, Paris decided, is a subjective word. Emily sometimes wrote Medieval stories involving hideous contraptions like “the rack”, one of several horrors inflicted on her less fortunate knights. Then there were the delicate agonies experienced by motivated artists. Such as listening to an all-thumbed oaf mangle Buffalo Gals, or not being able to play a piano for seven days and counting. Even worse were the secret tortures she never imagined would happen to her. Like being told not to think about kissing while forced to sit cozy with the very person who made you think of nothing but!
“How much farther?” she asked on a frustrated sigh.
“You know, kickin’ never gets you anywhere unless you’re a mule,” Josh answered.
Although he sounded amused, the observation stung, making her feel like an impatient child. She didn’t mean to whine, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand sharing a saddle. They’d been riding for hours. He’d spent most of that time in confounding silence, leaving her to contend with a fearsome inward struggle. With his strong arms fencing her in, his rock-hard torso pressed up against her back, her bottom snug up against his—well, best not to think about what her bottom was snug up against—all sorts of shameful thoughts riddled her mind.
Embarrassed, she leaned forward, putting some distance between their bodies. It didn’t help. His forearms still rested on her thighs. His right hand, expertly guiding the reins, kept brushing her own hands as she refused to leave go of the saddle horn.