“What are you doing?” Kitty sidestepped towards him.
“Might not be anything I can do about her marrying the man in ten hours, but I’ll be hanged if I let him abuse her beforehand.” He jerked open the topmost drawer of the desk. The lamplight reflected off cold steel.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” She looked at him askance.
“I don’t know. Why’s he taking her to the mountains without a chaperone?” His hand closed on the pistol. He needed something stronger than his fists to beat the ignorant bulk of Mr. Arnie Dimwit.
“Patience got up on his horse of her own accord. She’ll think you’re desperate if you follow her.”
Kitty was right. There was nothing untoward about a man taking his bride-to-be, mail-order or not, on a ride in the woods. He’d probably stumble upon Patience happily picnicking and feel like a fool. He should stay here and miserably pore over end-of-year accounts.
“You should wait for them to return, propose then,” Kitty said. Her words echoed in the dim little room.
But his hand tightened on the pistol. “I don’t care.” Tugging out his shirt, he dropped his pistol into his hidden holster.
~*~
“Stop flopping around like a fish.” Arnie slapped the reins against the horses’ backs. A low pine branch brushed his head. If only it had toppled him.
“Or what? You’ll kidnap me?” Patience struck at his face as she tried to pull away from the grip he had on her skirts.
He brushed away her hands with no more regard than one gives a meddlesome gnat.
The road narrowed. Pines grew shorter as the wagon climbed the winding road. Arnie had veered off on so many side paths she’d lost her sense of direction.
Bending forward, she tore at the hem of her dress as she’d done a dozen times before. The tiny scrap of calico floated down through the falling snow only to have a cart wheel roll over it.
Overhead, thick clouds blocked sunshine and covered the mountains in a foggy stillness. Clouds this heavy could cast down waist-high snow and blow drifts that would bury a man. Their tracks would be covered within a half-hour.
Even if the silver courier had managed to escape his bonds, it would be days before a posse could follow.
A pace ahead, the tree branches rustled. Probably another white-tailed deer, but she glanced over all the same.
A single rider emerged from between the snow-laden pine branches. A black coat with a turned-up collar covered the man. A snow-dusted bowler sat on his head. The man held a pistol and leveled it right at Arnie. “I knew you were a criminal,” he said.
Patience’s heart lost a beat. She held out both hands. “Peter.”
8
“Put your hands up where I can see them.” Peter held the pistol steady. His knees clamped against his horse as he stood in the stirrups.
Reluctantly, Dehaven’s large hands rose towards the sky. The man in the back followed.
“Get on the ground. Slowly.” When he’d seen the first scrap of fabric from one of Patience’s favorite dresses, he’d known something was wrong. He’d followed the bits of material the last ten miles. But it was his horse’s sure footing, not Peter’s tracking abilities, that had allowed him to take a shortcut through the evergreens and cut ahead of them on this trail. “Now,” he ordered.
Hands halfheartedly extended, Arnie swung his boot down from the buckboard. The robber in the back scooted out of the wagon bed.
A gust of wintery wind blew through the branches above. Snow flopped onto Peter. His horse startled and stumbled forward on the slick ground. Peter’s feet slid out of the stirrups and he fell forward. He grabbed for the horse’s neck, but too late. With a crash, he tumbled to the earth as his pistol discharged into the air.
Arnie’s hulking frame towered over him. The man dug his foot into Peter’s ribs.
Peter lunged for his pistol, but it was out of reach. A groan escaped.
“Tie him up and throw him in the back,” Arnie ordered his associate.
Peter cast one desperate glance up to the buckboard.
Patience sat frozen on the wagon seat.
The other criminal looped rope around Peter’s wrists and ankles. Before the man knotted the cord, he gave it a savage yank. The bonds bit into Peter’s flesh as his fingers numbed. “And that’s for turning me over to your sheriff last week.” The man kicked him towards the wagon bed.
~*~
Peter lay in the back of the wagon, two bags of lumpy silver pressing into his spine as the cart rumbled up mountain roads. He fought against the ropes, but only succeeded in rubbing off skin. Snow fell, freezing on his face and neck around the filthy gag stuffed into his mouth.
The escaped robber sat in the back, gun out, menacing anyone who dared follow. Up front, Arnie was whistling a tune.
“What will you do with us?” Patience’s voice was shrill.
“Us?” Arnie guffawed. “According to Mrs. Clinton, you don’t care much for that sack of bones back there. Rejected his pathetic proposals, what, four, five times?”
Rope burned Peter’s skin as he fought against his bonds.
“What will you do?” Patience asked again.
“I’ll probably dump his body over a cliff. Now what to do with you—that’s an entirely different matter.” Then the despicable Arnie groped the loveliest woman alive.
“You are loathsome.” Patience sat very straight on the wagon seat. Her skin looked pale. Snow accumulating on her hair plastered it to her brow.
Peter wrestled against his bonds again. If only he could tear rope with his bare hands like those heroes in Patience’s novels.
Something hard dug into Peter’s leg. The packing shears he’d used while tying up a box of gingham this morning. Wriggling over on his side, he tried to get his numb hands towards his pocket.
The sacks rattled as the cart shifted to an upward slope.
Arnie patted Patience’s hair. His cracked lips touched hers.
She screamed.
Fingers rapidly stiffening, Peter squirmed. The tip of his forefinger touched hard steel. He slid the scissors out.
9
Patience was seated beside a bloodthirsty thief intent on ogling her, with a month’s worth of silver stashed in the cart. It read just like the climax to a French novel. But where was the hero who would rescue them all and send these two crooks to the hangman’s noose?
Patience glanced back at Peter. He was flopping around like an oversized pike. Pieces of hay stuck to his hair. She groaned and turned back to Arnie. Not only her life, but an innocent shopkeeper’s were in her hands. Her gaze fixed on Arnie’s heavy skull. How could she have thought his daguerreotype handsome? “What ransom will you require to free me and Mr. Foote?”
“What ransom are you offering?” His lips parted, revealing that missing back tooth. His breath smelled of tobacco.
She put as much distance between her and the monster as possible while his arm still clenched her waist. “I have sixteen dollars and eighteen cents underneath the foot of my mattress at home. If you give me a forwarding address, I will mail you the money as soon as Mr. Foote and I safely reach town.”
Another guffaw erupted from Arnie’s mouth. “I could think of much more appealing things to do on a mattress than dig out some grubby coins.”
She brought up her hand and made a satisfying smack across his cheekbones, but her fingers didn’t even leave a mark.
The horses increased their pace on the now-level ground, taking her farther from home.
Dropping the reins, Arnie shoved his hand behind her head. His dirty calluses caught in the wet strands. He yanked, pulling her head towards him. His fingers touched her bosom.
A gasp escaped her lips. “You can’t do this!” She struck at him with her fists. “We’re in America.”
“And you don’t think crime happens here same as in your classics? Doesn’t take a command of French to rustle some cattle and abduct a woman.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” She shoved against his
hard chest.
Grabbing the reins and looping them around one hand, he had her almost in his lap with the other. Her skirt had ridden up from the tussle, her stockings, tangled in petticoats, now exposed. His hand touched her thigh.
A resounding plop from behind was followed by a man’s cry.
Hand still on her, Arnie’s head swiveled back.
“Unhand her,” said a male voice. Peter was brandishing a pair of packing shears. The winter sun glinted off the steel handles.
The other robber lay in the snow as the cart drew away from him.
With a laugh, Arnie released her and went for his six-shooter.
Peter buried his scissors in the man’s massive shoulder.
Arnie let forth a yelp. Blood spurted out of his shoulder and splattered across her bodice. He tottered, yanking the reins for support.
The horses took off at a gallop.
Peter leapt for Arnie’s holster. Arnie’s good hand pinioned Peter’s head even as Peter’s fingers wrapped around the pistol butt.
Behind them, the other robber was running towards them.
Patience scrambled over Arnie to grab the flapping reins. With a cry, she urged the steeds to run faster. The horses surged forward.
Arnie and Peter tumbled back over the wagon seat. The motion sent the gun flying. Jumping, Patience grasped for it. Her fingers closed on the slick metal. Balancing on the buckboard, she grabbed the wagon seat. The wooden seat swayed and bucked as the horses careened onwards. Patience looked over her shoulder, hoping Peter had subdued Arnie.
Peter was balanced on top of Arnie, one arm clenched in a death grip around the man’s neck. Arnie thrashed, trying to throw Peter off.
“Stop or I’ll shoot.” Patience looped the reins on one wrist and got a steady grip on the gun. “I mean it. Stop now.”
Ignoring her, Arnie grabbed Peter’s leg and tried to rip him off.
Her eyes squeezed shut as she pulled the trigger. She forced her eyes open again, prepared for the bloody sight of carnage.
Gun smoke surrounded her hand. But rather than a splayed Arnie gasping prayers of repentance as his lifeblood seeped from his veins, the robber who’d been running behind them was hopping on one foot as he clasped his other heel.
A belly laugh belched out of the still-alive-and-well Arnie Dehaven. “And that’s why you never teach a woman to shoot.” He lunged for her gun.
Patience jumped back. As she fell over the buckboard towards horses’ pounding feet below, she squeezed the trigger again. Falling, she grabbed at the harness and tack, but her fingers clasped on air. Her head smashed against the earth and darkness enveloped her.
“Patience, Patience.”
She opened her eyes to Peter’s face.
He looped his arm around her back. His hands were gentle against her bruised back as he helped her to her feet. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her.
Arnie and the other criminal lay bound and gagged in the back of the wagon, which was now facing towards town.
“What happened?” The ground swayed. She grabbed Peter’s arm to steady herself.
“You put a bullet in Dehaven’s leg and I was able to overpower him and the other robber.”
“You did all that?” He’d ridden after her, squelched two outlaws, rescued her. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. But then the ground began to move in front of her again.
“Come on up. I’ll get you home.” He lifted her up into the wagon seat.
10
Several hours later, Peter drove the wagon up to the Gilman sheriff office.
Patience chafed one hand on the other to warm them. Snow dusted Peter’s torn coat and gathered in the long strands of hair that had escaped her bun. Her balance had finally returned, but her back and legs warned of coming soreness on the morrow. She sat on the wagon seat as Peter swung down and entered the building.
Candlelight poured out of the church building across the street. The sun had set already, but the snow reflected every light, making the nighttime almost bright. Soft strains of “Silent Night” accompanied by reverent voices emanated into the night. The Christmas Eve service must be almost over.
Sheriff Westwood came out and clapped handcuffs around Arnie’s thick wrists. Arnie swore as the sheriff passed him off to a deputy. “Good work, Peter.” Sheriff Westwood smiled. “We’ll send these two to the federal marshals.” He asked more questions, but Peter reached up and offered his hand.
Patience jumped into his arms.
A startled expression passed over his face, but he caught her.
Throwing both arms around Peter’s neck, she clung to him. The warmth of his chest surrounded her.
His black bowler hat was long since lost in the mountain snow and he stood bareheaded as white flakes accumulated on his close-cropped hair.
“You rescued me. You have my undying gratitude.” She stood on the scuffed toes of her boots to whisper it in his ear. She slid her frozen hands into his.
“It was nothing.” Releasing her hands, he patted her back awkwardly.
Hot tears rolled down her icy face. She buried her head in his shoulder and sucked in the scent. Today he smelled of lemon candies and gingersnaps with just a hint of straw.
A blustery wind tangled around them. Snow fell in heavy flakes as she clung to Peter’s warmth.
“Are you all right?” Peter’s voice sounded unsure.
“I will be.”
“What happened out there, Peter?” The sheriff moved closer.
The deputy hustled the two robbers forward, approaching the jailhouse.
Touching her shoulders, Peter ignored the sheriff. He moved her far enough way to look into her eyes. His dark eyes held concern. “Should I walk you home? Or would you rather go home with your sister?”
“Sister?” Patience glanced up. The church doors had opened and a crowd now packed the street. Mrs. Clinton wrung her hands and murmured prayers. A few children stared wide-eyed at the robbers as the deputy escorted them into the jail. Blinking, she followed Peter’s finger to where Kitty’s pink crocheted scarf blew prettily in the wind. Kitty.
Her heart collapsed within her. That was right; Kitty and Peter were in love. Even talking marriage, if Kitty was to be believed. “I—” Releasing Peter, Patience took a step back.
“You’ve had a trying day.” Peter’s hand touched the small of her back as he maneuvered her to Kitty.
Running forward, Kitty grabbed her hand. “Sister! What an awful day. Are you unharmed? Peter was so brave.” She turned those big blue eyes of hers up to Peter, her gaze filled with adoration.
Peter didn’t correct her. “Take good care of her. Your sister was brave today as well.”
“Of course.” Grabbing her arm, Kitty muscled her off towards home as the crowd closed in around Peter.
“Did you really wrestle down Mr. Dehaven?” A boy’s shrill voice rose above the wind.
“Did you know they were wanted criminals when you rode up the mountains after Patience?” asked another young voice.
“Will you get a share of the reward money?”
The questions faded in the snow as Kitty dragged Patience towards home.
“Are you hungry? We were all dreadfully distraught. Mother made three kettles of soup, she was so sick with worry. When the silver courier crawled back into town with the news, we knew something must be terribly wrong. Father wanted to shoot someone, he felt so bad about allowing you to become engaged to a mail-order stranger. Not that there was any ‘allow,’ in my opinion. You’ve always…”
Increasing her pace, Patience dug her hands into her pockets as Kitty droned on. The wind howled around them. Their boots crunched through the foot of snow that had already accumulated.
“Do you think Peter will come by again tonight?”
Kitty stopped talking, an unusual thing for her. A grin twisted up her lips as she met her sister’s gaze. “Why, yes, actually. He said he had a special Christmas Eve present for me.”
> Patience bit her lip.
11
The flames leapt up to receive the letters Patience tossed into them. How could her sensible nature have deserted her long enough to answer that mail-order-bride announcement?
Pa picked up the littlest Callahan still to be wandering around in an undershirt and hauled him off towards bed.
Yawning, Kitty covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m off to bed too. Give old St. Nick time to do his magic.”
“But what about that present Peter’s bringing for you?”
Kitty swung her feet over the settee’s arm and started tugging at her bootlaces. Her body in shadow, the firelight cast weird shadows on her face. “You wait up for him, won’t you? I’ll see what he’s brought in the morning.” With one last jerk that sent her boots flying, Kitty pattered off in her stocking feet.
A truly noble sister would have said no to a late-night rendezvous with the other’s beau, but she was not truly noble. Besides, Peter and Kitty were completely ill-suited to each other. They’d see that soon. She hoped.
Patience tugged at her bootlaces. Unencumbered of footwear, her stocking feet tapped the floor.
The grandfather clock across the room ticked back and forth in unsettling monotony. As the fire died, only the light of one oil lamp illuminated the sitting room.
Ma appeared in her nightgown and stuffed brown paper packages into stockings before retiring with Pa. Her goodnight wafted up to the rafters above.
Patience thumbed through the magazine Kitty had left: Godey’s Lady’s Book. Who would wear a puffed sleeve like that? It seemed completely impractical. And those lacy little things the magazine called bonnets, is that where Kitty got her ideas for headwear? Her bonnets did set off her hair, but who had time for that kind of fussing over appearance?
The next page was a pattern for crafting an impossibly impractical reticule. Peter didn’t actually pick Kitty because she liked these things, did he? Kitty was flighty and frilly and enchanted with all things Godey’s Lady’s Book suggested.
Everything Patience wasn’t. She stared down at her sensible boots. The scuffed things didn’t even boast a heel. What would Godey’s ladies say?
Plum Pudding Bride Page 6