Last Chance Cowboys: The Outlaw

by Anna Schmidt

  No sooner had she seated herself upon the wooden bench than Mr. Rennick took off hell-bent for leather.

  Glued to the back of the seat, she cried out. “Oh dear. Oh my. Ohhh!”

  What had looked like a perfectly calm and passive black horse had suddenly turned into a demon. With pounding hooves and flowing mane, the steed flew over potholes and dirt mounds, giving no heed to the cargo behind. The wagon rolled and pitched like a ship in stormy seas. Dust whirled in the air, and rocks hit the bottom and sides.

  Holding on to her hat with one hand and the seat with the other, Amanda watched in wide-eyed horror as the scenery flew by in a blur.

  The wagon sailed over a hill as if it was airborne, and she held on for dear life. The wheels hit the ground, jolting her hard and rattling her teeth. The hope chest bounced up and down like dice in a gambler’s hand. Her breath whooshed out, and it was all she could do to find her voice.

  “Mr. R-Rennick!” she stammered, grabbing hold of his arm. She had to shout to be heard.

  “What?” he yelled back.

  She stared straight ahead, her horrified eyes searching for a soft place to land should the need arise. “Y-you sh-should s-slow down and enjoy the s-scenery.”

  Her hat had tilted sideways, and he swiped the peacock feather away from his face. “Been my experience that sand and sagebrush look a whole lot better when travelin’ fast,” he shouted in his strong baritone voice.

  He made a good point, but at the moment, she was more concerned with life and limb.

  He urged his horse to go faster before adding, “It’s also been my experience that travelin’ fast is the best way to outrun bandits.”

  “W-what do you mean? B-bandits?” It was then that she heard gunfire.

  She swung around in her seat, and her jaw dropped. Three masked horsemen were giving chase—and closing in fast.

  Two

  “Oh no!” she cried.

  “You better get down, ma’am,” Mr. Rennick shouted. “They look like they mean bus’ness.”

  Dropping off her seat, Amanda scrunched against the floorboards. Her body shook so hard, her teeth chattered. “G-give me your g-gun,” she cried.

  “Know how to use it?” he yelled back.

  “N-no, but I’m a f-fast learner!” She pulled off her gloves, which flew out of the wagon like frantic white doves.

  Holding the reins with one hand, he grabbed his gun with the other. After cocking the hammer with his thumb, he handed it to her. The gun was heavier than she expected, requiring both hands to grasp. Keeping her head low, she balanced herself on wobbly knees and rested the barrel on the back of the seat. She held onto the grip with all her might. Still, the muzzle bobbed up and down like corn popping on a hot skillet.

  Aiming at a specific target was out of the question. The jostling wagon made control impossible. The best she could do was to keep from shooting the driver. She wasn’t all that anxious to shoot the bandits either. She just wanted to scare them away.

  Eyes squeezed shut, barrel pointed in the bandits’ general direction, she pulled the trigger. The blast shook her to the core, and her arm flung up with the recoil. She fell back against the footrest and fought to regain her balance.

  “Good shot!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder. “You stopped your hope-a-thingie from attackin’. Now see if you can do the same with the bandits.”

  Her heart sank. Oh no. Not the hope chest. Her family would kill her. That is, if the bandits didn’t kill her first. Forcing air into her lungs, she fought to reposition herself. The horsemen kept coming. They were so close now, she could see the sun glinting off their weapons.

  Bracing herself against the recoil, she fired again, this time aiming higher. The wagon veered to the right, and she fell against the side, hitting her shoulder hard. Her feathered hat ripped from its pins and flew from the wagon in a way that no peacock ever had.

  “Oh no!” That was her very best hat, and the fact that it landed on the nearest highwayman gave her small comfort. His horse stopped, but the bandit kept going.

  “Stay down!” Rennick yelled.

  “But my hat…” It was one of the most elaborate hats she’d ever created. The peacock feathers matched the color of her eyes. “I loved that hat!”

  “Yeah, well, too bad it didn’t return your affection.”

  Of all the rude things to say. Blinking away the dust in her eyes, she hunkered close to the floorboards and struggled to catch her breath.

  The wagon continued to race over uneven ground, jolting her until she was ready to scream. Just when she thought her battered body could take no more, the wheels mercifully rolled to a stop.

  She shot Rennick a questioning look. “W-what are you doing?”

  “Seems like our friends deserted us.”

  She raised her limp body off the floorboards on shaky limbs and flung herself onto the seat, breathing hard. All that was visible in the far distance was a cloud of dust that seemed to be moving in the opposite direction.

  Relief rushed through her. “W-why do you suppose they gave up the chase?”

  He lifted the gun from her hand and holstered it. “Guess the hat was enough to convince them that whatever chunk change we might have wasn’t worth the trouble.”

  She glared at him. He didn’t seem to notice.

  Her hair had fallen from its bun, and she did her best to pin back the loose chestnut strands. She brushed the dust off her skirt and rubbed her shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, though without her hat and gloves, she felt naked.

  He drank from a metal flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Here.” He handed her the canteen.

  She hesitated before bringing the spout to her mouth. The water was warm and tasted metallic; still, it helped quench her thirst. Pulling a lace handkerchief from her sleeve, she poured a few drops on it before handing the canteen back.

  She dabbed her face with the moist handkerchief, but it offered little relief from the heat. The sun was almost directly overhead, and though still early spring, the temperature hovered in the high eighties.

  “Do you mind if I retrieve my parasol from my hope…trunk?”

  “I’ll get it.” Before she could object, he jumped to the ground and walked to the back of the wagon.

  She tossed him an anxious glance and tried to remember how she’d packed. Were her intimate garments on the top or bottom of the chest? She’d packed in a hurry and couldn’t remember. Shaking her head in annoyance, she blew out her breath. They had almost been robbed, maybe even killed, and here she worried about—of all things—a few pairs of red satin drawers and corset covers.

  He returned to his seat with her parasol, his expressionless face giving no clue as to what unmentionables he had been privy to.

  “Much obliged,” she said, taking it from him.

  He regarded her with curiosity. “What were you doin’ in Austin?”

  She opened the sun umbrella, casting a welcome shadow over her heated face. “I was at a Rights for Women meeting.”

  He made a face. “I should’ve known.” He picked up the reins. “You’re one of those suffering ladies.”

  She leveled a sideways glance his way. “They’re called suffragists,” she said. “I take it you don’t much approve of women having the right to vote, Mr. Rennick.”

  “I have no objection to women votin’. But it’s been my experience that you give women an inch, before you know it, they’ll want the whole kit and caboodle.”

  “Right now all we want is the right to the ballot.” She pursed her lips. “Are you married, Mr. Rennick?”

  “Nope.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Had she only imagined his hesitation?

  He met her gaze. “What about you? Got any marriage prospects?”

  “None,�
� she said, looking away. “And I plan on keeping it that way.”

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