by Ginny Aiken
Oh, dear.
“There you are!” she cried out in a cheerful voice when she crashed out into the slight clearing, watching her steps, minding that her skirt didn’t snag on any brambles. “I was afraid I’d gotten lost in the woods. I didn’t look forward to trudging through the wilderness for half the day, hoping to—”
Her words froze in her throat.
Horror made her eyes widen.
Fear nearly felled her.
“Well, well, well! Lookit here, Ned.” A rough-looking fellow in a threadbare checked coat dragged off his ragged straw hat and clutched it to his burly chest. “Who’d a thought a body would find hisself a lady in fancy clothes out in these here woods?”
Ned, much younger but just as rough-looking and dressed in a brown jacket of equal vintage as his companion’s coat, didn’t respond. He couldn’t; his jaw gaped, and his gaze fixed on Emma. Slowly, very, very slowly, a smitten smile oozed across his face.
“Miss…” he said in a hushed, respectful tone.
Now this was the sort of reaction Emma was accustomed to, not the sharper, bolder, more blatant stare the first man was still giving her.
Before she could gather her wits, that brutish fellow approached, his face shadowed in the dappled light of the woods.
“Now, who do we have us here, ’zackly?”
Although alarmed, Emma’s instincts told her it would be unwise to let him know how his presence disconcerted her. “What have you done with my carriage? And with Reverend Strong, his wife—the others?”
He arched a brow. “Your carriage? ’Peared to me it were more the fat fellow up top’s rig than nobody else’s. Tobias and Dwight—”
“Don’t reckon you might wanta say even a word ’bout them two ’round her, Sawyer,” Ned said, his eyes never straying from Emma, his smitten smile never fading.
“Reckon you’re right, boy.” Sawyer donned his disreputable hat again. “Tobias and Dwight, they ain’t never been easy sorts, you know. And they ain’t done with these here parts yet. Mark my words.” He shook his head and scoffed. “Bah! Never mind ’bout them two. What’re we gonna do with her’s what I wanna know.”
Pippa chose that precise moment to make her presence known.
Sawyer narrowed his eyes. “Whazzat?”
Ned zeroed in on the picnic basket. “Looks to me, boss, like the lady’s got herself a dog or something there.”
Sawyer approached.
Fear slammed into Emma’s throat. The tough character stood a good foot taller than she, and outweighed her by at least twice. Days of unshaven beard gave his face a dark, dismal, disturbing look, and his thick, droopy mustache emphasized his menace. Emma fought the urge to flee and stood her ground, chin up, gaze on his hardened expression. She waited, thoughts flitting through her head. She searched her imagination for an idea, any possible notion that might help her save herself and sweet little Pippa.
“What a fool thing to take into the woods,” Sawyer said in a growl of a voice. He dropped his hand to his waist, shoved his coat open to reveal a holster at his hip as he turned to his companion. “Cain’t be wasting no time on a silly woman and her dog. Not when we have us more important things to figger out. Tobias and Dwight ain’t gonna just go their way. Not after all we got last night. That were worth more’n what this group here in the carriage had. And you and me… well, we have ’em all. We need to figger out what we’re gonna do.”
Ned gave him a careless nod, but continued to admire Emma. Sawyer followed his gaze with a frown.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma spotted the gleam of metal at Sawyer’s waist again. Sawyer was armed… and was now going for his weapon. She shuddered. Dreadful men carried guns, which, simply put, were the devil’s tools, pure evil. They inspired the holders to do deadly damage to their victims. Was he really ready to—to… oh, my! To shoot her? How could she, Emma Crowell, possibly find herself in such straits?
Fighting the fear, she hugged Pippa’s basket and chose to not stand and await her imminent, dreadful fate. At the very least, she would put up an objection to this… well—sin. “What, pray tell, are you doing, sir?”
Sawyer took a step toward her, one hand outstretched, the other at the butt of the gun. “Gimme that thing.”
Her gut knotted ever tighter; her arms laced more tautly. “She’s mine!”
The outlaw barked a laugh. “And you… well, missy, way I see it, you’re our prisoner. Gimme it. We ain’t got a use for no yapping basket.”
Prisoner? Good heavens! About to call for help, she realized the man had already come too close to her and she didn’t know how he’d react. She glanced at his hand still resting near his gun. A shudder shook her at the sight.
“What have you done with the others?”
“The others?” He shrugged. “That there driver of yours took off soon’s Dwight and Tobias got what we wanted.” He spat. “What they wanted. Driver and the old man sure ’peared in a rush to get somewhere. Reckon I might too wanna leave, what with that squealing woman in the back. Told Dwight it didn’t look like no good idea to hold ’em up. I was right. Weren’t as though they had them a great deal of cash in the box to begin with, and now Dwight and Tobias’re gone with it all. Left us all the work, too.”
The carriage had left? No, of course not. They wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave her here.
“You just hush there, Sawyer,” Ned urged his partner. “Let’s us figger what to do with the lady and her dog.”
“You don’t go telling me what’s what…”
As the men carried on their silly argument, Emma’s head throbbed with tangled thoughts.
What on earth was she to do now? Surely the Strongs would come back for her. But when? How would they find her? What if those other outlaws these two mentioned got back first? Quick glances all around emphasized the dire nature of her predicament. If she ran, she’d get lost in the woods—she’d almost done that while taking her dog on a simple constitutional. At that time, she hadn’t been gripped by the panic she now felt rise inside her. Running was out of the question. But if she just stood and waited for matters to play out… well, Sawyer continued to fondle his sidearm.
A wild blur of foreign emotions and disjointed thoughts shot through Emma’s head. Papa… Aunt Sophia… Uncle Justus… Ophelia—Joshua! Oh, dear. She hated to think she might miss her own wedding.
Wild laughter raked at her throat, but she tamed it somehow. The ridiculous notion told Emma she was more than likely hysterical, and who would blame her? But hysteria and ladylike vapors would never get her out of this nightmare. She had to pull her wits together.
Truth was, Papa would be frantic. So would Aunt Sophia and Uncle Justus. She imagined Joshua would worry, as well. She hated to put them all through the misery.
How could Reverend and Mrs. Strong have left without her? The pain that struck Emma nearly stole her breath. Papa had asked them to look out for her, and though she’d known Mrs. Strong hadn’t much cared for her, she couldn’t imagine abandoning the woman had their situations been reversed.
Yet they had left Emma alone, utterly alone.
While she had wanted to be on her own, this wasn’t what she’d imagined it might be like. If she could escape this pair of outlaws, how would she manage in the wilds of eastern Oregon?
Still, she felt she would be safer away from them than with them. While she had been raised a genteel lady, Emma didn’t see how that would mean she had to become some meek and mousy sort. Surely she had the intelligence and gumption to outwit these men, neither of whom struck her as a brilliant thinker.
Hmph! She was not about to let them do her harm, not without fighting back. And she bore the responsibility to keep her pup safe.
What could she pit against a gun? And win?
She had to think, clearly and fast, if she was to stay a step ahead of a pair of quarreling outlaws.
At that moment, to her horror, Sawyer drew the gun from the holster.
She shrieked. “Wha—�
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“Aw, c’mon, Sawyer,” Ned said, his voice surprisingly reasonable. “Y’ain’t gonna shoot ’er, an’ you know it. You know you don’t wanta do that.”
Sawyer fired off a glare at his companion. “What’re you talking ’bout? How d’you think you know what I wanta do?” He spat a gob of spittle toward the edge of the trail. “I do want her to quit her caterwauling and carrying on. Dunno what to do with her, ’cept maybe asking her rich pappy for money in exchange. For her and that there dog, too. But… nah.”
Emma, her eyes on the weapon pointed at her, fought the instinct to gag.
Sawyer went on. “You think on it some, boy. She knows we’re here, and the carriage ain’t. Them others seen us, too. They left, and you gotta reckon they went after the law, to tell ’em ’bout the holdup. They can finger us, even if we ain’t got the loot. You want her to run to Bountiful, too, an’ tell that Marshal Blair down there what she seen? You wanta go behind bars?”
“But we didn’t do nothing. Dwight and Tobias are the ones that done everything. Left us behind to do the work and clean up their mess.”
“Ain’t no one but us gonna care about that.”
Ned scratched his drab brown hair then donned a brilliant smile. “Why, then, Sawyer. There’s only one thing to do. We’ll just keep her with us.”
Sawyer hitched up his grime-streaked, faded denim trousers, never letting go of his sidearm. “What you saying there, Ned? I look like some lady’s servant to ya? She’ll be asking to be done for left and right.”
“Maybe she can… I dunno. Help?”
The older outlaw crossed his arms, gun now dangling at his side, turned to Emma, and arched a brow. “How?”
Emma froze. Stared. Nothing came to her.
Ned came to her rescue. Of sorts. “Maybe she can cook fer us. I’m tired of your burnt bacon and dried-out beans. My ma was a fair hand with baking pies and roasts and soups and all.”
Cook? Soup?
Goodness gracious, Emma had scarcely ever even set foot in a kitchen. “Surely you must see, gentlemen, that the wisest plan of action is for you both to help me rejoin my party as soon as possible. If nothing else, help me return to Bountiful. I’m sure your gentler side understands a man is to be a lady’s guardian and protector. That applies to us, if ever it did.”
Sawyer guffawed. “Guardian? Don’t see myself as nobody’s angel, lady. And I got too much to do with protecting myself and my own what-for to hafta protect some bit a fluff what’s come off a fancy carriage—with no money to her, neither.”
Emma gulped when he pointed the gun at her again.
Ned stepped between them. “C’mon, Sawyer. Y’ain’t no killer, and y’ain’t gonna start being one now, neither. Let’s think on this some more back at the camp. Ya don’t need to do nothing right now.”
“Makes no sense, bringing her along. Reckon she eats fancy.”
Ned glanced at Emma.
She managed a weak smile and a lifted shoulder.
“Nah. I’m sure she’ll eat whatever we got us to share.” He sighed. “Not that there’s all that much left, you know. But we can always roast mutton. We got us plenty of sheep, right? That’s fine vittles, I reckon.”
Sawyer stiffened. “Them sheep’s not fer eating, Ned. What’re you thinkin’? Them animals’ money on the hoof. Get yer head on straight. She’s ’nother story, though.”
Ned’s shoulders straightened, his jaw squared, his gaze glanced over Emma’s face. He smiled, and then faced Sawyer full on, chin leading the way. “The right thing, that’s what I wanta do. We’re bringing ’er with us. And you’re putting that there gun away now. Don’t wanna shoot yer own foot off by mistake, ya know.”
Sawyer glowered. “Fine, then. You want her to come on along with us, then you’re the one what’s gotta deal with her and her fancy ways. Not me. Not once. She’s all your business from now on.”
Ned grinned.
Emma groaned. “Bu—but, I don’t have any other clothes! My dresses… shoes! No, no. I can’t just follow the two of you, wherever you’re headed. Please, Mr. Ned, take me back to Bountiful. You can come back to help Mr. Sawyer after. I at least need my trunk.”
“Clothes?” Sawyer guffawed as he shook his head and holstered the gun. “Shoes? You sure do think some crazy fool things, now don’tcha?”
She breathed in relief once the weapon disappeared into the holster and the filthy coat covered it. She hugged Pippa’s picnic basket closer, gaining a sense of comfort in the knowledge of the pup’s presence.
Ned twisted the brim of his disgraceful hat as he spun the thing around in a circle at his waist. His nerves further showed in the high pitch of his voice as he came to Emma’s side.
His eyes shined with his earnestness. “I’ll take care of you, ma’am, even if I cain’t be going to Bountiful myself. I’m sorry about your trunk, too.” His tone struck her as… shy? Could that be? “But you can trust me,” the young man added. “We’re not dangerous. I promise.”
Trust him? An outlaw?
Good heavens! How could he say that? Of course, Emma couldn’t trust either one of them. She only had herself to trust. But until she could figure out what to do, perhaps it would be wiser to stay with them. It didn’t seem she had much chance of escape now, anyway, the way Ned wouldn’t take his eyes off her. What would Papa think when he learned what had happened to her on the way to Portland?
She cringed at the thought of his worry… his fear… his grief.
“Oh, Papa…” she whispered. “I should have gone with you after all.”
Chapter 3
“Are you sure?” Peter Lowery said, anger doing a slow rise.
“Of course I’m sure, Pete,” Colley, his ranch manager and mentor, said. “I toldja time and time again how we been losing sheep for weeks now. I don’t lie. You said you believed me every time I told you.”
Peter sighed. “I do believe you. I did from the start.”
“Reckon you didn’t want to accept it, didja?” When Peter shrugged, Colley tugged the brim of the straw hat lower, and then nodded. “Didn’t want to do it either, myself, but I couldn’t help but accept the truth, son. Bunch by bunch, there’ve been fewer sheep out there each time. Coupla dozen less by now.”
Dread pooled in his gut, a sick sensation by all accounts. What would he do if he lost any more?
Colley went on. “And, sure as I’m staring right atcha, it’s happened again. This time, there seems to be a bigger lot missing than any of the earlier times. I was fixing for Wade and me to do some shearing straight away, now spring’s come, and I went to choose me some of ‘em to start with, and I can count, you know. Been looking forward to this, seeing as how the flock’s put on some good, thick wool this winter.” A shake of the head followed a grimace. “We’re gonna miss that wool just as much as the sheep themselves, now they’re stole.”
Peter needed every penny he could get for his animals and their wool. Now, more of his flock was gone… taken.
Stolen.
Rustled.
Life on a ranch depended on a man’s animals. No wonder rustlers were seen as lower than snakes. They were hung in these parts. Livestock made the difference between survival and failure.
What was he going to do if he couldn’t pay back what he owed? He glanced toward the left side of the summer camp cabin. Robby, his seven-year-old son, still lay in his bunk, sleeping securely, tucked under his covers. There was no reason for a child to rise as early as a rancher and his hands did. Today was no different. Theft was no matter for a child.
His child.
Peter wanted—no, needed—to build a legacy for his son. That was why he’d moved West shortly after he and Adele had married. He’d wanted to strike out on his own, make his own way in the world, create something of value to leave his children.
Or rather child. There wouldn’t be any more children for Peter. He would never marry again.
The familiar sharp sting struck his heart at the thought of his Adel
e. Marriage hadn’t worked as he’d hoped and expected. Not for him—for the two of them. His wife hadn’t been strong enough to cope with the challenge-filled and lonely life on the sheep ranch. She’d become ill with pleurisy. It would have taken a long day’s travel to reach Bountiful’s Doc Chalmers from Peter’s ranch, and another day to return with the man in tow. But when the pain from her violent coughing reached the point where Adele couldn’t bear it any longer, she’d demanded Peter help her return home to her mother’s comfort and care rather than wait for him to fetch the doctor. He hadn’t had the heart to deny her the love her large family would offer during her recovery, even though he knew travel could put her under a great deal of risk.
He’d been tragically proven right. She died before she reached Independence, Missouri.
Peter still carried the grief that came with knowing he hadn’t been able to help Adele weather the pressures imposed upon her when she agreed to follow his dreams. The West had broken her, and she’d left him, and their son, to make do as best they could.
“Pete!” Colley shook his arm. “Are you hurtin’ somewhere or something? That dyspepsia hitting you again?”
Peter shook his head, but didn’t speak.
Colley went on. “Well, something’s up with you. I been jawing away here, with you just standing there like a big old lump of cold bread dough. Not really much like you, I reckon.”
Peter gave his ranch manager a wry twist of the mouth instead of a smile. Sometimes he did feel like cold bread dough. But Colley had a point. Something was up with him, all right. But no, he didn’t really feel cold, not this time. This time, he wasn’t about to feel sorry for himself. It was time to do something about the situation.