Heart of Gold (35 page)

The stage slowed as it approached the sharp bend in the road, rocking to the left as they began the turn. A moment later, one of the lead horses gave a cry of alarm, and Levi braced his feet as he pulled back on the reins. The coach ground to a halt. A half dozen men on horseback, neckerchiefs covering the lower half of their faces, blocked the road. Their guns and rifles were leveled directly at Levi and Matthew.

“Morning, gentlemen,” one of the masked men said as he nudged his horse forward. “I believe you should throw down the bullion so we can all be on our way and no one will get hurt.”

“Perhaps you should come and get it,” Levi replied, a snarl in his voice.

One of the passengers leaned out the window. “What’s going on?”

Matthew barked an order. “Stay inside.”

The leader of the band of thieves chuckled. “Very good advice.

Now about that bullion.”

Levi looked at Matthew, as if hoping he had another alternative.

Unfortunately, he didn’t.

The leader raised his voice, presumably so the passengers could hear him equally as well as the men atop the stage. “Gentlemen, we are not thieves. We are Confederate soldiers, and all we want is to relieve you of the treasure being carried by Wells, Fargo & Company as an agent of the Union government. The gold will assist us in recruiting for the Confederate Army.”

If Matthew wasn’t mistaken, the speech was almost identical to one the notorious Red Fox—a Confederate captain by the name of Rufus Henry Ingram—had given two months earlier during the robbery of a stage coming out of Virginia City carrying silver bullion from the Comstock. The newspapers had dubbed him “the gentlemanly robber” and his compatriots had been referred to as “Jeff Davis men.”

After shooting a sheriff and deputy, he’d escaped capture in California.

Looked like the rumors of his coming to Idaho rather than hightailing it back to Missouri were true.

The six men were well armed, and Matthew could be certain the Red Fox and his band of thieves wouldn’t hesitate to use their weapons if provoked. “Better give them what they want,” he said to Levi, his gaze never leaving Captain Ingram.

Muttering something unintelligible, Levi wrapped the reins around the brake handle before reaching into the boot for the first heavy bag.

From behind Matthew, Barclay Jones whispered, “I think I can take him.”

Matthew had forgotten the kid was there. He opened his mouth to tell the young messenger not to do anything stupid, but before he could speak, gunfire exploded near his left ear.

Horses reared and whinnied. The stagecoach bucked and jerked. More guns fired. Something hit Matthew, something that sent him flying off the driver’s seat. He hit the ground hard, his ears ringing, the air knocked from his lungs.

I’m shot
. The realization was accompanied by a feeling of surprise, though it shouldn’t have surprised him. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced thieves or been fired upon, though it was the first time anyone had hit his target.

He struggled to drag in a breath of air. Then the road seemed to give way beneath him, and he was tumbling down the hillside.

“Sorry, Miss Adair,” William Washburn said to Shannon. “Stage left more’n an hour ago.”

Of course. Of course he was already gone. Why had she thought he would still be here?

The young clerk who worked in the express office cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Washburn.”

William looked over his shoulder. “What is it, Ray? Can’t you see I’m busy with Miss Adair?”

“Yessir. But I think you’d better have a look at this telegram. It’s for the sheriff.”

William released a sound of frustration as he turned away from the counter. “What is it?” He took the paper from the clerk’s hand, began to read, then glanced up, his expression altered. “I’ll be back,” he said to Shannon before skirting the counter and heading for the door.

“What on earth?” Shannon looked at Ray. “What was that about?”

“News from Idaho City. The sheriff there got word a gang of Confederate robbers might be after the treasure that left here this morning.”

“We should know soon enough
.” Joe Burkette’s words echoed in Shannon’s mind. He had known about the Confederate plan to rob the stage. That was what he’d meant when he’d said it shouldn’t be long.

And even as that realization swept over her, she remembered the conversation she’d overheard in the livery stables several weeks before.
“We’re all tired of waiting
,” Joe had said then. This was what he’d been waiting for. She was sure of it.

Another memory pushed the others from her head. The image of another robbery attempt and the bloodied, wounded passenger as he was carried to the doctor’s office.

“Oh, Matthew,” she whispered, spinning toward the door. “Be careful. Dear God, don’t let anything happen to him.”

Matthew returned to consciousness—and wished himself back into oblivion at once. Pain radiated from somewhere on the left side of his body. He couldn’t be sure where he’d been hit, wasn’t sure he wanted to look.

He opened his eyes. The sky was pale blue, the sun relentless, baking the ground around him. He turned his head slightly to one side, feeling as if the grit of the hillside was grinding into his skull.

He seemed to recall that his tumble down from the road had been steep and taken a long time to end. So much for trusted recollection when a man got shot. He wasn’t much more than three or four yards down a slight incline.

What surprised him more was that the stagecoach was nowhere in sight. How long had he been out? Where had they gone?

He tried to sit up, and pain detonated in his body afresh. He cried out and fell back, squeezing his eyes shut.

But it wasn’t physical pain he was trying to shut out. It was knowing that Levi Jefferson never would have left Matthew behind. Not as long as he was still alive. And what about the kid? Barclay. Was he dead too?

He should have been more vigilant. He should have been prepared at every turn in the winding road south for a band of robbers. Wasn’t this exactly what William had worried would happen?

He thought about trying to move again. He should at least see how bad the bleeding was. Not that he could do much about it. He opened his eyes once more, gritted his teeth, and lifted his head off the ground enough to explore. The left side of his shirt had turned a maroon color as the blood dried. It looked like God had been watching out for him. A few more inches to the right, and the bullet would have pierced his heart.

His tumble down the hillside had been stopped by a clump of prickly shrubs. He needed to get away from them. He needed to get up to the road. He had to try . . .

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass. Instead, blackness enveloped him once again.

32

Shannon promised God a host of things as she galloped Ginny along the road toward Boise. It didn’t matter that her father had taught her from the time she was a small child that one doesn’t bargain with the Almighty as one would barter with a street vendor.
“We ask because of His mercy, Shannon
,” he’d said.
“We trust because we know He loves us. Does a father give a child a stone when he asks for bread?”

But the lifelong lessons were lost on Shannon now. She would do anything, promise anything, that might allow her to find Matthew and tell him she loved him and wanted to be with him for the rest of her life.

It seemed as if she’d been riding for an eternity. She’d left Grand Coeur as soon as was humanly possible after the stage thundered back into town with the news of the shooting and robbery.

Please let me find him. Please let me find him
.

The young express messenger—wounded and bleeding—had managed to bring the stage back to Grand Coeur as the driver lay dying beside him. He was the one who’d told her Matthew had fallen at a sharp bend in the road.

A bend in the road. A sharp bend. But there are so many of them. Help me, God. Please help me
.

How far ahead of her were the sheriff and his posse? Might they have seen Matthew, stopped to help him? But Jack Dickson had left town soon after the telegram from Idaho City was received. Even if the posse had met the coach on its return, they might not know about Matthew. They were after the gang of Confederate thieves, not a wounded employee of Wells, Fargo & Company.

Let me find him, God. Let me help him
.

How far behind were others from Grand Coeur who would join in the search for Matthew? Would the doctor be with them?

Please let the doctor be with them
.

Because of the months she’d worked in the army hospital in Virginia, Shannon knew a great deal about gunshot wounds. She could write a long list of things that could go wrong with a patient who’d been shot. And all of those things that could go wrong swirled in her mind in time with the pounding of Ginny’s hooves on the dirt road.

Then she saw a bend up ahead. A
sharp
bend. That had to be it. That had to be it.

“Matthew!” she cried. “Matthew, can you hear me?”

She pulled back on the reins and dismounted before the mare had come to a complete stop. She stumbled and nearly fell, caught herself, and hurried on to the edge of the road, her eyes scanning the hillside that fell away to the creek below.

“Matthew!”

Panic threatened to overwhelm her. Where was he? Was she mistaken? Wasn’t this the bend the messenger had told her about? Had she already passed the place where Matthew had fallen? Or was it farther south from here? Should she go back or ride on?

“Matthew!”

And then she heard it. A groan? A gasp? A sigh? So soft she couldn’t be sure she’d heard it at all. No, she was sure. She moved along the edge of the road until she saw him. Her heart skittered crazily in her chest as she rushed, slipped, and slid down the loose dirt and shale until she reached him.

Dropping to her knees, she spoke his name again, softly this time. “Matthew.”

He looked up at her, pain and confusion mingling together in their blue depths. “Shannon?”

“Yes, it’s me.” She wanted to cry but refused to let herself give in to tears. Not when he was in need of her care. “Don’t move. Help is coming. You’re going to be all right.”
Make it true, God. Please make it true
. “I love you,” she added, needing him to know her feelings before he drifted back into unconsciousness—or worse.