Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (21 page)

“You can’t just give a man—I mean, a mule—what he wants,” she said. “That’s far too simple. Throw the hat and let’s get on with it.”

He did, and the mules followed just as they had before. This time, Mr. Sanders had to jump on the wagon as it rolled past.

Landing askew, his knee brushed hers as he righted himself. “That was interesting,” he said, “but you’ve not yet proven your point. If you have to get a man’s attention by showing him what he wants but you can’t just give it to him, then how does that all work?”

The wagon lurched over the edge of a dry creek bed. Mr. Sanders caught her before she slid to the floor.

“Watch out,” he said. “When these mules are motivated, they don’t see anything but moving forward. Give them a reason and they’ll go every time.”

“And that, Mr. Sanders,” she said as she returned to her proper spot, “is exactly what I’ve been telling you.” She paused for effect, eying their destination just ahead. “Just like a man.”

“Is that so?” He leaned close. “Tell me, Miss Finch—that horse of yours. She’s a mare, right?” He moved another notch closer. “A
female.”

“Well, yes, but …” Anna found his eyes, and the witty response she’d planned evaporated into a cloud of confused sensation.

“Thus, it was a woman who got us into this.” He stood, bracing his boot on the buckboard. “And a man who will get us out.”

Then Maisie bolted toward them, spooking the mules. The wagon shot forward, sending her protector tumbling backward into the bed of the wagon. They hurtled toward the creek.

As Anna dove for the reins while trying not to land under the wheels, she had the vague thought that she had once written a similar scene with Mae Winslow in the starring role.

And as she recalled, it hadn’t ended well.

Jeb landed between the mail sack and the saddlebags. It took him a moment to be certain he hadn’t hurt something permanently, other than his pride, which was deeply dented.

He tried to regain his feet, but the wagon bounced over a rock, sending him back to bed of the wagon. He heard Miss Finch holler something at the mules, followed by a lot of splashing, and then the wagon lurched to a stop.

Miss Finch half climbed, half fell over the wagon seat and into the bed. “Mr. Sanders. Get up.” She yanked on his collar, and he lifted up on his elbows.

“Where did the horse go?” he managed despite Anna Finch pawing at him. Then he realized the wagon stood in the stream, not at its edge. “Wait. Forget the horse. We’ve got to get out of the wagon.”

Anna Finch stared at him as if she wanted to swat him. “Get out of the wagon? Are you insane? Look at that current.”

Far from the quiet tributary, the stream rushed past the wagon and poured over boulders that had been far from the water a few
weeks earlier. The mules had plowed into the middle of the riverbed and stood up to their haunches in water.

Nothing about this looked good except her, and he couldn’t give Anna Finch any more attention than he already was or they’d both drown.

Water lapped over the side of the wagon. Worse, as Jeb climbed to his knees, he noticed the dark cloud on the horizon was now fast bearing down on them.

He needed to free the mules. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d been in worse scrapes. He’d figure it out.

The bank was a stone’s throw away—or, in this case, a saddlebag’s throw. As the bag flew toward the bank, he heard Miss Finch shout, “No!”

She dove into the back of the wagon and hauled him down with her. He landed too close for comfort but didn’t dare scoot away. Not with her still clutching his wrist. An inch of water sloshed around them.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

A gunshot punctuated his sentence. He scrambled for his pistol.

“Mr. Sanders,” his companion said.

“Not now.” Jeb yanked his Colt out of its holster and raised his head just enough to look around. He turned to face her, his nose nearly brushing hers.

“No one’s shooting at us,” she said. “Remember the gun I keep in my saddlebag?”

“Intimately.” Scanning the perimeter, Jeb turned to look behind him. The only trouble he saw was the mules quickly losing ground in
the rushing water. “I suppose that’s it. But now we’ve got a bigger problem.”

A cracking sound split the air as a wheel broke and the wagon tilted, nearly spilling them both into the icy water.

“Hold on to me!” he shouted. Another wheel broke with a crack, and the wagon began floating downstream, dragging the mules with it.

He pulled Miss Finch toward him, and she tangled her arms around his waist. “Are we going to die?” she asked, staring up at him. “Because I’m not ready to die. I know I love Jesus, and someday when I do die, I’ll see Him face to face and I know that’s going to be the most wonderful thing ever, but today, right now, I just cannot imagine—”

Jeb pressed his finger across her lips as he struggled to hold on to the wagon. “Stop,” he said, “or you’ll panic and drown both of us.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

She nodded, so he lifted his finger. “I don’t want to drown us, I really don’t. I wish I had learned to swim, but my father insisted that ladies should never—”

The only way he could stop her incessant talking was to kiss her. So he did.

He might have enjoyed it had the wagon not hit something and bounced, throwing them both to the side. Jeb braced one boot against the opposite side of the wagon bed and looked down at Miss Finch, who stared dazedly past his shoulder.

“Look at me,” he demanded. When she didn’t immediately comply, he placed his palm on her jaw and gently turned her face his direction. “We are not going to die. Do you understand?”

When she nodded, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The water in the wagon bed was getting deeper.

“Now,” he said slowly, making sure to capture and hold her attention, “I want you to promise you will neither speak nor move.”

“If I do, will you kiss me again?”

He almost laughed at the naive tone to her soft voice. “Would that be a punishment worse than death or an incentive to misbehave?” Eyes fringed with thick lashes regarded him a moment. “Yes,” she said.

“Yes?” This time he did chuckle despite the gravity of the situation. “Which one is it?”

She barely blinked as she said, “Both.”

Anna’s heart lurched as something banged against the underside of the wagon. Until recently she had never in all her life been this close to a man.

Never.

A man who had kissed her.

She caught her breath with great effort, and her ability to speak abandoned her. The temptation to rest her forehead on the broad shoulder that blocked her view was bested only by her need to stop thinking about the situation.

And about the kiss.

By degrees, she became aware that he too seemed unable to do more than stare. Or perhaps he was merely amused by her.

Again she thought of Mae Winslow, the fearless woman who made both man and beast bend to her will. A woman more opposite to herself had never existed. Or rather, been created. Would Mae Winslow have been so incapacitated by a mere brushing of lips? Anna took a second look at the object of her thoughts. If Anna had written a hero who looked like this one and kissed as he did, even Mae would have felt a bit fluttery inside.

At another jarring hit to the wagon, she realized the fluttery feeling was more than stupidity. What in the world was a woman who might lose her life to this raging river doing mooning over the man who’d brought her nothing but aggravation and irritation?

On the second attempt, Anna found her voice. “Mr. Sanders? Release me.”

The Pinkerton made the slightest nod in her direction, and yet his arm continued to hold her against him. “I can’t be distracted by you while I see to the situation.”

“I think it’s too late to discuss distraction,” she whispered even as she realized that statement was somewhat flattering.

He craned his neck to examine something over the side of the wagon, and she took advantage of his lack of attention to sit up and scoot away. Unfortunately, the movement tipped the wagon and sent him hurtling toward her. She attempted to stop him with her outstretched arms, but he rolled right into them.

Again they lay nose to nose. The temptation rose to experience just once more what it was like to be kissed and kissed well. Before she could say a word to induce such an event, Mr. Sanders wrestled her to the back of the wagon and held her prone beside him.

Had he time to feel like a fool, Jeb might have indulged himself. Instead, he had more pressing problems. “Is there a gun in your mail sack too?” he asked.

When she shook her head, he tossed it toward the bank. It landed safely in the grass, and he turned his attention to Anna.

“You’re not going to throw me, are you?” she asked.

“Hadn’t considered it until now.” When she opened her mouth to respond, he shook his head. “Don’t move.” He leaned toward the edge of the wagon. “And hang on to anything that floats.”

“Where are you going?” Miss Finch’s eyes widened. “Don’t leave me back here.”

“I’ve got to release the mules. If they stay yoked to the wagon, they’ll drown.”

Her nod was slow, her face pale.

“Do
not
move,” he repeated, satisfied she would remain in place, then made his way to the front of the wagon.

He climbed over the buckboard and, despite the water, managed to manipulate the yoke and release the pair. As soon as they were free, the mules scrambled toward the bank.

Without the animals to weigh it down, the wagon picked up speed. While staying put until the makeshift vessel hit dry ground was tempting, the fact that Anna could not swim meant he needed to get her out of the water sooner rather than later.

They came to a sudden stop, and Jeb once again found himself face down in the wagon, this time up front where he’d been sitting a few short minutes ago. He could feel the wagon moving beneath him
as the wind blew over his back. At least one of the wheels still remained in place, for it felt as though they spun in a circle.

Jeb rolled onto his back, and the wagon broke free. The last of the wheels was gone.

Not that anything else of this wagon could be salvaged. He didn’t relish the walk back to Denver or the explanation that would be required on his expense report.

A glance at Anna Finch told Jeb that while she held tight to her assigned spot, she did not appear to have much left in the way of patience. Her eyes darted from one bank to the other, and when the wagon slammed against some sort of underwater obstacle, she looked as if she might bolt and try her hand at swimming.

Spotting a rocky outcropping nearby, he climbed to the back of the wagon and gauged the distance between where he stood and where he wanted to be. The bank was near enough to jump if he had only himself to be concerned with.

The wagon hit another rock, and he lost his footing. It was time to act.

He crawled toward Anna. “Hold on to me,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “And no matter what,
do not
let go.”