by Tia Dani
"Then, Katherine, you better live forever, because I'll never marry."
He stared into the distance. As a boy, he'd wanted to marry Elizabeth and she'd been taken from him. Both men Katherine loved died tragically...because of him. His parents died because of him. How could he condemn another by risking his love?
Seeing his shuttered look, Katherine sighed and opened the kitchen door.
Matthew followed her into the spacious kitchen.
She took the rest of the wood from him and placed it in the large wooden box beside the stove. "Poor, James. He crawled into bed with me about three this morning. Said the lightning and thunder scared him. After what happened to his grandfather, I didn't have the heart to say no."
Matthew glanced toward the stairs leading to the second floor. Katherine's step-grandson had been through a lot. Even more than Matthew at his age. James had witnessed his parent's death when the horse pulling their carriage spooked and spilled them over an embankment. A month later his grandfather was murdered by Indians.
Matthew couldn't get Anthony Strammon's death out of his mind. Five months ago, Matthew had promised to help mend fences. But at the last minute, he was called to patrol the area. Anthony decided not to wait for him and went out by himself. By the time Matthew caught up with him, it was too late. Anthony had been mutilated almost beyond recognition.
Bringing the body back to the farm was worse. Thank God, he’d ordered his men to wrap Anthony tightly in a blanket. The shock of James seeing his grandfather's maimed body would have been too much for a boy of five. How Katherine managed to get through preparing Anthony for burial, he'd never know. But Katherine was strong. For twenty years she'd eked out a home and life for both of them, never once letting tragedy pull her down. Katherine was one of those rare women who loved and accepted life no matter what.
Matthew strode to the wall near the back door and lifted the rifle resting on two pegs. "Any sign of Indians?"
Katherine was bent over, placing wood into the large stove. "No. Not since...since..."
She hesitated, then finished. "It must have been a band of renegades passing through. Anthony happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
He checked the rifle. It was well-oiled and loaded. "Maybe. You have the other one where I told you?"
"Yes, right by the front door." Katherine dusted her hands. She gave him a long look. "James and I are as safe here as anywhere else. Tim's always around if I need help. I'll be honest, after Anthony's funeral, I had worries, but for some reason, I feel things are going to get better."
"Good morning."
The skinny, narrowed-shouldered man Matthew hired as farm help stood in the doorway. "Quite a storm last night, wasn't it, Miz Strammon?"
"Yes, it was." Katherine motioned toward the stove. "Would you like a cup of coffee, Tim, before breakfast?"
"Yes, ma'am." The red-haired man hurried over to the cupboard and picked out a mug. "I have to say, for sure, you make the best coffee this side of the Mississippi." He glanced at Matthew before pouring the coffee. "I stopped by the barn. Joseph said to tell you they're ready to leave."
Matthew drained his cup and placed it on the sideboard. "Thanks." He strode over to Katherine and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I'll swing by this way in a week to check on you and James."
Katherine reached out, preventing him from walking away. "You'll be going by the Wilson farm on the way back to the fort. Do me a favor and drop off these jars of preserves. Harriet's expecting them."
Hearing the widow's name, Matthew groaned. "You never give up, do you?"
Katherine picked up a basket and the sparkle in her eyes spoke volumes. "What are you talking about? I promised Harriet some preserves. Can I help it if you're going her way?"
"No more than Harriet Wilson can help looking for a husband to ride herd on her wild brood." Matthew sighed. "All right, I'll drop these off. But not today. I planned to ride out toward the stage station then head for the fort." He opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine. "And, I sure as hell won't ask her to marry me when I do stop by."
Matthew heard a pot slam down on the stove. Katherine's voice reverberated from the house. "Oh, bitters and smelling salts. Tim, did I tell you Matthew Domé is the most stubborn man in the whole world?"
"Uh...no, ma'am. I don't believe so."
Matthew chuckled and headed for the barn.
An hour later, Matthew and his men topped a slow rising mesa. From behind him one of his men hollered, "Riders coming fast from the east."
Matthew twisted in his saddle. Two horsemen headed their way at a fast clip.
"Yo, Patrol!" One of the riders waved his hat over his head. "Indians. Heading toward Dead Horse Station."
Matthew spun his mount in their direction. Joseph reacted a second later. The rest followed instantly behind him. When they galloped abreast the first rider, who had already spun his horse around, Matthew yelled, "Any stages due?"
The man hunched over the saddle and slapped the reins against his horse's side. "I hope not. Found Indian signs about a week ago. Knew they'd return this way. Sent word to John Ackerton not to let any stages through. Hopefully he got it in time."
* * *
"Libby. Honey, wake up."
Her father's voice seemed to come from cavern. Libby struggled to regain consciousness. "Dad?"
A deep sigh of relief drifted to her ears. "Thank God. You're all right."
"Where are we?"
"We're in the station's storm cellar, remember?"
Libby opened her eyes and focused on a faint light. Slowly she became aware of her father's haggard face leaning over her. She lifted a hand to brush his unshaven jaw. "You look terrible. You've got dirt on the end of your nose."
He chuckled. "Wait till you see yourself. You're no princess, either."
Libby's memory returned with a thud. "The snake." She tried to sit up. Her world spun, and she made a frantic grab for her father's arm. "Ooh ow. I wacked it good." She tenderly probed the swollen knot on the back of her head where she'd collided with the low beam. Libby inhaled softly and brought her fingers closer to the lantern. No sign of blood. Encouraged, she did a quick mental check-up of her senses. Other than a throbbing head, everything else seemed to function properly. Her vision no longer wavered and she wasn’t nauseated. Thank goodness for small, or should she say large favors? It could have been worse. She'd hit the beam hard.
"How are you feeling?" Her father studied her through the lantern light.
"Not bad, all considering. Have a bit of a headache."
"How about some aspirin?" Theo rummaged in the first-aid kit. "I'll get you three."
When he held out the white pills, Libby noticed his pallor. "Thanks. Three should do it." She popped them into her mouth and struggled to swallow without liquid. "Speaking of feeling. How are you?"
"Pretty good."
Libby ran her hand down his sleeve and felt for his pulse. The erratic beat worried her. "You'd better lie back down. I'm going to see if I can get some water from the well. Richard said they had it working again. We both could—"
She stopped mid-sentence as footsteps pounded across the kitchen floor directly overhead. Gunfire boomed and muffled sounds of excited voices filtered through the ceiling. "You've got to be kidding? They'd actually go ahead and film the reenactment after that storm? Besides, wouldn't they wonder where we are? We were supposed to be in this scene."
Her father remained silent. While she looked up, he had laid down again. Libby bent and touched his cheek. His skin felt clammy under her fingers. Beads of perspiration covered his upper lip. The exertion he expended to kill the snake and tending her must have drained his remaining strength. Libby hurried across the darkened cellar, avoiding first the low beam and then, more importantly as far as she was concerned, the dead snake.
Chapter Four
Using the wide frame of the kitchen's door as a shield, Matthew crouched beside Joseph. To be heard over the gunfire, he yelle
d into his friend's ear. "Make your shots count. There are too many of them. We could run out of ammunition."
Joseph nodded and rested his Springfield on the windowsill. His rifle sight followed an approaching renegade, then a second later an explosion rocked the entire kitchen. "Got one," he shouted triumphantly, sliding to the floor to reload. "There's justice for a murdering thief."
"Keep alert, Joseph. You're the best shot we've got."
Joseph could man the kitchen alone for a few minutes. Matthew needed to check the three men guarding the front. They were spread thin, but with luck they could hold off the Indians and keep them from destroying the station and stealing the horses and mules.
A volley of gunfire splattered against the wall directly over his head. Matthew instinctively dropped to the floor. While he waited for the fusillade to die down, he thought about his men, Weller and Oleson. They and the two station's operators had barricaded themselves with the livestock in the barn. With them shooting crossfire, their patrol might have a chance. These renegades wanted horses, and wouldn't stop until they succeeded or too many of their group were killed. Matthew and his men had one choice, stand and fight.
The pantry door suddenly swung open and slammed against his head, sending his hat flying across the room. Red-hot pain exploded on the left side of Matthew's brain, while waves of white light flashed before his eyes. Joseph yelled in surprise when someone leapt from the pantry. Matthew lunged, tackling a fighting, squirming body, barely able to keep his hands on anything solid. It didn't help that layers of material covered his head.
"Get off me. I've got to stop the shooting."
Matthew stiffened. Surely, he hadn't heard right. Indians didn't speak fluent English.
His prisoner squirmed harder and Matthew tightened his grip. Expecting to find sinewy, rock-hard muscles across a male chest, he found only softness—feminine softness.
"Matt...!" Joseph's choked voice penetrated as realization hit. "For God's sake, you're wrestling with a woman."
Matthew's grasp sprung open, and in desperation, he pulled and slapped at the material over his head. Once clear, he gaped in stunned disbelief. Between his knees, with her skirt and petticoats bunched up around her waist were the greenest, angriest eyes this side of Katherine's. They flashed like emeralds in the sunlight.
His tongue began to dry before he realized he stared at her with his mouth open. Matthew clenched his jaws shut with a snap. He dropped his hands on either side of her shoulders. "Where in the hell did you come from?"
* * *
Libby glared up at the handsome psychotic holding her down. Where did she come from? The question should be reversed. She should be the one asking—where did he come from? She'd met all the people from the Kansas Historical Society wanting to be part of the reenactment. This man was none of them.
His tanned, rugged face hardened, and his dark brown eyes narrowed. "I asked you a question, lady."
"Stop talking. Get off." She shoved hard on his midsection. It was like pushing against a cement wall. "I said, get off."
"Not until you answer me. This is no place for a woman."
Libby felt probed like a cell under a microscope. She hated it when people remarked she was a woman. Was she back in medical school? No matter. She'd set the others straight, she could do it with this man as well. "Excuse me? What planet did you escape from?"
"What?"
"My father is dying, and you're treating me like a pain in the ass. Let me up. He needs help." She struggled to sit, but like his chest, his arms and broad shoulders proved unmovable.
"No, it's too dangerous. Bullets are flying everywhere. You might get hit."
To prove his point shots continuously rang around them and she heard several pops explode against the walls in the kitchen. She sniffed, mentally giving kudos to the sound department for their realistic sound effects. "We don't have to worry about the shots. They're only blanks."
"Huh?"
This character took his part too seriously. Libby gritted her teeth and grabbed his forearms. His uniform sleeves were rolled up, and the corded muscles tensed beneath her fingertips. She yanked up and out, hoping to force his arms away from her shoulders, but they were like steel pillars. She pulled harder. When he still didn't move, she pounded on his chest with doubled fists. "I said, let me up!"
A brief expression of what might have been pain crossed his face, but he didn't budge. Exasperated Libby gave up and lay there panting. What was wrong with him?
"Matt, Sam's hit!"
Concern flashed across his features. His gaze darted to the front room. "Damn." He looked again at her. "Stay down. You hear me?" Without waiting for an answer, he scrambled up to a half crouch and disappeared through the doorway.
Like heck, she was going to stay put. Libby struggled to her knees and hesitated, not sure which way would be the quickest to find help. Go out the back door or follow her antagonist.
"Lady, you better keep down, if'n you know what's good for you."
At the familiar voice, Libby whirled. She scanned the back of the man who calmly fired his rifle out a broken window. "Richard, thank God. I need your help." She sprinted to his side and tugged on his arm. "Dad's been bitten by a snake. He's in the cellar. We need to send for an ambulance."
To her surprise, Richard dropped down from the window. He stared at her, as if she'd lost her wits. "Lady, I sure as hell don't know what you're talking about. I don't know about no cellar, and I don't know your dad. But, one thing I do know. My name ain't Richard. It's Joseph."
"What?" He had to be Richard. Libby leaned forward and studied his face. For the first time, she noticed weathered creases along his cheeks. A thin scar trailed down his left side of his jaw. Libby inhaled deeply, tamping down her changeable emotions. Despite the uncanny resemblance, he wasn’t Richard.
Had she lost her sanity? She glanced around the small kitchen. The smoothly-polished table she had helped move into the kitchen yesterday sat in the same place, but now it appeared worn and deeply scarred across the surface. Even the curtains on the windows looked similar, but were faded and with a slightly smaller gingham pattern.
She ran a trembling hand over her forehead. Maybe the blow to the back of her head bruised her brain so hard her mental faculties couldn't comprehend the real from the unreal. Her hand dropped to her side. Of course. She'd focus on her true life and ignore everything strange and weird. Her father needed help. She'd worry about herself after this crazy re-enactment ended. Libby spun and headed for the back door.
"Hey, come back here."
She had her hand on the door latch by the time Richard-Joseph dropped his rifle and lunged at her. He grabbed the hem of her dress and started pulling her toward him. "Lady, are you crazy?"
Libby released the latch and turned. God, this ham was overacting his part to the hilt. "I-am-going-to-get-help-for-my-father." She deliberately said her words slowly so he'd have no trouble understanding her.
"There's Indians shooting at us out there, or haven't ya noticed?"
"No, really, I would have never guessed." Scornfully, Libby bent and slapped at his hand while yanking at her dress. "Let go. You can start filming again after someone goes for help."
"Start what?" Richard-Joseph gawked at her, releasing his grip on her skirt. "Lady, you are crazy." He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. "Matt, get in here, and I mean, right now!"
Libby ignored him. She yanked open the kitchen door and stepped outside. An arrow whizzed past her thigh, impaling her skirt to the door frame. She stared in surprise at a spotted black-and-white horse flashing past and the half-naked wild man clinging to its back. Other horsemen disappeared around the side of the station. She looked down at the arrow stuck in the door, then at Richard-Joseph. "They shot at me."
Strong hands gripped her shoulders. Before she had time to cry out, she was flung from the open doorway. Sounds of ripping taffeta and the door slamming were minor compared to the snarling voice in her ear.
"
What do you have for brains, sweetheart? Sawdust? Of course they'd shoot at you! I told you to stay down."
"You tore my beautiful dress." Libby fingered the fine material. Her aunt was going to be terribly upset.
A sudden whoosh of a bullet whizzed past and imbedded itself into the wall next to her. A real bullet. Not a sound effect.
"Forget your damn dress." The man, who minutes before had been fighting her on the floor, yanked her hard against him and secured her body with a tight arm around her waist. A pair of dark eyes drilled into hers. It wasn't hard to read the accusations in their depths. He thought her mad.
Continuing gunfire rang in her ears. She swayed slightly. The smell of gun powder assaulted her nose. He was right. God in heaven, she was insane. She had to be, there wasn't any other explanation. The arrow was real. He was real. This was not a reenactment, but an honest-to-goodness battle where real death could be a possibility.
Or this had to be the worst nightmare she'd ever had.
A terrible feeling of dread skittered across her nerve endings. If it was real then her unconscious father lay dying below. She fought to hold back the tears. For the first time in her life, a feeling of insecurity washed over her. She might accept the impossible idea she was definitely in middle of the attack on Dead Horse Station but it also meant there would be no ambulance, nor a sterile hospital waiting. She was the only one who could help him now.
Libby blinked then grabbed the front of the officer's military shirt. "I...you have to help me. My...my father, he's hurt." She pointed with her left hand at the pantry. "There's no one else but—"
A searing pain traveled along her shoulder and burned a path down her arm. She stiffened, knowing what it meant. One of those horribly real bullets had grazed her body. Libby gritted her teeth and said with disgust, "Great. Just great. Get forced back in time and get shot to boot."