A Worthy Pursuit (21 page)

The man stilled then slowly brought his good arm out from behind him and raised it in the air.

“Lily,” Stone called, “come stand behind me.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. She dashed out from behind
the bush and ran to him. Giving the other man a wide berth, she ducked behind Stone and immediately wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her face against his lower back.

Stone’s muscles leapt at the contact, ready to defend, to protect her at all costs. He narrowed his eyes at the man. “Get on your horse, collect your comrade, and go.”

“But Everett’s dead. You killed him.”

“Nope,” Stone contradicted. “But he will be if you don’t get him to a doctor.” He’d seen the man up on all fours when he’d ridden Goliath past him moments before. He’d been in sorry shape for sure, but not dead. “Fairfield’s just a few miles back. You can make it.”

The man hesitated, but then apparently decided whatever reward Franklin had promised wasn’t worth his life. He edged away from Stone.

“Go!” Stone shouted.

The man ran, leaving his pistol in the dirt.

Stone didn’t have the luxury of waiting to ensure the fool followed his instructions. Now that Lily was safe, all he could think about was Charlotte and the boys.

After holstering his guns, he peeled one of Lily’s hands from around his waist, clasped it in his own, and started jogging toward Goliath. Once there, he lifted Lily up in front of the saddle horn then mounted behind her. He settled her across his lap so his back would be her shield, then took up Goliath’s reins.

“Where’s Miss Lottie?” Lily’s voice quivered as she asked the question.

Stone wrapped an arm about the girl, hating the broken, bloody images that came too readily to mind, visions of the wreckage he might encounter. He steeled himself against the possibilities and focused instead on the lines of determination that had been etched into Charlotte’s lovely face when
she’d ordered him to retrieve Lily. Charlotte Atherton was not a woman who failed easily.

“She’s with the wagon,” Stone ground out, praying the equipage in question, along with its passengers, was still intact. Then he nudged Goliath into a canter and set out to find the truth.

20

How on earth was she supposed to stop this wagon on her own? Clasping the wagon side with both hands, Charlotte gained her feet only to feel a tug on her skirt. John looked up at her from his place in the corner, trust in his eyes and something closed in his upraised fist. She held out her hand, and he placed her mother’s cameo in her palm. An inanimate object shouldn’t have the power to instill such hope, yet it did. She closed her fingers around it and nodded her thanks to John. Then, before her doubts could reassert themselves, she stuffed the brooch into her skirt pocket and made her way toward the front of the wagon.

Help me, Lord. Please help me.
She repeated the prayer over and over in her mind with each shaky step she took, her body hunched as she gripped the side of the wagon for balance, her hair whipping around her head and slapping against her cheeks, her eyes stinging and tearing from the wind.

She reached the back of the driver’s bench and stopped. She had to climb over. No easy task in a long, gored skirt.

“Want me to do it, Miss Lottie?” Stephen touched her arm,
startling her. She’d had no idea he’d followed her. “I’m good with climbing stuff.”

“Absolutely not!” Dear Lord. If he fell, she’d never forgive herself. “Stay back here and tend to John.”

Trusting him to obey her, she turned back to the bench. Using the small trunk of books and clothes that Lily had packed and Stone had tied down at the beginning of their trip as a step, Charlotte hiked her skirt past her calves and swung her right leg over the bench. She held onto the seatback with both hands, rested her stomach across it, and dragged her other leg over. Blowing out a heavy breath, she eased from her knees to a normal seated position and latched onto the bench arm.

The reins had fallen from the brake bar, of course. They dangled above the wagon shaft between her two panicked grays.

“Whoa, now!” Charlotte called to the horses as she gingerly scooted to the middle of the bench. Not that her command did any good. The animals were too crazed to listen. But she repeated it anyway. “Whoa.”

The horses thundered on. As did her pulse. She was going to have to retrieve the reins.

Charlotte glanced up. No traffic, thank heaven. The road looked relatively flat. But a curve loomed ahead. A rather sharp curve. More of a corner, really. One they’d never make in one piece if the horses didn’t slow.

Twisting on the bench, she hooked her fingers over the back of the seat then leaned forward and stretched toward the reins. Not even close.

If Stone were here, he’d probably leap over the footboard, land on the shaft, grab the reins with one hand, and slow the team with a single tug on the lines. But Stone wasn’t here. And if she tried to leap over the footboard onto the shaft, she’d probably slip off the narrow pole and fall prey to sharp hooves
and unforgiving wheels. Her heeled boots and long skirts just weren’t made for such acrobatics. So what could she do instead?

Whatever she did, she had to do it soon. That curve was only a few hundred yards away.

Not knowing what else to try, Charlotte did the only thing she could think of to close the distance between her and the reins. She slid off the seat onto the floor of the driver’s box, raised up on her knees, and leaned over the footboard. She reached for the lines. Stretched her fingers. Still . . . too . . . far. Inches separated her from her goal.

She sagged over the rumbling, rib-bruising board, tears of frustration burning her eyes. “You can do this, Charlotte,” she whispered to herself. “You have to.”

Throwing caution aside, Charlotte crammed her feet beneath the bench and pushed them against the back of the box to propel her farther over the footboard. She
would
reach those lines. The wooden edge of the footrest scraped down her ribcage to her belly. She reached again. The tip of her longest finger brushed one of the lines. So close!

Too close to give up.

She pushed off with her feet again until her shoes no longer connected with the box. The backs of her heels pressed into the underside of the seat as the footboard slid beneath her belly to catch in the bend of her hips. She reached. Stretched. And caught the two lines on the right.

She reached for the left lines that dragged a little lower. Just . . . a . . . bit . . . closer. One of the front wheels hit a hole. The wagon bounced. Hard. Charlotte’s shoes slid out from beneath the seat. She fell forward. Screamed.

Her hands connected with the shaft of the wagon tongue. She caught herself. And the reins. She’d trapped them beneath her left palm.

“Miss Lottie!”

She heard Stephen’s cry but could do nothing about it. She could barely breathe, bent double as she was, gripping the footboard as hard as she could between her thighs and belly to keep herself from falling farther.

She had the reins, but how on earth would she ever right herself enough to get up? That corner had to be nearly upon them.

Please, Lord. Just spare the boys. Save them from—

Her prayer was interrupted by a small body wrapping itself around her left leg like an anchor and a pair of hands grabbing at the back of her blouse from the right, pulling her up.

Charlotte thanked God for brave, disobedient boys as they hauled her over the footboard and back into the driver’s box.

The instant she had her feet under her again, she drew back on the reins with all her might. “Whoa!” She stood in the box, leaning backward to add the pull of her weight to the endeavor.

The horses ran on.

Stephen grabbed the reins in front of her hands on the right side, and John imitated on the left. All three of them pulled. All three yelled, “Whoa!”

Little by little, the horses slowed.

“Whoa!” they all yelled again as they reached the corner, their pace still far too swift.

The horses slowed a scant bit more, but the wagon swayed recklessly, swinging in a wide arc around the bend. The back wheels slipped off the side of the road into the grass, but the wagon remained upright.

They made it around the curve in one piece, and a few dozen yards later, the team finally halted.

The boys cheered. Charlotte flopped onto the seat, numb.

Then all of a sudden panic seized her chest and all she could
think about was getting off the demon vehicle that had nearly killed them.

She set the brake, tied off the reins, and immediately ushered the boys down to the ground.

“Let’s wait for Stone and Lily in that lovely grass,” she said, pointing to a thick patch of green prairie grass just a few steps away from the road. “I think I’m going to need a few minutes to recover.”

Drained of all energy, Charlotte lay down flat upon the grass, one boy cuddled into each side. She closed her eyes as the sun warmed her wind-frozen face and thanked God for His timely rescue.

Stone slowed Goliath to a trot when they reached the curve in the road, dreading what he might find around the bend. Every pain in his body intensified. His knuckles, his thigh, his knees from where he’d fallen into the wagon, his throat from the chokehold, his jaw and side from the hits he’d taken, the spot on his shoulder where a second bullet had grazed him. Everything throbbed, but none of his physical aches compared to the stabbing in his chest as he steered Goliath around the corner.

“Look, Mr. Hammond! The wagon!” Lily bounced in his lap as she pointed. “But where’s Miss Lottie? I don’t see her.”

He didn’t either. Not at first. He told himself not to panic. The wagon stood undamaged, the team calm. But what if they’d slowed on their own? What if Charlotte and the boys had been thrown some time before? He’d scanned the sides of the road with care, but what if he’d missed them? What if . . .

He drew Goliath near the wagon. And spotted the flash of Charlotte’s blue skirt obscured by the tall grass.

“Charlotte!” Hesitating only long enough to set Lily on the
ground, Stone sprang from Goliath’s back and sprinted around the wagon. He slid to his knees in the grass beside her, his gut in knots, his eyes scouring her for injuries. But before his gaze could reach higher than her knees, she sat up.

“Stone,” she said, her voice slightly groggy, as if she’d been asleep. Then she blinked and sat up straighter. “Is Lily . . . ?”

She couldn’t even get the words out before the kid threw herself into her teacher’s arms, nearly knocking Charlotte back to the ground.

“Oh, thank God.”

Stone silently echoed the sentiment as the two females embraced. Thank God, indeed.

Stephen and John jumped up and grabbed at his arms, the story of their adventure bubbling out of Stephen so fast, Stone could barely keep up. John nodded vigorously throughout, as if eager to share in the telling.

After several minutes, the kids finally turned their attention to one another, Stephen and Lily trying to out-horrify each other with their tales. Stone offered a hand to Charlotte and helped her to her feet. She immediately started fussing with her appearance, brushing grass from her skirt, picking at the torn collar of her shirtwaist, patting down her hopelessly windblown hair.

He captured her fidgeting hand with his and tugged it down. “Leave it.”

Her eyes met his, surprise fluttering her lashes.

“I like you a little mussed.” He grinned. “Makes me feel less like a dirt clod in comparison.”

She blushed then. Just a little, but it was enough to warm his blood.

Charlotte dropped her gaze to her feet. “You’re the most heroic man I’ve ever met, Stone Hammond.” Slowly she lifted her face. “I owe you everything.”

“Nah.” Now he was the one shuffling and fidgeting. “You don’t owe me anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You did all the hard work.” Stone reached out, took her hand in his, and squeezed. “You did good today, Charlotte. Real good.”

She smiled at him, her expression softening to a degree he hadn’t seen since he’d caught her at the piano. It was as if she’d pulled back the curtain she usually left drawn and allowed him to peek inside to glimpse her vulnerability, her gratitude, and a longing so sad and stark it kicked him in the chest with the strength of a mule. Then she lowered her lashes, and the curtain fell back into place. A heartbeat later, she was gone, seeing to the children.

Stone couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Talk about putting ideas in a man’s head. Women never looked at him like that. He was too rough, too coarse, too much of a loner. Ever since his mother died, he’d learned not to expect much softness from life. His ambition had provided income, and his skills had kept him alive. He had a handful of friends he trusted like brothers. It had always been enough to keep him content in the past. But now? He wanted more. He wanted softness. Closeness. Music.

He wanted
her
.

One mountain at a time, Hammond
.

First he had to get his charges to Dan’s place. The five yahoos he’d just sent off with their tails tucked between their legs were sure to flap their gums about his escort, so there was no point in separating himself from Charlotte again. Not that his nerves could handle such a thing anyhow. His hands were still shakin’ from finding her and the boys laid out in the grass as if they were dead.