The Bride's Prerogative (101 page)

CHAPTER 28

T
he Spur & Saddle had never emptied so fast. Doc Kincaid and Augie were the first two out the door, but the whole town poured onto Main Street in fifteen seconds flat.

Vashti ran, trying to stick to Griffin’s coattails, but his long legs carried him much faster than she could go. When she got to the coach, Doc was already inside. Griffin, Johnny, Augie, and Ethan stood in a tight group before the door, keeping folks back. Pete Gilbert, who’d been Bill’s messenger, still sat on the box, the reins slack in his hands and his head bowed.

Vashti scooted around Ethan and climbed up beside Pete. She put her hand on his slumped shoulder. “What happened?”

“Road agents. Bill whipped up the mules and tried to run through them, but they shot him first thing. The mules were tearing by then, and I had to drop my gun and try to slow them down, or at least keep them from flinging the coach off one of those hairpin turns.”

Vashti shuddered, recalling the steep drop-offs along the road to Silver City. “Where was it?”

“This side of Sinker Creek, maybe a mile out. Uphill. They always try to get you when you’re going uphill.”

She nodded. Some of those grades were worse than a pitched roof.

Ethan’s head and shoulders appeared on the other side of the stage. “Pete. Want to tell me about it?”

Vashti grabbed a handful of skirts and prepared to climb down. “I’ll leave, Sheriff, and you can sit up here with him.”

She dropped to the street. Doc Kincaid was backing out of the stagecoach. He turned and faced Griffin.

“I’m sorry, Bane. Does he have family to notify?”

Vashti caught her breath. Her stomach wrenched. She turned away and took a few steps to the off wheeler’s head.

Bill couldn’t be dead. Sweet old Bill who’d built her driving rig for her and taken her out to Hiram’s ranch to practice. The white-haired driver who’d treated her like a daughter. Her first run, she’d ridden with him, and he’d helped keep the secret of her disguise at least for that first trip. She clung to the sweaty mule’s harness and sobbed.

How long she stood there, she didn’t know. She found her handkerchief, tucked in her sleeve—the same one she’d used an hour ago at the wedding. The voices around her faded as people moved away from the coach. Unable to stop crying, she clenched her hands around the tug strap and gritted her teeth. Dear old Bill.

A large hand rested on her shoulder.

“Come on, Georgie. Let go, so’s Johnny can take the team around to the livery.”

Griffin. She’d never heard his voice so gentle. Her throat was hot and achy. She stared at her hands, curled around the strap so tightly that her knuckles were white. She sobbed again.

“There now.” His hand stroked her hair lightly and came down on her shoulder again. “Come on.” His large, warm hands closed over her stiff fingers. He gently pried her hand from the harness. “Let Pete and Johnny take the team.”

Her fingers came loose, and she backed away from the mule into Griffin’s solid form. She turned and looked at the front of his shirt, clean white for the wedding. Her gaze traveled slowly up to the necktie that looked so foreign around Griffin’s neck, to his neatly trimmed beard, his grim mouth, and at last his compassionate eyes.

She dove toward him, a new sob racking her body. He folded her in his arms and pulled her close against his wedding shirt.

“There now.”

He eased her away from the mules and the stage. A whip cracked, and Johnny Conway clucked to the mules. The wheels rolled as the mules started forward.

Griffin held her for a minute, stroking her back softly. Finally she pulled back and took a deep breath.

“Where did they take Bill?”

“Over to the boardinghouse. Mr. Thistle said they can lay him out in the parlor.”

Vashti sniffed. “Not the livery?” Somehow it seemed odd that, with all the bodies they’d laid out at the livery, a stagecoach driver should be taken somewhere else.

“The sheriff’s getting up a posse. The livery’s going to be busy.”

She pulled away from him and turned to survey the crowd. Now that Bill’s body had been removed and the coach was gone, the people focused on Ethan Chapman. The sheriff stood on the boardwalk in front of the Wells Fargo office.

“If you need to change your clothes, be quick about it,” he called. “I’ll leave from the livery in about ten minutes. I’ll take any man who’s ready to ride up to Sinker Creek with me, but you have to supply your own weapons and horses.”

A dozen men broke from the crowd and ran toward the livery or their homes. Vashti hauled in a deep breath and turned toward the Spur & Saddle. Before she took one step, Griffin’s hand clamped on her shoulder.

“Where you going, Vashti?”

“To get changed. I’m going with Ethan.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“I think it’s an excellent idea.” She wrenched away from him and ran.

The Boise stage pulled out ten minutes late, with Johnny Conway and Pete Gilbert on the box. Pete still looked shaken, and Griffin almost replaced him. But whom could he ask? Not any of the women after this catastrophe, and not Hiram Dooley on his wedding day.

Griffin dashed about the stable, saddling every spare horse. Even though Ethan had specified that the posse supply its own horsepower, some men like Dr. Kincaid depended on him for transportation. Justin ran back and forth from the corral to the barn, fetching tack and bringing in the few available mounts.

“Uncle Griff?”

Griffin tossed his own saddle over the back of his gray gelding.

“What?”

“Can I go this time?”

Griffin eyed him over Pepper’s withers. Instead of showing boyish eagerness, Justin’s face was troubled. “I don’t think so, son.”

“I liked Bill.”

“We all did. But I need you to stay here. Folks will come around wanting news, and the stock will need to be fed at sundown. You can get Ben and Silas Nash to help you. Oh, and Justin …”

“Yeah?” The boy—no, the young man—didn’t argue, but his mouth drooped in disappointment.

“If I’m not back by eight o’clock, you go over to the Fennel House and ask Mrs. Thistle to put you up.”

“I can stay by myself. I’m old enough.”

Augie ran in through the front door of the livery, with his wife on his heels in her bloomer costume and Vashti wearing her dungarees and boy’s shirt, vest, and hat.

“Griff, you got any extra mounts? I know folks are supposed to have—”

“Sure, Augie, but no women.” Griffin looked sternly at Bitsy and Vashti.

“Please, Griff,” Bitsy said. “We’re good shots. We won’t slow you down.”

“Trudy’s outside. She’s riding with her husband,” Vashti said.

Griffin snatched his hat off and slapped it against his thigh. “Next I’ll have the bride and groom coming around, wanting to ride out on their wedding day.”

“Nope.” Augie shook his bald head. “The sheriff told Hiram absolutely no way would he let him go along.”

Ethan’s voice sounded at that moment, out front. “All right, men, let’s move!”

Griffin shot a glance at Justin. “Give Augie the chestnut and Mrs. Moore the paint mare. There’s two spare mules out back. You and Vashti can take them. Don’t know if they’ll keep up, but it’s all I’ve got left. The team that just came in from Silver needs to rest.”

He walked Pepper out of the barn and swung into the saddle. Ethan and a band of twenty or so men already cantered toward the Mountain Road. He urged Pepper to follow, half hoping Justin and Vashti wouldn’t catch up. Justin wasn’t even armed. Griffin had had a couple of shooting sessions with him, but his nephew was nowhere near being a marksman, even if he had a weapon.

He clamped his teeth together. What would Evelyn say if she knew he was teaching her boy to use a gun? Out here, it was a necessary skill for a man.

Hoofbeats drummed behind him on the packed road. He looked over his shoulder. Augie and Bitsy were coming already. No. A second glance made him say something he tried not to say when Justin was around. The second rider wasn’t wearing the bright red suit. It was Vashti, riding the horse he’d said Bitsy could take, and she was pulling ahead of Augie’s chestnut.

“Too bad we couldn’t pick up their trail.” Bitsy held her hands out to the campfire that evening.

“Bill deserves better than this,” Vashti said.

“It could have been you.”

Vashti didn’t respond. She preferred not to discuss that angle.

Ethan came to the fire, carrying his tin cup.

“More coffee, Sheriff?” Bitsy asked.

“Much obliged.” She rose and poured it for him.

“I still don’t know how you folks managed to grab so much stuff so fast,” Ethan said.

“That’s why we were late. While Augie and I were getting out of our glad rags, Goldie was down in the kitchen packing supplies for us.”

Ethan smiled. “Sounds like Trudy. I wasn’t of a mind to let her come, but she’d ridden in for the wedding and stashed her riding skirt at the Bentons’.”

Parnell Oxley and Micah Landry sauntered over.

“What’s the plan for morning, Sheriff?” Parnell asked.

“We’ll look around a little more after daybreak, but most of these men have families and businesses they should be tending to.”

Vashti’s spirits plummeted even lower at Ethan’s words. This was for Bill! They ought to be able to do better for him.

The other men drifted over, some still chewing their meager meal of jerky and a biscuit apiece.

“We found that mask,” Josiah said.

“Yes. But that was before we got into the rocks. Awfully hard trying to track anything in these mountains.” Ethan sipped his coffee.

The rough cloth mask was a gray hood with eyeholes cut into it. Josiah had found it among the brush near the creek bank. It matched what Pete Gilbert had said the robbers wore.

“Think they’ll hit another stage while we’re up here?” Micah asked.

Ethan shook his head. “So far they’ve gone two or three weeks between holdups. And they got quite a bit of money off the passengers today, as well as two thousand dollars from the treasure box. That’ll keep them going for a while, I expect.”

Justin and Griffin stood next to each other. Their dark eyes reflected the firelight—the giant of a man next to the slender boy. Justin had grown since he’d come last fall. In six months, he’d shot up several inches. Vashti had noticed how short his trousers were and mentioned to Griffin that the boy needed new clothes.