The Feisty Bride's Unexpected Match: A Western Historical Romance Book

by Lydia Olson

  “Thank you,” he bid the ticket taker as he gathered his satchel and bag and quickly departed for the heart of town.

  David ran as fast as his feet would carry him, rushing toward the Wells and Milford Stagecoach Company and coming to a halt behind a young woman waiting in a short line. “Excuse me,” he said, “is this the ticket line?”

  The young woman turned around and David’s mouth went dry the moment he laid eyes on her.

  “Yes,” she said, as David noted her fair complexion and petite frame. “This is the line to go to Clarendon.”

  He was at a loss of words as he looked at the young woman. Something about her made him feel a flutter in his stomach. Not knowing what else to do, he extended his hand, smiled, and said, “I’m David Bryant.”

  A rosy hue colored the woman’s cheeks as she delicately placed her palm in David’s and shook it. “Sarah,” she said. “Sarah Harris. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  ***

  There was no denying that the man who called himself David was handsome. Sarah felt a flutter in her heart as she shook his large masculine hand and told him her name.

  “What, uh,” she said, “what is taking you to Clarendon?”

  “Uh, family business,” he said. “I’m going to take possession of my uncle’s ranch.”

  “Oh, how lovely.”

  “What about yourself?”

  Sarah opened her mouth to reply—but she was cut off from replying when the ticket agent arrived at the counter, and said, “Okay, folks! This is the line for the next stagecoach to Clarendon. Please have your money ready. We have three seats still available.”

  Saying nothing more, Sarah was once again reminded of why she was embarking on the journey she was on, so she pushed any other thoughts out of her mind, smiled at the man named David, and said, “I have to be going.”

  “Of course,” David said. “Perhaps we can talk more on the journey.”

  “I would like that,” Sarah said as she focused her attention forward, approached the ticket window, and gave her name.

  “Ah, yes,” the ticket agent said. He was a burly man with a round face and red nose. “Miss Harris. Your seat is waiting for you. Proceed around the back. The stagecoach will be waiting for you.”

  Ticket now in hand, Sarah followed the line of people heading for the side of the station and held her breath as the stagecoach came into view. It was a Concord stagecoach, painted bright red, the wheels yellow and a team of six horses tethered to the front, a spacious method of transportation that Sarah had never ridden in before. On top sat the driver—known as the whip, or “Brother Whip”—a weathered-looking man with a serious expression, a big mustache, and a thinner man seated beside him with an intense gaze and a repeater rifle in his hand. A doorman stood to the side, opening it as a bag boy rushed up to the passengers and began taking their bags.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” the driver on top said stoically, “load yourself in quick. We’ve got miles to cover to get to Clarendon.”

  Sarah followed the instructions and proceeded toward the stagecoach. Two men were in front of her, businessmen based on their tailored black suits, ties and manicured appearances. A pleasant-looking woman in an expensive green dress appeared to be the wife of the man one of men. With her arm hooked around his, she whispered something into his ear that made him smile as he assisted her inside, and then boarded himself. The other businessman then helped Sarah into the stagecoach, and she settled into a cushy leather seat with enough room on either side as she heard the sounds of the luggage being loaded into the boot. A moment later, David Bryant entered, smiling pleasantly as he took the seat on the opposite side, folded his hands in his lap, and adjusted the brown Stetson on top of his head before focusing his attention out the window.

  Five minutes passed before the stagecoach was loaded, the doors closed and the driver on top told everyone to, “Hang on,” before slapping the reins. The stagecoach lurched forward, taking Sarah by surprise as she held her hand to her chest.

  Okay, she thought, this is it. There’s no turning back. Everything will be fine.

  As the stagecoach made a right turn and proceeded toward the dirt road that led out of town, for a moment Sarah recalled a few of the stories she had heard about bandits, thieves and natives attacking stagecoaches like the one she was on, but she pushed those terrible thoughts out of her mind as she settled back into her seat. She convinced herself that nothing as horrible as that would befall her as she settled in for the ride and closed her eyes to catch a brief nap.

  Chapter Four

  Georgie’s head made contact with the earth, dirt pluming up around him and caking his wounds as his eyelids fluttered and the sounds of two gunshots cracking through the air became audible. Georgie raised his head, feeling like a brick had been shoved inside of it as he struggled to pull air into his lungs. Where … where are they?

  He glanced around as he lay on his belly, his vision foggy as he struggled to make out the location of his fellow cattle herders. Everything had happened in all of an instant. It felt like only a moment ago he had been driving a herd of cows toward town. His two partners, Dwight and Caleb, flanked either side of the herd, with nothing on their minds but finishing the job they had been hired to do with only two miles left on their journey. They were looking forward to a paycheck and a cold beer waiting for them on the other side. But once Georgie had seen the outline of the town in the distance, the moment he felt that surge of pride that only came about when a job was in the midst of being completed, gunshots rang out from the ravine fifty yards off to their left and knocked Caleb clean off of his horse. Georgie, Caleb, and Dwight tried to reach for their weapons to defend themselves, but it made no difference. The three men who outflanked them were much too quick on the trigger, and Georgie was the last man left standing just thirty short seconds after the gunshots went off.

  “Finish ‘em,” a gravelly voice called out from behind Georgie. “We gotta get movin’.”

  Georgie struggled to raise his head. He knew with a measurable amount of certainty that Caleb had been killed, and after the last two gunshots were fired just a moment prior, he was positive that Dwight had joined Caleb amongst the ranks of the deceased.

  Another shot sounded. Then another. And another. Georgie shuddered as each of the shots were fired, covering his head with his hands as he trembled and felt his body turn cold. He waited for a moment as the sounds of the gunfire dissipated into the distance.

  Georgie wheezed, moaned, and grunted, unsure as to how much stamina he had left as a shadow started to cover him, and a pair of cold, steel-blue eyes looked down upon him. He brought his bloodied hands to his face, struggling to breathe as he felt the life slowly leave him as he focused to make out the shadow towering over him.

  “Well, well,” the shadow said. “You’re still breathin’, boy. Well, I’ll be …”

  Georgie puckered his lips, desperate to offer up some sort of plea, though he felt depleted of the energy he needed to do so. Finally, after what felt like five whole minutes, he drew in a breath, raised his head to the shadow, and said, “Who … are you?”

  The shadow stood there a moment. It didn’t move, didn’t budge an inch. Then the shadow leaned over, inches from Georgie’s face as the leathery and reddened face of a man came into view. He was two steps shy of grotesque, with shaggy brown hair that barely touched his shoulders, somewhat wispy and covered with strands of grey. His teeth were stained with patches of brown, one of the teeth in front crooked and snarling at Georgie like it was itching to take a bite out of his flesh. Even though he was on the cusp of death, Georgie was still able to access the recesses of his mind and saw the flash of a wanted poster he had seen several times posted in town. The moment he recalled that poster, he was able to put a name to the face that was staring down at him with a callous pair of eyes: Tucker Willis.

  Georgie, as well as his now dead partners, whom he saw lying lifeless on their backs just twenty yards away from him, k
new about Tucker Willis more than well. He was a true ingrate, a man who had stolen, robbed, kidnapped, and killed over thirty people in the course of his illicit career, and somehow always managed to vanish into the night like a wraith in a horror story. And now, here he was, staring Georgie Cartwright dead in the eye with a crooked smile on his face, and a six-shooter grasped in his crooked claw of a hand.

  “Please,” Georgie pleaded. “Please don’t kill me.”

  Tucker’s smile grew bigger as he got down on one knee. He rested his palm in his chin, looking at Georgie with a sideways glance as he shrugged, and said, “Let me guess, you want to give me whatever you have on you so that I don’t kill you?”

  Georgie, hands held up in submission, nodded repeatedly. “Yes,” he said, his voice straining to say the words. “I’ll … I’ll do anything.”

  “I’m sure you will, my friend. I’m sure you will.”

  Tucker glanced over his shoulder, motioning with two fingers to the man on his right as he did so. The man with him was dressed in black, with a narrow face and a body that looked two steps shy of malnourished. The gaunt man approached, and without being instructed, he patted down Georgie and removed the money, pocket watch, and wedding ring from his person before standing back, cackling, and stuffing the belongings into his pocket. “I’ve got everything, boss,” the man said with a nasally tone. “And I scared off their cattle.”

  “You know,” Tucker said, “I’ve always been curious what the other side looks like. I refer to the afterlife, I mean. I’ve always wanted to know what happens after you die. Myself? I don’t believe in heaven. I don’t believe in hell. I think the light just sort of … goes out, diminishes like the quick extinguishing of a flame. But who can say for certain? Only the dead have a stake in these claims.” Tucker appraised his weapon and rubbed his hand over the barrel. “Anytime I’ve killed someone, I like to look into their eyes. There’s something about the way their eyes roll back white, the way the pupils dilate. It’s always made me curious to know what they see in their final moments.” He grabbed Georgie by the collar, pressed the barrel into his chest, and smiled. “And that’s why I tend to kill a man up close and personal. There’s just no other way.”

  Georgie lip trembled as Tucker pressed his gun harder into his chest. “Please,” he said. “Please, don’t kill me. I’ll do anything!”

  Tucker nodded once. “Yes,” he said. “I’m sure you would.”

  The sounds of the hammer striking the primer of the bullet was deafening, the reverberation of the shot echoing through the valley as a small cloud of smoke rose from the area where the gunshot went off.

  Tucker stood up, spinning the revolver twice before he holstered it. He sucked air through his teeth as he removed the thin cigar from his shirt pocket, the end chewed and slick with saliva. He stuck it in his mouth and then lit the tip with a match before tossing it down onto Georgie’s dead body.

  “Kelso,” he said to the gaunt man. “I’m bored with these petty, thrill-seeker stick-ups. I need something more stimulating.”

  The man with him, Kelso, gestured in the direction of Clarendon. “Might be a good idea to lie low for a bit, boss. I heard the sheriff is on the verge of sending out a posse to look for us.”

  Tucker grinned. “We’ve got the law in Clarendon under control, my friend,” he said assuredly. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Yeah, in Clarendon,” Reilly said, “and Clarendon is a twenty-four-hour ride from here. That’s our safe haven, and we should head back there soon. We’ve been stirring up quite a bit of trouble in these parts.”

  The other man with him, sporting a ginger beard and a permanent scowl etched into his face, said, “They just put up a bunch of wanted posters in town, though. Your face is plastered everywhere.”

  “That means nothing to me, Reilly. If we get caught, we have a way of getting out of it. I paid pretty good money to make sure that’s the case.”

  “We’re running out of money, though,” Reilly said. “You’re right—we need a more substantial payday if we’re going to keep up with the bribes we’ve made.”

  “When push comes to shove,” Tucker said. “My penchant for drinking takes precedence.”

  Tucker spit on the ground as he chomped on his cigar. He considered, scanning the surrounding valley as the winds picked up and tussled the shirttails of the dead men on the ground that they had just killed. His attention fell to the west, something in the distance catching his eye. “Kelso,” he said, “fetch me those binoculars.”

  Kelso reached into the satchel slung over his shoulder and produced a Victorian-style pair of bronze binoculars. He handed them over to Tucker who held them up to his eyes to focus in on the object in the distance occupying his focus.

  “Ah, yes,” he said with a considerable amount of delight. “That will do just nicely.”

  “What is it, boss?”

  Tucker handed over the binoculars. “Take a look …”

  Kelso held up the binoculars and looked through them, spotting what Tucker was flagging down about three miles off in the distance: a road with a small trio of men on horses.

  “I thought we wanted a bigger score,” Kelso said. “Those men don’t look like they’re carrying much with them.”

  Tucker shook his head. “No, not them,” he said. “I’m talking about the road.”

  “What about it?”

  “That road links up with every other road across the state of Texas…and it’s also the only path wide enough that carriages and stagecoaches can take.”

  Reilly grinned as he took the binoculars from Kelso and took a look. “Ah. I see.”

  “We’ll take that road for a half-day and see who we come across. I think we’re bound to find a significant score if we stick to it.”

  Tucker moved toward a trio of horses standing alongside one another. He mounted the black horses with white spots and tugged at the reins, Kelso following after him and grabbing the reins of the brown horse beside it as Reilly climbed on top of a cream-colored horse.

  “What about the bodies of the men we just shot, boss?” Reilly asked. “Sheriff might come across them.”

  “No,” Tucker said, “it’ll be dark soon. The coyotes and the mountain lions will take care of ‘em.”

  Kelso gestured to the two horses of the dead men still lingering close by. “What about them?”

  Tucker looked at the horses, cocking his head to the side as he thought through the options. Saying nothing more, he retrieved his weapon from his holster, cocked back the hammer, and laid the horses to rest by firing six shots at them from a distance.

  “That takes care of that,” Tucker said. “Any other requests, boys, or should we just keep wasting time on silly questions?”

  Kelso and Reilly, who knew better than to question his boss, shook their heads and prepared to move out.

  Tucker, reloading his pistol, kicked at the sides of his horse with his spurs and got it moving. Holstering his weapon, he pointed to the three men three miles off in the distance. “We’ll take those fellas for all they have first,” he said. “I haven’t done my fair share of killing yet today.”

  Chapter Five

  It was hard for David to not sneak the occasional glance at Sarah over the course of the ten hours they had been riding in the stagecoach. David had spoken mostly to the businessman on his left (whose name he discovered was Caldwell), and his wife (whose name was Samantha), who traded off between sharing conversation with the other businessman (Henry) and Sarah, all of them discussing what was taking them to Clarendon, and what they planned on doing once they reached their location. David was more than curious to speak solely with Sarah, and after the conversation died down between himself and Caldwell, he found his opportunity when Samantha opened up a book to keep herself occupied, and Caldwell and Henry began speaking to one another about the complexities of banking, as the sun began to descend in the west and cast a warm and heavenly glow that filtered through the curtains inside the stageco
ach.

  Just talk to her, David thought. After all, didn’t Mother and Father say that part of this trip was meant to find companionship?

  David looked at Sarah, curious as to the letters she was looking at, as well as the picture that was with them. “So,” he said, “what’s taking you to Clarendon?”

  Sarah looked up, her eyes wide as she smiled politely and held up the letters in her hand. “Oh,” she said, “yes, I’m, uh, meeting a friend there. We’ve been corresponding for quite some time. It’s taken some time for me to accrue the resources to travel.”

  David leaned his head to the side. “You’ve … never met them before? Your friend that you speak of?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No,” she said. “We’re … pen pals, I guess you could say.”

  “I see. And, uh, where are you coming from, originally?”