“He is my husband, William,” she said quietly.
“You're never going to see any of your inheritance, you little trollop, not one dime!”
Maggie confronted the bastard so they stood face to face. Grant frowned. What the hell was she doing?
“William Hunt, you listen to me! You've been bullying me into marrying you for two years. I told you I wouldn't marry you. You only wanted my money anyway. My inheritance is mine, not yours. Mine!” She poked at the bastard's chest as she shouted. “I'm of legal age and have had control of my money for quite some time. I'm married now, and Grant will see to the workings of my accounts, not you. Leave here. You’re not welcome in my life anymore.”
Hunt slapped her face so hard, she rocked back on her heels. Grant was on Hunt so fast, the bastard didn't see the fist that broke his nose. Hunt fell backward to the ground and clasped his hands over his bloody face.
“Hunt, get off my property before I shoot you,” Tom said, readily defending his new sister-in-law. He pulled her into his arms.
“I should arrest you, but since I’d have to see your ugly face if I did, I’m not going to.” Grant picked Hunt up with one hand and threw him off the porch. He landed hard, a cloud of dust swirling about him.
Grant turned to Maggie and Tom. “I’ll be back as soon as I escort this low life off the property.” Picking Hunt up by the collar of his fancy black coat, Grant dragged him to his horse. All the while, Hunt clutched his broken nose.
Leading the bastard and his horse toward town, he took one last look over his shoulder to see Tom standing with Maggie, looking intently at her reddened cheek. Fine! Let him comfort her. He gave a hard shove to Hunt’s shoulder to get him to move faster.
Emotions churned his gut like too many shots of whiskey. He was angry. Angry at himself for not being able to protect Maggie from Hunt and his abuse. Since he couldn’t seem to do his job and protect her, no wonder she sought comfort from Tom.
The feeling swirling through him like a summer tornado was jealousy. He was green with envy of his brother and the bond he had with Maggie. It seemed there was nothing the two hadn’t shared. During his convalescence, they’d become close while leaving him out of their friendship.
Not until after he’d left Hunt in town with a stage ticket in hand did he feel ready to return to the ranch. Instead of handling over Hunt’s horse to the livery, he rode it back to Tom’s. Time in the saddle was spent mulling over his feelings for his new bride and how he’d let her down. By the time he reached the house and found Tom and Maggie washing their lunch dishes in the sink, he was so angry with himself, he was ready to explode.
Stomping into the room, he shouted, “Why the hell did you get near him? He hit you!”
Maggie stopped drying and her eyes, big as saucers, flew to his.
“I think she knows that.” Tom replied. He went to the pot on the stove, poured coffee into a mug, and handed it to Grant.
Maggie remained by the sink, still holding a dishtowel and plate.
Grant grabbed the cup, mind focused on Maggie and his anger.
“Maggie knew he might do something like that.” Tom poured himself coffee as well and sat down at the table.
“Then why—” he ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair and rubbed his palm over his face, whiskers rasping at the contact. She’d expected it? “Then why the hell didn’t you stay away from the bastard? I couldn't get to you in time to prevent it.” His angry voice boomed in the confines of the kitchen, making Maggie jump and gasp. Her head lowered, eyes fixed on the plate she continued to unconsciously dry.
“Drink your coffee, Grant,” Tom said, as if he hoped Grant would swallow his anger.
“Stay out of it!”
“Sheriff, leave Tom alone. He’s done nothing,” she said, her voice filled with anguish.
“It’s back to Sheriff now?” She’d all but ruled him out as husband material. No wonder, he couldn’t even protect her from his anger.
She flinched, backing up against the sink, cowering, remaining silent.
“She might call you by your name if you acted like a husband instead of a big brute,” Tom countered. He stood and put his arm around Maggie.
Husband. There the word was again. Tom was right. What kind of husband was he? He glanced at Maggie, who appeared ready to cry, her face red and her eyes glassy. Tom offered her the comfort Grant couldn’t give, the protection he couldn’t provide.
“He’s hit her before. Verbally abused her. He could never imagine—”
“It didn’t matter,” she added in a whisper, still looking down at some invisible spot on the floor.
“—how his belittling behavior hurt her,” Tom finished.
Grant slammed down his mug, the hot contents sloshing onto the table. “He hit you before? Damn it, then you should have known not to get near him! You knew—”
She turned her face into Tom’s shoulder.
“It’s over now. He’s gone. Like Maggie said, it doesn’t matter.” Tom squeezed her arm and glared at Grant to get him to stop, to leave her alone. But he couldn’t.
“Doesn’t matter? You’re my wife. It matters to me.”
She lifted her head and looked at Grant, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Why? Why does it matter to you?”
He didn’t respond to her question, couldn’t, because he didn’t know the answer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Damn it, I’ve got a job to do. I’m going back to town to find Arden’s killers. And it appears, Maggie, you consider our marriage over ever before it started.” Grant glared at his brother, his arm slung around Maggie. His wife. Not Tom’s. “So be it.”
Grant rubbed his face, his mouth a thin line of fury. “With me gone, Tom can comfort you all you want,” he snapped. Grabbing the dish from her hands, he threw it to the ground, where it smashed into hundreds of pieces. The kitchen door slammed shut behind him, leaving her awestruck in his wake, standing amid shards of china.
Men! She never could understand them, and clearly she never would. Grant didn’t want her. He’d made that clear, not only with his words, but his actions as well. He yelled at her more than not. He was moody and angry in ways she couldn't even understand. What she did know was that chasing murderers was more important to him than she was.
No man wanted her for her. To be loved and cared for. Cherished. It was more than obvious now that their marriage was a sham.
Thankfully, she was free of William, and obviously Grant no longer wanted her. She could continue on with her original plan, traveling to California and start a new life. She was leaving men behind, and meant it this time. They were nothing but trouble.
She felt guilty for making Grant leave, but he’d scared her. His shouting, his actions, like his hands shaking in anger and how he broke the dish, were signs she’d recognized from years of abuse from William. She couldn’t prevent her fear. All men she knew were abusive, angry. Except Tom.
Because of that fear, she’d turned to him, her safe harbor in the storm Grant brewed. Because of it, Grant was gone, leaving her alone.
It was her fault. She should have been stronger and stood up for herself. A coward, that’s what she was. And because of her cowardliness, he didn’t want her. So be it. She was better off without him.
After reassuring Tom she was fine, he headed to the stable to feed the horses. Alone with her thoughts, she convinced herself leaving Cranston was the best solution. As the sun lowered behind the barn, she finalized her plans for running away. Again.
She had to keep her departure a secret. If Tom learned the truth, he’d talk her out of it, or prevent her from going.
Grant didn’t want her. William was just a memory. It was time to move on. Unfortunately, she had to wait until morning, afraid she might get lost in the dark.
Sneaking out with a small bag of food from the larder and a canteen of water, she saddled one of Tom’s mares at first light, and led the horse away from the stable on foot. Feeling guilty,
she'd left a note on the kitchen table for Tom, thanking him for his kindness, his friendship, and where to find his borrowed horse. Hopefully, he’d understand.
She rode west toward the mountains, heading to the town after Cranston on the stage line. In Ames, she planned to take the next stage heading to California. With the money she’d sewn into her dress now secure in her pants pocket, she’d buy a new ticket to San Francisco, the last one lost during the stage robbery.
An hour past Cranston, she should have ridden into Ames, but it had been over three and there was no town in sight. The mountains loomed closer. Turning, she put them at her left shoulder and followed them north until she was too hot and too hungry to continue.
Stopping to eat at the edge of a small stream, she let the horse graze and drink her fill while Margaret enjoyed a ham sandwich and an apple. The sun had climbed high in the cloudless sky, making it another warm day. Her bonnet blocked out the strong rays, but sweat still trickled down her neck and back. Her hair was damp and clung to her forehead. The water looked invitingly cool.
Admitting she was lost, she pondered her options as she finished her apple. No one would search for her. She’d left the note. From it, Tom would assume she was safely on her way to California. And Grant? He didn’t care what happened to her.
She was alone.
“Stand up and turn around!”
The shout from behind made her jump, her canteen sloshed water onto the hard ground where it fell from her lap. Looking over her shoulder, she slowly rose, canteen all but forgotten. She recognized the man immediately and gasped. He was the kidnapper from the stage.
He stood not ten feet from her, gun pointed at her chest. Still wearing his worn hat low over his face, he looked as filthy as before. As he spit a brown wad of saliva and tobacco, she jumped back so not to get it on her boots.
She gulped. “What do you want?”
“What I didn’t get last time. You.” He wiped his chin with his sleeve.
Walking backward to his mount, he kept the gun and his gaze trained on her. He pulled out a length of rope from his saddlebag. “You’re all mine now, and I ain’t sharin’ you with no one.” He returned to her side to tie her up. Needing both hands, he holstered his gun. As he grabbed hold of her wrists, she kicked him squarely in the shin, trying to use as much of the hard heel of her boot as possible.
He shouted in pain and bent down to rub the wounded area. She grabbed his gun from the holster and stepped back, never taking her eyes off of him. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” Could she? She’d never fired one before.
“You won’t shoot me. You don’t even know how.” He was mocking her, laughing as he spit again, but his hands were raised nonetheless.
Remembering the weapon needed to be cocked in order to fire, she glanced at the cold steel in her hand. She pulled back on the safety. He must have recognized the sound and lifted his hands a bit higher, clearly changing his mind about her shooting abilities.
With sweaty hands and frazzled nerves, the gun veered on and off her target with each of her quick breaths. Slowly, the man began to close the distance between them.
“Don’t get any closer!” Her voice wavered, as did her confidence.
He slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. He crept closer and closer.
“I mean it!”
He took another step, almost able to reach the gun.
“Don’t make me shoot you!” she shouted.
The man didn’t listen.
She had no choice. It was either him or her. Petrified, she squeezed her eyes shut and fired, the sound deafening. She stumbled backward, the deafening noise surprised her. She tripped and landed hard on her bottom. The man was on top of her just as fast as she had fallen. She fought against him, but he was much heavier. Struggling to break free, she flailed her arms hoping to hit something, anything. She heard several grunts and groans, but nothing serious enough to stop his hands from snaking in and grabbing both her wrists, pinning her to him.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
Clearly she’d missed her intended target, who unfortunately appeared to be in one piece and powerfully strong as he trussed her up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The only effect of her shot was to send her horse running, snorting and whinnying, fearful of the noise.
The man stood, reached down and pulled her up none-too-gently by her bound wrists, all but dragging her to his horse. But he let her go so he could grab the reins. She didn’t hesitate to dash off toward the creek, running as fast as she could to escape, bound wrists and all.
“Dammit!” She heard the man shout from behind her, then heavy footfalls. Frantic, she didn’t pay attention to the rocky terrain of the creek bed. Looking over her shoulder to see how far behind the man was, she tripped. Screaming, she fell, and with her arms bound together in, was unable to protect herself from the jagged rock that made her world go black.
***
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Grant yelled at his brother, ready to pull him up by the collar of his shirt if he didn’t start talking. He’d arrived at the ranch to bring Maggie back to his home—their home—in town. Her help was needed in identifying the stage robber and he had a job to do. Allowing her to stay on with Tom only delayed his search.
“Here.” Tom thrust Maggie’s note at him and walked away, leaving him to stand on the porch by himself. The screen door slammed behind him, but Grant didn’t hear it or the curse Tom shouted at him, too intent on his reading.
TOM, I AM GOING TO CALIFORNIA AS I ORIGINALLY PLANNED. YOUR KINDNESS AND FRIENDSHIP MEAN MORE TO ME THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW. TELL THE SHERIFF GOODBYE. MARGARET
He read it over two more times. It still said the same thing. She was gone.
“I should’ve locked her up like I promised,” Grant said, following Tom inside.
“That’s right, locking her in jail would have solved all your problems.”
“What’s that look for?” Grant wondered, recognizing the glare his brother gave him.
“You are such an idiot sometimes.” Tom shook his head.
“What?” Grant was so frustrated, his hands were fists at his sides.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
Grant just continued to stare at him.
“Maggie left because you didn’t want her anymore.”
“I didn’t want her? She knew how much I wanted her the other night in the line shack.”
Tom gave him an evil eye as he sat down at the table.
“She didn’t want me!”
“You walked out on her.” Tom rocked back on the rear chair legs, the toes of his boots touching the wood floor.
Grant’s hair practically stood up on end from his fingers. “She went to you when that bastard Hunt was here. You’re the one she told all of her troubles to. You’re the one she became friends with. You’re the one who was supposed to marry her, regardless of how much I want her.” He could hear the jealousy in his own words and was embarrassed.
Tom dropped his chair and put his elbows on the table. “Well, she’s got your ring on her finger, not mine. She’s your wife. Now tell me what you’re going to do about it!”
“Hell.” Grant couldn’t think of anything to say. He'd told her he wanted her. No, he'd told her he wanted her body. He'd never told Maggie that he wanted her, as a woman. His stupid jealousy and anger with himself was enough to drive him crazy, but now, he had to go and track down a wife who believed she wasn’t wanted.
“I’ve got work to do.” Tom stood and left Grant alone in the kitchen.
***
Hours later when Margaret woke, her head felt like a watermelon fallen from a vendors stall onto the street. She felt the arms surrounding her, and believed they were Grant. She relaxed against the hard body, grateful for the comfort and protection his arms offered.
The strong stench of male sweat mixed with the hot sun brought her back to reality.
How could she think this man’s body was anything like Grant’s? She felt nothi
ng but revulsion for this man who held her prisoner. He was leaner and he held her tightly within the span of his bony arms. Realization made Margaret sit ramrod straight, trying to put as much space—fresh air—between them as possible without falling off the horse.
No matter the desire Grant’s hold had brought, it didn’t matter. He’d left her. He didn’t want her and she’d never have his arms around her again. She was on her own. She felt miserable. Wallowing in self-pity, she succumbed to the pain in her head and in her heart. Hot tears rolled down her burned cheeks.
The sun moved lower in the sky and they still didn’t stop. The ropes began digging into her wrists. Her skin, rubbed raw in places, the rest marked red by the rough fibers, had become painful. She had been tied up several hours and her hands were numb. A snarled curl floated in front of her face. She tried to blow it off without any luck.
Luck definitely wasn’t going her way today, and she winced at the pain in her temple that proved it. She’d have been better off staying in a loveless, unwanted marriage.
Her straw bonnet had been lost in the tussle. Unused to the intense heat, Margaret could feel her usually milky white skin becoming burned more deeply.
The evil man sat behind her, arms around her holding the reins to prevent her from falling off the horse. She could smell him with each breath she took.
Keeping her mind clear of her worthless marriage, she was relieved she hadn’t already been raped and killed, thankful for every passing moment she was kept alive. If the man wanted her, he could take her at any time. Her mind raced, thinking of her predicament. Her captor held her future in his hands. She looked up at the sky and squinted against the sun, trying to think of a way to escape.
“The ropes are digging into my wrists. Can you please take them off?” Margaret asked several times during the long journey, but he turned a deaf ear.
“Look around you, where can I go? You know I could never outrun you. You’re much too strong a man.” She tried to sound meek, which wasn't far from the truth, especially with her head throbbing so badly. She tried using the pitiful tone some of her acquaintances at home used on their husbands or fathers to get their way. She’d refused to use the ploy in the past. She felt it too childish and always refused to stoop to that level, but she was desperate. Hopefully, he’d succumb.
The Lady and the Lawman Page 15