A Sensible Arrangement (4 page)

Marty's mind flew in a thousand directions. She worried that the men had no one to tend them while these women were fussing over her. She wondered if the boy would get the doctor in time and whether the sheriff would be able to find the culprits who had attacked them. But most of all, Marty worried about what her betrothed might think once he heard
about the commotion and how Marty threw propriety aside to shoot at the bandits and then drive the stage. He had wanted a proper lady for his bride—a Lone Star bride, to be exact.

Goodness, what will he think of me now?

“That's really all I can tell you,” Marty told the sheriff the next morning. “I saw two riders. They were masked, and one had a sorrel mount, but I don't recall the color of the other horse.” Marty continued to hold the mug of hot coffee she'd been given. From time to time she sipped the strong concoction and hoped it would give her the strength to complete this ordeal.

“That's quite all right, ma'am. You've done more than enough.” The sheriff gave her a broad smile. “There aren't many women who could have done what you did. Thanks to you, both Mac and JR are gonna make it. Doc says they might have bled to death out there on the road if you hadn't gotten them in here. Oh, and JR says your shooting was probably what drove those men off. They most likely knew it was a stage full of women and figured to rob them of their jewelry and doodads. They sure weren't expecting there to be another armed protector inside.”

“New driver's ready and the stage is set to head on to Denver,” a man called from the door. Marty's traveling companions bustled off toward the stage, their babbling conversations creating quite a cacophony.

“They'll be talking about this all the way to Denver,” the sheriff said, grinning Marty's way.

“No doubt.” She put down her mug and got to her feet. The bloodstains on her traveling jacket and gloves had been
scrubbed out the night before, and for the most part, Marty had been restored to proper order.

“Do you have friends in Denver, Mrs. Olson?” the sheriff asked, escorting her to the stage.

Without thinking she answered, “I'm to meet my fiancé. We were to have married yesterday, but with the train delay and then the attack on the stage . . . well, I suppose we will marry today. If he'll still have me.” She had her doubts that a banker would appreciate her antics, even if they were heroic. But it was too late to worry about that now.

“Well, he'd be a fool if he didn't. In fact, I tell you what,” the sheriff said, pausing at the stage with Marty. “If he doesn't want to marry you, you just make your way on back here. I know a dozen or more boys who'd snatch you up in a minute.”

Marty couldn't help but smile at the man's expression of admiration. “Thank you, Sheriff. I'll keep that in mind.”

“Oh my, such excitement,” one of Marty's gray-haired traveling companions declared.

“Why, we might all have been killed but for you,” another said as the others agreed.

“I think it's scandalous,” the woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Merriweather Stouffer announced. No one was sure if Merriweather was the name of her husband or the woman herself, and sadly no one really cared.

“Our father said that a woman ought to be able to handle a firearm,” one of the old women commented, nodding to her companion. “Isn't that so, Ophelia? You remember, don't you? Papa always said that a woman with a keen eye and steady hand could take care of herself.”

“Oh yes, sister. I do remember. Papa was always so very wise.” The woman nodded with a look of absolute certainty.

Marty fought back a smile. The old women who had babbled most of the way from Colorado Springs were now even more infused with stories and tall tales. Not only that, but they'd made their admiration and gratitude toward Marty abundantly clear. The matron and her daughter still held her
in contempt, and with exception to the occasional comment, they said little. Perhaps they feared Marty might turn her gun on them if they were to become too annoying.

The stage came to a stop, and in the time it took the shotgun messenger to climb down and open the door, a crowd swooped in and surrounded the stage. Questions were called out to the driver and his man. Marty could see there were several reporters, and two photographers were already setting up their cameras.

Good grief. That's all I
need
.

“Folks, if you'll calm down, I'm sure the ladies inside will be happy to speak to you,” the driver announced. “Be polite, or otherwise you'll be escorted off the premises.”

Marty clutched her carpetbag closer and leaned back further in her seat. The older women hurried from the stage as if all the world were waiting for them. They immediately launched into exaggerated accounts of the peril they had faced to anyone who would listen. The matron and her daughter disembarked and immediately began to wail in loud sobs that drew the attention of the reporters away from the babbling women. The older trio looked quite annoyed at this development.

The entire fuss, however, allowed Marty to slip from the coach and blend into the crowd of people. She searched each face, hoping to find Jacob Wythe and escape before the reporters learned her identity.

“Mrs. Olson?”

She startled and hesitated to answer.

The man smiled. “Mrs. Olson?”

“Yes?” She found herself gazing into the face of one of the handsomest men she'd ever met. His photograph did him no justice. She couldn't help but return the smile.

“Mr. Wythe?”

“The same.” He let out a long breath. “We heard about the attack on your stage only this morning.” He tugged at his starched collar, looking most uncomfortable.

“But you received my telegram? The sheriff assured me he would send one.”

The blond-haired man nodded. “He did, ma'am. But it only said that you'd been delayed overnight. I assure you, Mrs. Olson, had I known what had taken place, I would have driven down to pick you up at Four Mile House.”

“Marty,” she corrected. “Please don't call me Mrs. Olson.”

He grinned. “Marty. I don't think I mentioned in my letters how much I like that name. It suits you, too. Of course, you should call me Jake.”

“I'd like that very much. I wasn't at all certain if you were that casual in your daily living.”

“Ma'am . . . Marty, I would be nothing but casual if I could get away with it.”

She relaxed a bit. “Well, I reckon I would, too.”

“‘Reckon,'” he repeated. “You speak like a true Texan.”

“That's good, because I am,” she replied, a bit curious at his comment. “Was I not supposed to?”

A chuckle escaped him, and his own drawl seemed a little more pronounced. “Well, you see, up here . . . in my new position as bank manager, ‘reckoning' is reserved for bank ledgers and seldom mentioned in common speech. I've had to work hard to sound . . . well . . . less Texas cowboy and more Colorado banker.”

“But I thought Denver to be a very western town. You mentioned mining and cattle as two of the larger industries.” Marty glanced around her, noticing the buildings and
well-orchestrated streets. “I suppose it is a bit more dressed up than I figured to find. Having grown up on a ranch, I didn't get into town all that often. Certainly not all the way into cities like Dallas.”

“Oh, it does me good, ma'am—Marty—to hear you talk about Dallas. I have to say I miss Texas more than my own parents.” He paused and gazed behind her. “Oh, it would seem you've caught the attention of the press. No doubt they want to hear from you. They're coming this way now.”

“Oh bother.” Marty cast a frantic glance in the direction of the reporters and then back to Jake. “I really don't want to talk to them. My family will worry. They . . . well . . . I didn't tell them I'd come to get married. I'm really sorry, but perhaps you could get me out of here without having to speak to them?”

“I can't see that happenin' now.” He frowned. “Why don't you just tell them you came to Colorado to visit friends? Don't say anything about marryin' me.”

She threw him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Jake. If it got back to my sister before I could write to tell her, she'd be hurt.”

“Mrs. Olson! Mrs. Olson!” the men called to her.

The crowd parted, and all faces turned to Marty. She swallowed hard and waited as the gathering closed in on her.

“We understand you fought off the attackers with your own gun,” one man said, giving a quick doff of his hat.

By now Jake had moved away from Marty and she stood alone. She glanced around for some sight of him and found him sandwiched between several curious onlookers. Marty looked back to the man who'd just spoken.

“I did.”

“Tell us what happened,” another reporter urged.

“We were attacked, and I helped to defend the stage,” she said as though it were something she did every day.

“How many were there?”

She shrugged. “I only saw two.”

“One of your traveling companions mentioned there being at least a dozen,” the man said. The crowd seemed to hang on to his words.

Marty smiled and repeated, “I only saw two.”

“And did you kill those two?” the reporter asked.

“Who can say? I fired my gun. Like my brother-in-law taught me, any time you draw a weapon, you have to be ready to use it, and you have to be ready to accept the consequences. I may have killed a man.”

“May I quote you on that?” the man asked, writing furiously on a pad of paper.

“Of course,” Marty said with a shrug.

“And then you nursed the unconscious driver and staunched the flow of blood from his associate's wounds—no doubt saving their lives—before risking your life to handle the fear-struck team and bring the coach and passengers to safety?” the first reporter questioned in rapid fire.

They made it all sound so dramatic, and while it had been a most anxious moment in Marty's life, she hardly saw the need to write it up in such a way. She had no chance to reply, however.

“Mrs. Olson, where are you from and what brought you to Denver?” This question came from a new man, who looked to be acting in some sort of official capacity. He eyed her with marked intent.

“I beg your pardon?” Marty asked in return.

The man touched the brim of his hat. “The name is Haggarty. I'm one of the owners of this stage line.”

“I see. To answer your question, I hail from Texas and am here in Colorado visiting friends.”

“Will you be staying with your friends here in Denver?” the man asked. “I may have need to speak with you regarding this matter.”

Panic struck Marty. What should she say? She didn't want to explain that she planned to be married as soon as she could get away from this interrogation. Realizing that everyone was watching and awaiting her answer, Marty shook her head.

“I . . . my plans are uncertain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must arrange for my things. Once I'm settled with my . . . friends here, I can send word so that you can get in touch, should you have further questions.”

“Mrs. Olson, we'd like a picture.” The first and most annoying of the reporters took hold of her arm and moved her through the crowd back to the stage. “I wonder if you would climb back into the driver's seat—and hold your gun like you're firing it?” He looked at her with great anticipation. “Maybe over your shoulder like this.” He acted out the pose he wanted.

“I should say not,” Marty replied, rather appalled at the thought. “I only wish to get my things. No picture.” She pulled away from the man and hurried toward the stage office. Several questions were hurled after her, but Marty kept moving forward, ignoring the clamor.

Mr. Haggarty appeared at her side and ushered her into the office. “You don't seem too excited to play the heroine.”

She met the man's questioning expression. “Two men nearly lost their lives—they may still die. I hardly see this as
an occasion for celebration and playing the heroine. We could have all been killed. My hope is that you would better spend your time seeing to the safety of your travelers.”

“Pardon the interruption . . . Mrs. Olson?”

A large man with skin as black as coal called from the door. “Mrs. Olson, I's your driver. I has your trunks already loaded.”

Marty breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She gave Haggarty a nod. “Good day, sir. I'll be in touch.”

She hurried from the office and allowed the stranger to lead her toward an enclosed carriage. The tall man slowed his step. “Mr. Wythe sent me. He be already inside.”

A sigh escaped her lips. “Thank you. I think I would have risked traveling with the devil himself to get away from that ordeal.”

The man laughed. “My mama done whooped the devil right outta me years ago. Name's Samson, ma'am.”

Marty threw him a smile. “Glad to meet you, Samson.”

———

Jake watched with pride as Marty Olson settled herself across from him in the carriage. Samson closed the door and had the carriage on its way before anything else could delay them.

“You handled yourself well, Marty.”

She leaned back against the leather upholstery, looking exhausted. “I never anticipated such a grand welcome to Denver.”

“I hope it won't put you off on our plans.”

“If you mean do I figure to back out of the wedding, then the answer is no. I'm a woman of my word. I hope you are a man of yours.”

Jake chuckled. “I most assuredly am. I wasn't raised to go back on my word.”

Marty fidgeted with her carpetbag. “I'm glad to hear it, but I wouldn't blame you if you had changed your mind, given the situation.”

“Marty, I think you figure me to be ashamed of what you did, but I'm not. You're exactly what I advertised for. A woman of character and ability. You evaluated the situation that life gave you, and you fought back. You probably saved lives in your actions. I can't be faultin' you for that.”

“But a man in your position,” she began, “a position that demands respect and . . . well . . . dignity . . .” She fell silent and looked toward the window.

“My dignity isn't hurt by your saving the lives of those people. Society will think what it will, but the way I figure it, we will just work it to our advantage.”

Marty looked up, and her expression was one of confusion. Jake smiled. “The people of Denver are adventurers. This isn't that old of a state—nothing like our beloved Texas. Folks out here might put on the pretenses of being high society, but a good many of them started in places rougher than ours. They might make like they're shocked, but I'm bettin' most will hold you in esteem for what you did. I know the men will—if not the women.”

“I hope you're right. I came to be a help to you in your social standing. You said you needed a wife to please the bank board. I hope they don't mind a woman who can shoot.”

Jake couldn't hold back his laughter. “Marty, once they meet you they'll probably offer you a job at the bank. The first lady guard.”

Marty giggled, and he could see that she was relaxing a
bit. She was more beautiful than he'd anticipated. Her blond hair and blue eyes were a sharp contrast from the looks of Josephine and Deborah.

“So, are you . . . uh . . . ready to tie the knot?”

She nodded. “I suppose I am.”

“We might as well get to it, then,” Jake said. “We can marry on the way to . . . our house.”

With those words, the atmosphere changed and the tension increased again. Jake realized that despite the easygoing conversation, they were strangers. Strangers who were to marry and share a home together.

Marty obviously sensed it, too. He saw her look away again, and this time she bit her lower lip. He wanted nothing more than to ease her mind.

“I meant what I said.”

She threw him a cautious glance. “I don't understand.”

“In the letters. I meant what I said. I intend for this to be a marriage of convenience—a union in name only. I don't want you thinkin' otherwise. I didn't get you out here on false pretenses. I don't intend for you to be a real wife to me.”

Marty nodded. “I appreciate that you appear to understand my unease. I'm not generally a woman who does things in such a rash manner. Even so, answering your advertisement and coming here seemed . . . well . . . almost predetermined.”

He wasn't at all sure he understood her meaning, but nodded just the same. “I want to reassure you that you'll have full access to a beautiful home, a bank account of your own, and the freedom to do pretty much as you please. There will, of course, be obligations—parties and other gatherings. I do have certain demands placed on my shoulders—demands that
I'd just as soon forgo but find impossible to escape. You'll have demands, too.”