Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone Sheriff\The Gentleman Rogue\Never Trust a Rebel (9 page)

Interesting parents, he thought. But at least she
had
parents. He sure couldn't see Maddie as a young girl in an orphanage.

She went on singing and he drifted off to sleep, thinking about a woman who'd get riled up by nothing but a song. He guessed big-city women were touchy about some things.

When he woke, Maddie was perched beside him, her knees propped up, her chin in her hands. Bored to death, he figured. He fished for his pocketknife. “Come on, I'll show you how to play mumblety-peg.”

She grasped the game in just one round, and after that he found it a challenge to beat her. Her delicate-looking hands were stronger than they looked and her coordination was good. Better than good. He'd like to challenge her to a shooting match, but it'd make too much noise. She'd already proved she was a crack shot with a pistol. How would she handle a rifle? He glanced at the two Winchesters secured in their long scabbards tied onto his saddle.

“Jericho,” she accused, “you are not paying attention.”

“You're right, I'm not. I'm wondering some things about you.”

She looked up. “Oh? What things? I wonder things about you, as well.”

He wasn't sure he wanted to pursue this conversation, wasn't sure he wanted her to know what was on his mind. But he'd sure like to know what was on hers.

Or maybe he didn't. She was probably still mad about that twenty miles they'd ridden yesterday. Even though she'd halfway impressed him by keeping up, she was still a greenhorn.

“Why did you want to be sheriff of a small town like Smoke River?” She kept her eyes on his face.

“Guess I want to keep law and order, same as most sheriffs.”

“Does it have anything to do with that Indian girl at the orphanage?”

Jericho swallowed. “Yeah, kinda.” He looked off at the purple-gray mountains to the east. “I don't like injustice. This is a wild country and sometimes people do wild things.”

She nodded in understanding and he presented his own question. “Why did you want to be a Pinkerton agent?”

Unexpectedly, she laughed. “Same as you, Sheriff. I like catching criminals. I like the challenge.”

“Huh. Maybe we're both crazy.”

“I do not think that is crazy, Jericho. Perhaps we are doing different things but for the same reason. You are the sheriff of Smoke River, and I am a Pinkerton agent. Both of us want to find something of value in life.”

A thread of unease tickled the back of his neck. “Yeah? What kind of ‘something'?”

“Something that...matters,” she said slowly. “Something that is worth doing, not just for oneself but for people around us.”

For a moment he couldn't speak over the hunk of granite stuck in his throat. “Maybe.” His palms began to sweat. “Most women would find that in their husband. Or their children. That's something they care about beyond themselves.”

“Ye-es, perhaps.” She looked up into his eyes and his throat closed again. She'd touched on something he'd hungered for all his life, having a family. It scared the hell out of him. Yeah, he was hungry. But he'd never again risk caring about someone.

Their gazes locked and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. Two notches. He fought the urge to run for his horse and gallop as far away from her as he could get.

“It would seem that we are somewhat alike,” she said, still holding his eyes. “Imagine that, a light-hearted eastern city lady and a serious, upright Western sheriff finding themselves working on the same side.”

He busied himself folding up his jackknife. “You're not light-hearted, Maddie. You're lying to yourself if you think you are.”

“I never lie to myself,” she said calmly. “But you know something, Jericho? I think you do.”

Dumbstruck, he stared at her. It was as though she'd peeked under his skin and seen what he'd wrestled with all these years. Seen the hunger for a home, a family, like other men; seen that hunger stunted for fear of losing it.

He stood up suddenly and strode to his horse. With jerky motions he tightened the cinch and mounted up.

“Time to stop jawing and move on, Mrs. Detective.”

Chapter Ten

J
ericho touched his heels to Dancer's side. “Let's move.”

“But it is not yet sundown,” Maddie protested.

“It will be by the time we get where we're going. Mount up.”

“But—”

He picked up his pace. “Don't argue, dammit. I know what I'm doing.”

Maddie blinked at his hostile tone. “Yes, sir, Mr. Sheriff. Sir.” She thought about saluting again, but he was facing away from her. “Maddening man,” she muttered under her breath.

But of course he
did
know what he was doing, even if he was not polite about it. Without him, she would be completely helpless out here in this wild, uncivilized country.

She fumbled beneath the horse's belly and jerked the cinch tight as he had instructed. The mare gave a sharp whinny and sidled away from her. She ignored Jericho's laugh and tried to heave herself into the saddle.

After three attempts she managed to stuff her foot into the stirrup and swing up onto the horse's broad back. Out of breath with the effort, she looped the reins around one hand and kicked the animal hard.

The mare jolted forward. Maddie grabbed on to the saddle horn just as Jericho twisted around to see what was keeping her. Instantly she released her grip and straightened in the saddle. As nonchalantly as she could manage, she walked the horse abreast of his.

“Since we are riding together on this mission,” she began, carefully modulating her voice into her Excruciatingly Polite tone, “would you care to tell me what your—
our
—plan is?”

“I'll tell you when we get there. Follow me and don't talk. If,” he added with dry emphasis, “you can manage it.”

He trotted his mount off and did not once turn back to check on her. She'd done something to anger him. Again. And she racked her brain to figure out what it was this time.

Perhaps he was simply being a man, always wanting to be in charge. Wanting no responsibility for anyone but himself.

With sudden clarity she knew that was the key. He had cared about that Indian girl at the orphanage, and when she died from the whipping, Jericho felt responsible. Worse, he felt guilty for not speaking up for her. And now he was afraid to take responsibility for someone or to risk caring for someone ever again.

And that, she deduced in a sudden moment of clarity, was why Sheriff Silver preferred to work alone. The man wanted to risk no one's life but his own.

Furthermore, she was beginning to understand, Jericho had shut himself off from life to protect himself.

But he was wrong.

Hours later they walked their horses to the top of a lumpy, weed-covered hill, dismounted quietly and peered down through a screen of larch and scrub pine trees.

Below them a camp was laid out, tucked into a ragged circle of gray boulders near the river. A fire pit puffed smoke into the air, which added to the shadowy gloom as the sun slipped behind the mountains to the west.

“I figure that's Tucker's camp,” Jericho said quietly. “We're about five miles from the Oregon Central railroad tracks. For a gang of train robbers, that's within striking distance.”

Maddie sat on her horse without saying a word, and for once, he wished she'd say something. With a sigh, he began to calculate how long it would take for dusk to fade into darkness.

“We've got about twenty minutes,” he said quietly.

“Twenty minutes for what?”

“Full dark.”

“And then what? It would help if you would tell me what the plan is, Jericho.”

His plan. His plan was what it always was when he tracked a man, or a gang. It had always worked. He bluffed them into believing they were outnumbered and that he was just one of many armed lawmen. By the time they realized he was alone, it was too late. He was good at capturing outlaws, and he always,
always
worked alone.

But, dammit, this time was different. He prayed the result would be the same—he'd capture every one of them.

“When it gets dark, here's what I want you to do.” He didn't look at her. He didn't want to see the questioning look on her face, but he knew it was there. He slipped both Winchesters out of the saddle scabbards and gestured ahead.

“I want you to take one of my rifles and crawl down behind those boulders.”

Maddie sucked in her breath but said nothing.

“Stick your hat on a branch and prop it up so it shows above a different boulder, about ten feet away. Got that?”

“Got it,” she murmured. She sounded surprisingly calm.

“I'm gonna fire one bullet into the camp. When you hear a second shot, you start yelling like crazy and jiggle your hat up and down. Fire your rifle, then crawl to cover and keep firing.”

“Keep firing,” she echoed.

“You do know how to shoot a rifle, don't you?” Hell and damn, he should have asked that before.

“I can shoot anything with bullets in it,” she answered tightly. “Even a Sharps buffalo gun.”

Jericho shot a look at her face. Just as well he couldn't see her clearly. No matter what fearless expression she adopted, he wouldn't believe it. He prayed she wasn't lying about the rifle.

He leaned toward her. “You ready?”

“I am most certainly ready.”

He almost laughed aloud. Maddie was one helluva good bluffer. “Okay, then. Go!”

She hoisted the rifle across her folded arms, crouched low, and disappeared down the hill. Nothing happened for a quarter of an hour, and Jericho began to sweat. She'd bullied her way into this mess, but God knew he didn't want her to pay for it with her life.

He settled his own hat on a pine branch and waited five more long minutes until he saw her dark Stetson poke up from a rocky crevice. He belly-crawled to a stand of coyote bush, thumbed off the safety on his rifle, and fired one shot into the campfire below.

Five men scrambled for cover.

Jericho lifted his head. “Tucker?” he shouted. “We've got you outnumbered. Toss your guns on the ground.”

“Who's ‘we'?” came a rough voice from the camp.

“Sheriff Jericho Silver and nine deputies with rifles. Do what I said, drop your guns.”

Dead silence. “Hurry up, Tucker. You've got five seconds.”

He began counting aloud. “Five...four...”

One of the gang members, a scrawny beanpole of a man, tossed away his gun belt.

“Three...two...” Jericho fired a second shot that kicked up dust in front of Beanpole. Another shot from behind the boulder opposite him whined into the ground a foot closer. Yeah, Maddie could shoot a rifle, all right.

Then he spied her black hat bobbing up and down and another shot zinged down into the camp. Beanpole skittered backward and thrust both arms into the air. “Hell, Tuck, they've got us surrounded.”

One of the gang fired three quick shots at Maddie's hat but quit when a rifle shot cracked from another direction. The man tossed away his weapon.

“Tucker?” Jericho yelled. “Throw your gun over by the others.”

A
thunk
told him the outlaw had obeyed. That's two men disarmed, he thought. Three more to go. He hoped to goodness Maddie stayed out of the line of fire.

Almost in answer, a rifle bullet skimmed into the fire pit, then a few seconds later another popped from a different direction. Good girl! Maddie was circling.

With his foot Jericho waggled the pine branch with his hat perched on it, quietly crept some yards away, and fired two more shots.

Another gun belt plopped down near the others. Two more left. He crept another ten feet to his left and opened fire again. More rifle fire cracked from behind Maddie's black hat.

“Okay, Silver,” Tucker yelled. “Call off your men.” Another gun belt skidded into the pile, followed by a rifle and two more revolvers. Four figures crept forward, hands in the air, followed by a tall paunchy fellow. Tucker.

“Toss all your firearms over behind the rocks,” Jericho ordered.

When the thuds and clanks ceased, the gang milled awkwardly around the fire and Jericho stood up. “Now sit down,” he yelled.

Pointing his Winchester at Tucker's chest, he started down the hill. “Pick up their weapons, men,” he called to his imaginary deputies. He heard a scrape and then sounds like something being dragged across the ground. Maddie was collecting the guns.
God bless that woman!

“Sing out when you've got 'em all, men.”

He waited, eyeing the ragtag bunch huddled below him. Only Tucker showed no fear. Beanpole and a short, fat kid sat with their heads down on their knees, passing a mashed cigarette back and forth between them.

“Got 'em all, Sheriff,” came a raspy voice from the boulder nearest him.

“You backin' me up, Deputy?”

“Yo,” the ‘deputy' yelled.

Good work, Mrs. Detective.

Jericho walked carefully down into the camp. Behind him something scraped against a rock and he heard a grumbly voice. “I am covering your back, Sheriff.”

Then she made the mistake of standing upright to aim her Winchester.

“Get your horses,” Jericho snapped at the seated men. “Mount up and stay put or you'll get a bullet in your back. I'm taking you back to stand trial.”

The men shuffled off toward their horses. All except Tucker, who stood eyeing Maddie.

“Why, that's nuthin' but a kid,” he shouted. From inside his coat he pulled a pistol and sent a shot toward her.

Maddie yelped and went down. Tucker then took aim at Jericho.

Two gunshots split the air. Tucker spun away, holding one arm. Jericho took a bullet hip-high, but he managed to stay upright and aim his rifle. The shot whanged off a boulder instead of nailing Tucker.

Tucker staggered to his horse and with a whoop, all five of the outlaws thundered away from the camp. Jericho loosed a volley of words that would fry a nun's ear. He sent a few shots after them, but the riders were already out of range. Dammit, he'd lost them.

Blood soaked his shirt and his jeans. It felt like a white-hot knife was chewing into his hip and he struggled to breathe through the agony.

“Maddie?” he shouted.

“Y-yes?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Y-yes.”

God, she'd been shot. He swung his bloody leg forward, fell, and clawed his way on his hands and knees up to where she lay.

“Where are you hit?” Jericho demanded.

“My leg. Above my knee.” Her voice was tight with pain.

He felt up her trouser leg until she sucked in her breath and his fingers felt something warm and sticky.

“Jericho, are y-you wounded, too?”

“Yeah. Got a bullet somewhere in my hip.”

She let out a shaky breath. “What are we going to do now?”

He groaned aloud. “Hell, if I knew that, I'd be doing it.”

“I'm afraid I cannot walk,” she whispered.

“I know that. I'm gonna carry you down to the fire, see how bad hurt we are. Come on, put your arms around my neck.”

“But you cannot—”

“Don't tell me what I can't do,” he retorted. “Just shut up and hang on.” He bent over her, lifted her hands to his neck and lurched to his feet. Gritting his teeth against the molten fire in his hip, he stumbled in jerky steps down to the camp. He laid her down, dug out his pocketknife and slit her trouser leg above her knee.

In the firelight he could see the blood. “Maddie, looks like the bullet went clean through your thigh right above the knee, but it left an ugly path.” He snaked the bandanna from around his neck and bound it tight around the ragged hole. Blood soaked through before he finished tying the knot.

Then he stripped off his shirt and dropped his jeans. “Where's my bullet wound?”

“Near your hip bone,” she said with maddening calm. “In the fleshy part. I think the bullet is still in there.”

Damn. He yanked up his trousers and sat down to sort out what to do. They were probably forty miles from help, but both of them were wounded and losing blood. They had to get themselves back to Smoke River.

“We'll have to ride,” he said at last.

“I thought so.” She sounded near tears and he didn't blame her one bit. When the chips were down, she'd been fearless, but now...

Now they were in real trouble.

“Listen, Maddie, I'll go get the horses. Maybe there's some of that painkiller left in my saddlebag.”

He propped her close to the fire and dragged himself past the boulders and up the hillside to where the horses waited. When he reached them his hands shook and he was sweating, but he knew what he had to do. He lifted his saddlebags off Dancer and sent the mare off with a slap on its rump.

“Go for help, girl. Go back to Smoke River.” The horse pounded off into the darkness.

Leading her horse, Jericho stumbled back down to where Maddie lay. His thigh felt like it was on fire, but he clamped his jaw shut and reached out to help her stand. She clenched her teeth and her breath hissed in, but she didn't say a word.

By the time he wrestled her into the saddle, it felt like a red-hot poker was boring into his hip. He clamped his jaw hard, pulled himself up behind her and wrapped his good arm across her middle.

“Take the reins, Maddie. I sent my horse back to town. Follow Dancer's tracks. Walk her slow and easy so we don't lose too much blood. Understand?”

“Yes.” Now her voice sounded unnaturally calm and he bent to one side and gave her a sharp look. Her eyes were wide, her face gray. She was hurt and frightened, and probably sick to death of the West and himself in particular, but she looked into his eyes and tried to smile.

A little knot of warmth settled in his chest. Dammit all, Madison O'Donnell was one helluva woman.