Rachel Donnelly
Authors: Lady Broke
Rachel Donnelly
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by Rachel Donnelly
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7026-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7026-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7027-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7027-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
To my father, who taught me to trust in my heart, and to my husband, who loved me enough to believe in my dreams.
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Nevada 1870
The thunder of hooves beat in the distance.
Or was it the heat?
The air prickled. Christie pushed a curl from her moist forehead, letting her breath ease past her lips. A fat black fly hummed like a bouncing buzz-saw in the open rafters above. The only thing cool in the mercantile was the sweat trickling down her back.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to tap her fingers on the wooden counter. If Mrs. McDermott didn’t make her selection soon, she’d be forced to race past the woman and her brood of youngsters, and leap right into the watering trough.
The high collar of her blue muslin gown chafed like a noose, reminding her of her father’s ultimatum — ‘choose a husband or I’ll choose one for you.’ Ha! As if it was that simple — like planning a menu or purchasing an Easter hat. There would always be more dinners. A hat could be stuffed in a closet until next year, but a husband was for keeps.
Her father made no bones about his choice. Though he was miles away in Boston, she could still picture the stubborn look on his face. Apparently, he didn’t realize she could be just as stubborn. She’d never laid eyes on this man Cavanaugh, and had no intention of marrying a complete stranger.
The trick was coming up with a worthy opponent.
Gad!
Just thinking about it made her head ache. Luckily, the past few weeks there’d been no time for dwelling on it. Helping Uncle Will run the mercantile took every ounce of energy, which reminded her, there was another order in the back to be packed.
Christie’s gaze strayed to the front window. Where in the world was Cousin Leigh? There were deliveries to be made.
“I’ve settled on the rose buds,” Mrs. McDermott said, smoothing her bony hand over the bolt of gingham piled atop three others on the counter. Her hazel eyes narrowed under her black bonnet. “But my Tom is partial to blue. Clinton!!! Put that slingshot down and mind your brother,” she threw over her shoulder. “Yes. I do believe I’ll take the blue. The blue checkered, Miss Wallace. That’s the one.”
“A lovely choice.” Christie rolled out the bolt of gingham in a succession of thumps. “I’m sure it will make sturdy curtains.”
“Oh no, that’s not for curtains. That’s for the dress I’ll be needin’, for the barn raisin’ dance on Saturday. I’ve a hankering for something new to kick up my heels in. Colby!!!” She screeched without moving a muscle, as though she had eyes in the back of her head. “Get away from that window and help your brothers load the wagon!”
“It will make a beautiful dress,” Christie assured her hurriedly, attempting to cover her faux pas, though cringing inwardly at the thought of Mrs. McDermott whirling around the dance floor, swathed in giant blue checks like a tablecloth flapping in the wind. Good gracious, did no one pick up a Harper’s Weekly this far west?
“I hope you’re coming. Every young buck in the county will be there, and they’ll all be itching to have a dance with a city gal.” Mrs. McDermott leaned over the counter, her hazel eyes twinkling in her sun-weathered face. One limp brown curl danced beneath the pink satin ribbon of her poke bonnet. “I met my Tom at a barn raising. He ain’t much to look at, but he sure can dance.”
“There’s something going on at the post office, Ma!” One of the boys hollered from the window.
“If you don’t get that wagon loaded, there’ll be something going on round the seat of your pants!” Mrs. McDermott flung back, then continued with her tale without taking a breath. “Twirled me around so fast my head didn’t stop spinning for days. Mark my words, you can’t go wrong with a dancing man.”
“Oh, why is that?” Christie said, wondering how dancing could possibly qualify a person for the important responsibilities of matrimony.
“Fast moving men is hard workers.” Mrs. McDermott winked. “They’re lady broke.”
“Looks like a hold up!” Another boy said with a gasp.
Christie’s heart gave a leap, fingers freezing in a tangle of strings.
“What a rascal!” Mrs. McDermott whirled round, then marched to the window at the other end of the store.
All four youngsters raced to converge at her skirts.
Christie abandoned the brown paper parcel to rush around the counter and join them.
“Land sakes!” Mrs. McDermott declared. “I believe you’re right!”
Christie stood by the window transfixed.
The scene before her unfolded like nothing she’d ever beheld.
Two men raced out of the post office, which also served as the bank, across the street, carrying strong boxes, waving pistols in the air.
“They’re wearing red bandannas,” the smallest boy reported from his lookout on the pickle barrel. “They’ve all got guns!”
Christie’s blood rushed.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Uncle Will was at the post office. He’d gone to order supplies. She reeled from the window, her first instinct to rush for the door.
Two thunderous explosions rent the air — like volleys of fireworks.
Christie froze in mid-flight.
Much as she wanted to charge out the door to Uncle Will’s rescue, it would be madness to do so. No matter how frustrating, she had little choice but to watch from the window and wait. Dear Lord, help him, she silently prayed. I’ll do what Father says. I’ll marry Nathan Cavanaugh — anything, if you just keep Uncle Will safe.
“Where’s your brother?” Mrs. McDermott yelped . “Where’s Harley?”
“He’s under the wagon!” His brother pointed out the window.
Christie spied the boy’s hat poking out from behind the spokes of one of the wheels. Hopefully, he had the sense to stay put.
Men poured out of the saloon, kicking up dust down the street. Some headed down the boardwalk toward the post office, spurs jingling, mouths gaping. Some shouted and pointed. A few brave souls headed for their horses.
“Come on!” One of the masked men on horseback shouted. Another man burst out of the post office with a staggering gait. The two on horseback spurred their horses, then galloped off down the road. The third man, who appeared to be injured, attempted to hoist himself up in the saddle.
A crack of gunfire split the air.
The robber’s horse reared, causing him to lose hold of the reins.
The horse charged off in a cloud of dust.
Out in the open, with no cover in sight, the robber had little choice but to make a run for it, making a beeline for the wagon Harley was under.
Mrs. McDermott gave a loud choking gasp. She made the sign of the cross then began praying a string of Hail Mary’s with furious intent.
Christie held her breath.
Another shot flushed the robber from the back of the wagon with a whining ping.
The wagon team reared, jerking the reins so hard, they almost pulled the hitching post from the ground.
The front door of the store crashed open, rattling the glass in the front window.
Christie covered her head with her hands.
In staggered the robber, like a drunk crawling from a whiskey barrel. Blood dripped down one arm from a crimson hole the size of an apple.
Mrs. McDermott hauled her youngest off the pickle barrel by the scruff of the neck, then took cover with the rest of her brood behind the sacks of grain.
Christie stared at the intruder in horror, heart beating madly in her chest. Her up-bringing hadn’t prepared her for such dangers. People didn’t shoot at each other in broad daylight in Boston. Faces of loved ones flashed through her brain — her father, her sisters, Meagan and Evie — and Robby, her dear sweet Robby. Would she ever see him again?
Her knees shook beneath the full skirt of her gown. Then, she remembered who she was — a Wallace. A Wallace didn’t cower. They didn’t shrink and run. They met life head on. She drew herself up to her full five foot eight inches, looking the outlaw straight in the eye. “What do you want?”
The robber motioned toward the counter with the barrel of his Colt. The grim tone of his voice belayed his hospitable words. “Don’t want no trouble, ma’am. But I’d be much obliged if you’d show me the back door.”
Christie gave a quick nod. Though she hated to help him escape, she had little choice. She had to get him out of there — away from the children.
She strode to the back of the store. She could almost feel his pistol boring into her spine with every step. She hastened around the end of the counter, then pointed at the door leading to the outside stairs.
The clang of bells sounded against the front door.
Christie’s belly gave a sickening lurch.
The robber ducked down behind the counter at her feet. In his haste, the red bandanna slipped down to his chin.
For a split second their gazes locked.
His green eyes narrowed in a murderous glare.
She hastily looked away.
The click of his gun cocking made her swallow hard.
He settled himself like a laying hen, on a half empty crate of canned peaches at her feet.
“Afternoon, ma’am.”
Christie swallowed hard.
The tall stranger striding toward her in the brown duster appeared far more dangerous than the robber under the counter. His blue eyes snapped as cold as spring water against his bronze skin. It was difficult to determine his features through the stubble on cheeks. But there was purpose behind his steady advancing swagger, urging her to take a step back.
The gun against her thigh held her still.
She managed a small frozen smile — a smile one might give when a rattler lay curled inches from your feet. Her heart raced so fast, she could barely breathe.
The stranger cracked a lazy smile. His voice held a raspy edge. “I’m looking for a no-account robber, by the name of Everett. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“He’s gone.” Christie attempted to swallow past the fear in her throat. “Out the back door.”
His cool gaze slid to the wide-eyed, silent McDermotts, then back to her.
Her mouth went dry.
He didn’t believe her.
He knew.
Somehow he knew.
A long moment of silence followed.
Christie wanted to scream, just leave, before you get us all killed!
Then, he tipped the edge of his grey Stetson and slanted a half smile. “Much obliged.”
When the door slammed behind him, she closed her eyes in relief. Then, very slowly, she backed away from the counter. She pressed against the ceiling-high shelves, attempting to put as much distance as she could between her and the outlaw.