The Bridegroom (6 page)

She showed him to the library, a long room jammed with volumes, and he paced after she left, too agitated to thumb through some of the books, the way he would have done on any other day of his life.

He could see why leaving this house would be a wrench for the old ladies, and for Lydia herself. There probably wasn’t another one like it in all of Arizona, though he’d seen grander ones back East. Not many, though.

Presently, Helga returned, shooing Lydia’s aunts before her and hushing them every step of the way. Gideon was struck, once again, by their diminutive size—they reminded him of little birds perched on a ridgepole in a high wind and about to be blown away.

Still, he saw intelligence in their eyes, dignity in the way they held their snow-capped heads. They stuck close to Helga, though, and watched him with frank and wary curiosity.

Gideon kept his distance, lest he frighten them away.

At his urging, they sat down, side by side on a small settee, shoulders touching, gazes intent. They folded their hands in their laps, after smoothing the skirts of their worn black dresses.

“Have you come to kiss Lydia again?” one of them asked.

Although Helga had introduced them to him by name, Gideon could not have said which was which. The sisters were so alike that they might have been two versions of the same person. Or, of course, twins.

“No,” Gideon answered solemnly, after forcing back a grin.

Both ladies looked genuinely disappointed by his reply.

“Miss Mittie, Miss Millie,” he went on, bowing slightly and hoping he’d addressed them in the correct order, “I’m here to ruin Lydia’s wedding, and I’ll need your help to do it.”

Their eyes widened. Helga, standing watch at the library doors, smiled to herself.

“You’d better explain yourself, Mr. Yarbro,” said Millie. Or Mittie. “Ruining a wedding is serious business.”

Gideon suppressed another smile. “Indeed it is,” he agreed. And then he proceeded to outline his plan.

“W
HAT DO YOU
MEAN
YOU
can’t find the aunts?” Lydia demanded, at one-fifty-five that afternoon, again seated at her vanity table. Helga had helped her into the gown, and was now tucking tiny rosebuds into her hair, since there was no veil. “Where could they possibly have gone?”

Helga tried to look innocent as she shrugged. “Today was correspondence day,” she said, avoiding Lydia’s mirrored gaze. “Perhaps they went to the post office.”

Lydia whirled and stood in one fluid motion, causing the skirts of the dress to rustle around her. “Today is
my wedding day,
” she said. “Guests have been arriving for the last hour, Mr. Fitch and his mother are waiting downstairs, with the justice of the peace, and the aunts—who never leave this house except to go to church—have gone to the
post office?
”

“I’m sure they’ll be back in plenty of time for the ceremony,” Helga said, backing up a step or two.

Lydia set her hands on her hips and advanced.
“What
is going on here?” she demanded.

“A wedding,” Helga answered, with just the faintest snip in her tone. “More’s the pity.”

“You’ve spirited them off somewhere,” Lydia accused, almost beside herself now. The aunts were virtually recluses—that was why she’d insisted that the ceremony be held in the parlor, over Jacob’s mother’s objections, instead of in the church. “Helga Riley, you’d
better
tell me where they are—this instant!”

“They left with Gideon,” Helga admitted, though her eyes snapped with a sort of smug defiance. “Packed up their old love letters and their best jewelry and walked right out of this house without even looking back.”

“What?”
A thrill of anger went through Lydia—anger and something else that wasn’t so easy to define. “They
wouldn’t
have gone willingly—he must have—have
abducted
them!”

“Oh, they were quite willing,” Helga insisted, stiffly triumphant. “And it’s
you
Gideon Yarbro means to abduct. Assuming he can get past the toughs Jacob Fitch has stationed at both the doors, that is.”

“I’ll have the law on him!” Lydia raged. “This is
outrageous!”

Helga arched one eyebrow, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t be a ninny—it’s wonderful and you know it. Get out of that dress and into something fit to travel in, and climb down the oak tree outside that window, like you used to do when you were a little girl. Fitch’s men will be too shocked to try and stop you and—”

“Helga,” Lydia broke in, still barely able to credit that her aunts, of all people, had lit out with Gideon. “Have you
gone mad?
Has
everyone
gone mad?”

Helga ignored the question of sanity and marched over to the wardrobe, rifled through it until she found the divided riding skirt Lydia hadn’t worn since she used to range over the desert on horseback with Nell.

“Put this on,” Helga commanded, thrusting the garment at Lydia, along with the matching jacket and a long-sleeved white shirtwaist with a ruffled collar. “Hurry! If you won’t climb out the window, then I’ll see what I can do to keep that criminal watching the back door busy for a few minutes—”

“Helga,
listen to me,
” Lydia blurted. “I don’t know what’s come over the aunts, but they’re bound to come to their senses by nightfall, if not before, and when they do, they’re going to be inconsolable—”

“
You’ll
be the one who’s inconsolable by nightfall if you go through with this wedding, Lydia Fairmont,” Helga said, thrusting the garments into Lydia’s hands.

Downstairs, the enormous longcase clock tripped through a ponderous sequence of chimes, then bonged loudly, once. Twice. Before Lydia had fully accepted that the hour of her doom had arrived, she heard shouting, some sort of scuffle below, on the ground floor.

Alarmed, she rushed out of her room and down the corridor to the top of the stairs, and looked down to see Gideon standing halfway up. His hair was mussed, and his lower lip was bleeding. Seeing Lydia, he blinked once, shook his head, and then extended a hand to her, a broad grin spreading across his face.

Lydia could barely tear her gaze from him, she was so stricken by the mere fact of his presence, but when Jacob stumbled out of the parlor, even more mussed and bloody than Gideon, she gasped.

“You will lose everything,” Jacob vowed, very slowly and precisely, glaring at her. The look of fury in his eyes was terrifying.
“Everything.”

Lydia looked back at Gideon again. He was still holding his hand out to her.

She took a step toward him, and then another.

“Everything!” Jacob roared. “This house, your good name, everything!”

By then, she was only a step or two above Gideon. “You’re hurt,” she said, dazed, reaching out to touch his lip.

“Not as hurt as I’m going to be if we don’t get out of here before the guards come to,” Gideon said easily, still grinning. With that, he suddenly hoisted Lydia off her feet, flung her over his right shoulder and bolted down the stairs.

Lydia was too stunned to protest; in truth, she was certain she must be dreaming; such a thing simply could not be happening.

But it was.

Jacob’s mother appeared behind her son in the parlor doorway, her long, narrow face pinched with disapproval. Even lying over Gideon’s shoulder like a sack of chicken feed, Lydia caught a glimpse of something else in the woman’s eyes as they passed.

It was a sort of triumphant relief.

Jacob shouted invective and started forward, surely intending to block Gideon’s way, but Mrs. Fitch restrained him simply by laying a hand on his arm.

“Let her go, Jacob,” she said. “Let the trollop go.”

The
trollop?
Suddenly furious, Lydia began to kick and struggle, not because she didn’t want, with all her heart and soul, to escape this curse of a marriage, but because she
did
want to tear into that vicious old woman like a she-cat with its claws out.

Gideon, swinging around in an arch toward the kitchen, gave Lydia a swat on her upended, lace-covered bottom, not hard enough to hurt, but no light tap, either.

If Lydia had been furious before, she was
enraged
now. “Put—me—
down!
” she sputtered.

Gideon didn’t even slow his pace, much less do as he’d been told. “If I do,” he said, sounding slightly breathless now, “we’re both going to be in a lot more trouble than we are now.” They’d reached the kitchen, and Lydia tried in vain to grab at the doorframe as they went out.

A man lay sprawled on the back porch, raising himself to his hands and knees as they passed, shaking his head as if befogged. Helga, carrying a handbag and a small reticule and wearing a hat, waited at the bottom of the steps.

Looking down at the man on the porch, Helga put a foot to the middle of his back and flattened him again.

Gideon’s strides lengthened, increasing Lydia’s discomfort
and
her ire. Helga, keeping pace, gave her a look of reprimand.

“I can’t
believe
you’re doing this!” Lydia cried.

Gideon all but flung her into the back of a buckboard. “Believe it,” he said, helping Helga up into the wagon with considerably more courtesy and then scrambling up in the box to take the reins.

Lydia heard the brakes squeak as Gideon released the lever, probably with a hard thrust of his foot, and the rig lurched forward as he yelled to the horses.

The ride through that alley was so rough that Lydia had to make three attempts before she managed to sit up.

The man from the porch was running behind them; he caught hold of the tailgate with hands the size of Easter hams and started to climb inside.

Helga fell back onto her elbows and kicked with both feet, as hard as she could, and the man screamed and let go, falling to the ground, bellowing curses after the rapidly departing wagon.

The buckboard careened around a corner, onto a side street, throwing Lydia hard against the side. She tried several times to climb up into the box beside Gideon, but each time there was another corner, and she fell back again, bruising herself.

If this
was
a dream, it was entirely too realistic for Lydia’s tastes.

Hauling herself onto her knees, grasping the side of the wagon to keep from being hurled down again, Lydia watched in disbelief as they came abreast of the train depot. Steam belched from the stack of the huge engine, and the
whistle blew, shrill enough to make her let go and cover her ears with both hands.

Through a haze of shock and utter confusion, she thought she caught a glimpse of her aunts, smiling down at her from one of the passenger car windows. They were both wearing enormous hats, bedecked in flowers and feathers.

Surely, Lydia thought distractedly, she was mistaken. Seeing things. Millie and Mittie hadn’t ridden a train, let alone bought new hats, since Lincoln was president.

But she had no time to consider the matter further, because Gideon brought the wagon to a lurching stop, jumped from the box, raced around to wrench open the tailgate, and hauled Lydia out, flinging her over his shoulder again.

This time, she was too exhausted to fight back.

“Hurry!” Helga yelled to him, over the whistle and the rising chug of the train engine. “They’re coming!”

The next thing Lydia knew, she and Gideon and Helga were onboard the afternoon train, Gideon carrying her down the aisle between the rows of seats as easily as if she weighed no more than his saddlebags.

Passengers observed the scene with amused interest, to Lydia’s everlasting mortification.

The train was already moving, quickly picking up speed, when he finally plopped her into a seat, then stood there glaring down at her, his breath coming hard.

Across the aisle, Mittie and Millie, clad in bright blue silk dresses to match their hats, smiled winningly.

“This is so romantic,” Mittie said. “Don’t you think so, sister?”

Millie nodded. “It’s almost as if Major Bentley Alexander Willmington the Third had come back to life,” she replied. Then, with a wistful sigh, she added, “Major Willmington was so very dashing, you know.”

Lydia returned Gideon’s glare. “I will
never
forgive you for—for—”

Gideon leaned until his nose was almost touching hers. His lip, she noticed, had stopped bleeding. “For what?” he demanded, through his teeth.

“For
striking
me!” Lydia whispered, well aware that she and Gideon were the center of attention and so embarrassed that she thought she might actually die of it.

Gideon straightened.

His eyes widened slightly.

And then he threw back his head and shouted with laughter.

R
OWDY BOARDED THE TRAIN
the moment it pulled into the depot at Stone Creek, his face chiseled into angry lines as he stormed along the aisle toward Gideon, paying no mind at all to greetings from other passengers as he passed.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” he rasped, reaching Gideon’s seat and looming over him.

Gideon, who had been dozing for the past couple of hours, exhausted from a sleepless night and the rigors of stealing a bride over the considerable objections of the groom and his hired henchmen, grinned up at his older brother, just to piss him off further.

“I guess the law down in Phoenix must have sent you a telegram,” he said cheerfully. “Reckon it said you ought to be on the lookout for a kidnapper.”

Rowdy’s ice-blue eyes sliced to Lydia, sound asleep in her rumpled wedding dress, her head resting on Helga’s shoulder. A faint smile touched the marshal’s mouth. “Is that who I think it is?”

Gideon nodded, stretched. “Lydia Fairmont,” he confirmed. “All grown up.”

“I’ll be damned,” Rowdy said. A decade before, as the new town marshal, he’d been the one to go out looking for Lydia’s father, in the middle of a blizzard. He’d found Dr. Fairmont sitting frozen in his buggy, along a lonely road,
and brought the body back to Stone Creek after spending a long night standing between two horses to keep his own blood from turning to ice.

“Are we under arrest?” one of Lydia’s aunts piped up, from the row of seats just behind Gideon’s, having spotted Rowdy’s badge, most likely. He’d be damned if he could say whether she was Millie or Mittie—the two swore they weren’t identical twins, but as far as he was concerned, they might as well have been, because he sure as hell couldn’t tell them apart.

Rowdy, ever the gentleman, at least in the presence of a lady, whatever age she might be, smiled winningly and swept off his hat. “No, ma’am,” he said. “You are most definitely
not
under arrest.” But when that sharp blue gaze swung Gideon’s way again, another chill had set in. “
You,
on the other hand—”

By then, the other passengers had disembarked, some heading to one end of the car and some to the other, but none trying to get past Rowdy, blocking the aisle like an oak tree sprung up through the floorboards. Lydia was sitting up, blinking away sleep, yawning prettily, looking confused and warm and so delectable she made Gideon’s mouth water.

“Rowdy?” she asked, looking pleased to see Gideon’s brother again. Doubtless, she remembered him as some kind of hero, which was galling to Gideon. “Is that you?”

Rowdy inclined his head in the cowboy version of a bow. “Miss Lydia,” he said, acknowledging that she’d remembered correctly, “you have grown up to be a beauty.”

She blushed and lowered her eyes.

“How’s Lark these days?” Gideon asked his brother pointedly, annoyed that Rowdy could charm Lydia so easily when
he’d
been the one to save her from Jacob Fitch and her own pigheaded sense of familial duty.

Rowdy chuckled. “My wife,” he said, “is as lovely as ever.”

Now that they were well away from Phoenix, and effectively out of Fitch’s reach, Gideon wondered what he was going to do with all these women. It had been one thing giving the aunts money, after he’d talked them into leaving home that morning, and turning them loose in the readymade section of the biggest mercantile in town. Feeding and sheltering them on an ongoing basis would be quite another, and there was Lydia, besides. And Helga.

He surely hoped Stone Creek still had a hotel, with rooms enough to house ladies who were used to genteel surroundings—but with the mine bringing in all sorts of people from all parts of the country, it most likely had several. He’d been planning on staying with Rowdy and Lark himself, since they had plenty of room, until he could find a boardinghouse.

Rising from the train seat, Gideon chuckled. From the look on his brother the marshal’s face, lodgings might not be a problem, for him, at least. Maybe he could talk Rowdy into putting the ladies up in adjoining cells.

“I guess we’d best get off this train,” Rowdy joked, for the benefit of the women, “before we find ourselves rolling on toward Flagstaff.”

Lydia smiled and stood, studiously ignoring Gideon.

Helga and the aunts rose, too.

Since nobody had any baggage, including Gideon, who had left his suitcase behind in the rush to leave Phoenix, there was nothing much to gather. Both the aunts had a small valise, containing what they’d referred to as their “necessities,” and Helga had packed a carpetbag with a few things of her own and Lydia’s. Taking the bag and one of the valises and shoving the second satchel into Gideon’s hands with unnecessary force, Rowdy assured the women
that it was a short walk to his place, and his wife, Lark, would be pleased to serve them tea and refreshments and provide whatever else they might need. At this last, his gaze lingered a moment or two on Lydia’s wedding gown.

“Maybe you’d like to wait for me in my office,” he told Gideon, and while his tone was cordial, the expression in his eyes was razor-sharp. “While I get the ladies settled and all.”

Since there would be a yelling match at best, and an arrest at worst, and Gideon figured the Fairmont women and their housekeeper had been through enough for one day, he didn’t argue. He just carried the valise as far as the end of Main Street, and didn’t protest when Helga took it out of his grasp.

Rowdy’s office and the jail were housed in a rambling brick structure, on the site of the original one-cell hole in the wall. Wyatt had gotten the first jail blown up during his brief tenure as deputy marshal, and Gideon felt a little nostalgic for the old place. As a boy, he’d slept in that lone cell often, not because he’d been locked up, but because Rowdy and Lark, newlyweds back then, still living in the tiny house provided for the marshal, hadn’t had an extra bed.

Pardner, the old yellow dog, was long gone, a fact that made something catch in Gideon’s throat as he wandered over the threshold into Rowdy’s spacious office. He was pleasantly surprised to find another dog curled up on the rug in front of the woodstove, just the way Pardner used to do, way back when. The mutt was the same color as his predecessor, and Gideon’s eyes smarted a little as he crouched to say howdy.

Pardner’s double licked his hand and looked up into his face with a doleful little whimper of sympathy.

“Yep,” Gideon told him. “I’m in trouble.”

“His name’s Pardner, too,” a familiar voice said. “Guess Rowdy just couldn’t bring himself to call a dog anything else.”

Gideon stood, turned to see his other brother, Wyatt, towering in the doorway leading outside. Taller than Rowdy and leaner than Gideon, Wyatt was the eldest of the Yarbro brood, and his hair was dark, rather than fair like theirs. His eyes were an intense blue, and they could penetrate a man’s hide, just the way Rowdy’s lighter ones did.

“You back to working as a deputy?” Gideon asked. In his day, Wyatt had been an outlaw, like Rowdy, rustling cattle and robbing trains. All that had changed, though, when he met up with Sarah Tamlin, the banker’s daughter.

Wyatt stepped inside, shut the office door against the noise and dust of the street. “I’m still ranching,” he answered. “I help out once in a while when Rowdy’s shorthanded—since that copper mine started up, Stone Creek’s been right lively. I just came by today because Rowdy rode out and told me about that wire he got from the U.S. Marshal down in Phoenix. What you just told that dog, boy, was truer than you probably know. You
are
in trouble.”

To show he wasn’t intimidated, and he wasn’t the little brother Wyatt and Rowdy remembered him as, either, Gideon took a seat behind the biggest desk—there were two others in the room, accommodating Rowdy’s regular deputies, probably—leaned back and kicked his feet up. “I did what I had to do,” he said easily.

Wyatt went to the stove, picked up the blue enamel coffeepot, gave it a shake and frowned. “You might be a big Wells Fargo agent now,” he drawled, carrying the pot to a nearby sink and pumping water into it to brew up another batch, “but you’re not above the law. And the law says you can’t carry a woman out of her own home against her will and haul her away on a train.”

“Lydia didn’t want to marry Jacob Fitch anyhow,” Gideon said, trying not to sound defensive. “She as much as said so—yesterday.”

“‘As much as’?” Wyatt repeated skeptically. “And just because a woman says something, that’s no guarantee she means it.” He paused a moment to reflect on some private thought, shook his head. “No, sir, that is no guarantee.”

“Got on the wrong side of your Sarah, did you?” Gideon teased.

“Sarah doesn’t
have
a wrong side,” Wyatt replied. “And don’t try to change the subject. There’s a warrant out for your arrest, Gideon, and it’s federal.”

Gideon considered his outlaw blood and wondered if it had gotten the best of him after all. “Soon as she’s had time to calm down a little,” he said, with a confidence he didn’t really feel, “Lydia will put an end to that. Like I told you, she didn’t want to go through with that wedding.”

Wyatt did not look convinced. “According to the bridegroom’s report to the marshal down in Phoenix, she was kicking and clawing to get away from you.”

“She was just mad because I whacked her one on the backside,” Gideon said. “She’ll be fine as soon as Lark lends her a dress so she can get out of that wedding gown. I think it was that, more than anything—traveling in a bride’s dress and everybody looking at her—that got under Lydia’s hide.”

Although Wyatt was in profile, Gideon saw the twitch of amusement flicker across his mouth before sobriety set in again. “If Miss Lydia Fairmont presses charges,” Wyatt said, concentrating on brewing that new pot of coffee, “you could go to prison. Kidnapping is a federal offense, in case they didn’t teach you that in detective school.”

“She won’t,” Gideon said, but he wasn’t as sure as he
sounded, and Wyatt probably knew that. Lydia
had
been plenty mad when he swatted her on the bustle to get her to stop wriggling so he could carry her out of that house before the hired muscle was on them.

“Even if she doesn’t throw the book at you,” Wyatt replied, “Jacob Fitch probably will. If he hasn’t already.”

“He can’t do that.”

“Maybe back East, he couldn’t. But this is Arizona, little brother. It’s still the Wild West. The man was as good as married to Lydia, and that will carry some weight.”

Gideon had no time to waste lolling around in one of Rowdy’s cells. He had a job to start, at the Copper Crown Mine, bright and early the next morning, and Wyatt knew that as well as Rowdy did. What Gideon’s brothers
didn’t
know was that his taking up a shovel was a ruse to get inside, win the miners’ trust, and do whatever he had to to subvert any plans they might be making to go out on strike.

The mine’s owners stood to lose a fortune if that happened, and Gideon was being paid—
well
paid—to prevent that from happening.

With the coffee started, Wyatt left the stove, walked over to the chair facing Rowdy’s desk, and sat himself down.

“If I were you,” he said, “I’d have my feet on the floor when the marshal comes back. Rowdy’s mad enough to horsewhip you from one end of Main Street to the other as it is—and his temper is shorter than usual, what with all the trouble coming out of the mining camp.”

“I’m not afraid of Rowdy,” Gideon replied, and that was true—so far as it went. He’d never had any
reason
to be afraid of his brother, and therefore had never tested the theory.

“That’s the curse of theYarbros,” Wyatt said, mock-somber. “None of us has the sense to be scared when we ought to be.”

“Once I explain—” Gideon began, and then stopped himself, because he didn’t want to sound like he was apologizing for what he’d done. If he hadn’t wooed the aunts away and then taken Lydia out of that house, she’d be Mrs. Jacob Fitch by now.

And this would be her wedding night.

The thought of Fitch or anybody else stripping Lydia to the skin and having his way with her made Gideon shudder. God knew, she’d grown into the kind of woman a man would want to handle, but another part of Gideon, a
big
part, still saw that lost, terrified little girl he’d known a decade before, whenever he looked at Lydia.

“I’m not sorry,” he avowed, lest there be any misunderstanding on that score.

“No,” Wyatt agreed easily, “I don’t imagine you are.”

Bristling, Gideon decided it would be best to change the subject. “How are Sarah and the kids?” he asked.

Wyatt gave one of those spare Yarbro grins, as if they were in short supply and thus hard to part with. They’d gotten that trait from their famous train-robbing father, Payton Yarbro. There were three other brothers, too—Ethan, Levi and Nick—but Gideon had never made their acquaintance, so he didn’t know if they had the same way of hoarding a smile.

“Sarah’s fine,” Wyatt said. “The kids are fine. The
ranch
is fine, since you were probably going to ask about that next. And we’re not through talking about that stunt you pulled down in Phoenix today, Gideon. If it hadn’t been for Rowdy, that train would have been stopped and you’d have been dragged off and handcuffed. That’s how powerful this Jacob Fitch yahoo is.”