Only Mine (6 page)

Wish to hell Caleb or Reno was here,
Wolfe thought grimly.
I could use a good man at my back right now.

A motion at the edge of Wolfe’s vision caught his eye. It was Jessica’s long skirts being whipped by the wind. She was headed for the station building rather than the empty stage.

“Jessi!”

She didn’t even look back.

Wolfe began running, but it was the stage he headed for, not Jessica. He knew he had no chance of reaching her before she got to the station house. He yanked open the stagecoach’s door and leaped inside with the agility of a cat. The leather presentation case that held the matched rifle and carbine was on the seat.

Just as Jessica closed the station house door behind her, she looked back, expecting Wolfe to be on her heels. When she saw that he wasn’t, she let out a sigh of relief. The sigh turned to a soundless
gasp when she turned to face the occupants of the room.

Wolfe had been right. This wasn’t a place for a lady.

It wasn’t the room’s dim, smoky interior, its filth, or its feral smell that put the place off limits for a lady. It was the intent masculine eyes measuring her the way a merchant measured gold dust, one soft bit at a time.

A man who had been sitting apart from the others stood up from the uneven table and swept off his battered hat.

“Something you need, ma’am?” he asked unhappily.

Even in the bad light Jessica recognized the stagecoach driver’s long, bushy mustache. She smiled at him with relief, not realizing how beautiful her smile might be to men who hadn’t seen a white woman for months, much less one wearing a dress that had been sewn by expert seamstresses to fit her breasts and waist like a soft blue shadow. Even wrinkled and mussed from long travel, she was like an exotic flower blooming in the midst of winter.

“I was chilled,” Jessica said softly. “I saw the smoke.”

“Come on in,” one of the other men said, standing. He gestured toward the bench where he had been sitting. “All warmed up and ready to ride, like me.”

Several of the men snickered.

The man who had spoken should have been handsome. He was tall and well-proportioned, with even teeth and regular features. His clothes were frayed but well-made. He wore a heavy split riding coat. He was the only man who was cleanshaven
. His posture was as proud as any gentleman’s.

Yet there was something in the young man that made Jessica profoundly uneasy. His eyes were like the wind—colorless, empty, and cold. He was watching her with a reptilian intensity that made the skin on her arms ripple in a primitive comprehension of danger. She longed to be back in the stagecoach with Wolfe at her side.

Jessica would have turned and fled, but she sensed with great certainty that showing weakness to this man would have the effect of dangling wounded prey in front of a pack of starving hounds.

“My name’s Raleigh,” the young man said, tipping his hat in a gesture that was more familiar than polite, “but pretty gals mostly call me Lee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Raleigh,” Jessica said with clipped formality, “but it’s not necessary for you to give up your seat. Just being in out of the wind is enough for me.”

“Nonsense,” he said, coming toward Jessica. “Come over here where it’s warm.” He kicked one of the men’s feet on the way by. “Steamer, get off your butt and get the pretty English miss some grub.”

“Scots,” she said softly, forcing herself to be calm when every nerve in her body screamed for her to flee.

“What?”

“I’m Scots.”

Raleigh smiled thinly as he reached for Jessica’s arm. “Whatever you say, lassie. Now get your pretty self over here and tell me what a girl like you is doing in Cross-Eyed Joe’s place.”

The door behind Jessica opened, letting in a cold blast of wind.

Wolfe stepped inside. He looked out of place in his city clothes. In the muted light, the silver and gold inlay on the carbine shimmered like water. The effect was like that of a snake’s scales, a warning rather than a lure.

“Morning, boys,” Wolfe said.

A few surprised grunts and sidelong looks answered him. The accent and rhythm of Wolfe’s speech, unlike his clothes, were Western.

With a leisurely glance that was just short of insulting, Wolfe summed up the room. Though his eyes didn’t linger, each of the seven men had the feeling he had been marked for future reference. Only Raleigh didn’t seem to notice the danger in Wolfe’s bleak eyes.

“There’s a mean wind blowing,” Wolfe said casually.

Muttered agreement rippled through the room.

Raleigh dropped his hand to his side and stood relaxed and easy, watching Wolfe. Jessica saw that Raleigh’s riding coat had come open. The right side was pushed out of the way behind the six-gun that he wore on his hip.

“Well, well, take a look at that,” Raleigh said, whistling between his teeth. “That’s some fancy carbine, suh. Never seen its equal.” He held out his hand, confident the well-dressed city man wouldn’t refuse him. “Mind if I try its balance?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, Wolfe’s refusal didn’t register. When it did, a thin flush appeared on Raleigh’s cheekbones.

“You’re not very friendly, suh. Some would even say you’re insulting.”

Wolfe smiled.

Raleigh’s body became less relaxed.

“Just trying to save you some grief,” Wolfe said. “The trigger’s real touchy. Been known to go off for no better reason than being handed from one man to another. That would be a crying shame, too. Handsome young boy like you would surely leave broken hearts all up and down the trail. Be more weeping and wailing over your grave than when Lee turned over his sword at Appomattox.”

Raleigh stiffened. “Are you insulting the South?”

“No, but you are. Any man wearing a lieutenant’s bars on his coat should have better manners than to grab for a lady’s arm.” Without looking away from Raleigh’s angry face, Wolfe said, “Tom, help Cross-Eyed Joe get that fresh team in the traces.”

“Yessir,” the driver said.

He jammed on his hat and hurried out the door, careful not to get between Wolfe and the young man who had fought on the losing side of the War Between the States. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Raleigh’s hand began easing toward the butt of his six-gun.

Jessica’s breath came in with a rush.

“I see him,” Wolfe said before she could speak. He smiled at Raleigh again. “Don’t let all the gold and silver fool you, boy. Repeating weapons like this one shot Southern regiments to red ribbons. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and reach for that belt gun. I’ll have three bullets in you before you know what happened, and I’ll still have ten more left for your friends.”

Behind Raleigh, the men began edging for opposite ends of the table.

“I’ll shoot the next man who moves,” Wolfe said.

No one doubted him. They sat very still.

Jessica forgot to breathe as the silence stretched and stretched, plucking at her nerves more savagely than the wind. Then the young man laughed and relaxed again.

“No point getting riled,” Raleigh said easily. “I was just having some fun to pass the time waiting for the stage.”

“Going east?” Wolfe asked.

“West.”

“Next stage west will be along tomorrow about this time.”

“Tomorrow?” Raleigh said, startled. “What about the one today?”

“It’s full.”

“But only you and the girl—”

“My
wife
,” Wolfe interrupted flatly.

“You’re the only ones on the damned stage!”

“Like I said. It’s full.”

Raleigh’s body tightened again.

“It’ll keep, Raleigh,” said one of the other men coldly. “If the gent with the fancy rifle wants to fight the Indians up ahead all by himself, let him. One less Yankee bastard won’t bother me none. I’ve got better game to hunt.”

Raleigh glanced unhappily at the man who had spoken, but didn’t argue.

“Your friend gave you excellent advice,” Wolfe said to Raleigh. “Here’s some more—stay inside until the stage leaves.”

Jessica didn’t wait for Wolfe to open the door for her. She didn’t want him to have to turn his back on the men in the room. Without a word, she opened the door and hurried across the cold yard
to the stage. Not until she was inside did she begin to relax.

Wolfe didn’t. Inside the stagecoach, he kept the carbine across his lap and watched the station with predatory attention. No one came out.

Suddenly the driver’s whip cracked like a pistol shot, the horses jerked forward in the traces, and the stage left the station as though the wheels were on fire.

“Will they follow us?” Jessica asked tightly.

“I doubt it. Their horses are played out.” Wolfe looked from the window to the wife he hadn’t asked for, the young woman who set his body on fire, the delicate aristocrat who was utterly unsuited for the Western land he loved as he had never loved anything in his life. “You’re going to get somebody killed, your ladyship. You don’t belong out here.”

“Neither do you.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Those men took one look at you and knew you for a stranger.”

Wolfe smiled. “No one west of the Mississippi has ever seen me dressed like this, but I was damned if I’d look like your ladyship’s roustabout. Just as well. Jericho Slater was in that bunch at the stage station. If he had recognized me, there would have been hell to pay.”

“Who is Jericho Slater?”

“One of the few surviving members of Jed Slater’s gang.”

“Why does he hate you?”

“Caleb, Reno, and I did our best to kill every one of them.” Wolfe smiled thinly. “Damn near did. My only regret is that Jericho wasn’t with them at the time. He’s as bad as Jed ever was.”

Jessica frowned. “Why were you fighting a gang of men?”

“Slater made the mistake of grabbing Willow.”

The change in Wolfe’s voice and face when he spoke Willow’s name made Jessica’s breath lock in her throat. Suddenly, she had no doubt that Willow was a woman.

“Who is she?”

Jessica’s stark question made Wolfe glance over at her.

“A woman.”

“I gathered as much.”

“A Western woman.”

“Just what does that mean?” Jessica asked tightly.

“A woman strong enough to fight beside her man if it comes to that, and soft enough to set him on fire when the fighting is over. That’s one hell of a woman.”

Jessica forced herself to keep talking, to find out more about the woman who could make Wolfe’s eyes and voice gentle when he spoke about her.

“Is that why you were so angry with me over our marriage?” Jessica asked in a strained voice. “Were you expecting to marry Willow instead?”

“Not likely. I’d have to take on Caleb Black to do that, and only a fool would take on Caleb Black,” Wolfe said dryly. “He’s an Old Testament kind of man. Not much forgiveness in him.”

“Who is Caleb Black?”

“Willow’s husband, and one of the best friends a man could have.”

Wolfe watched with interest the relief that Jessica couldn’t completely hide.

“I see,” Jessica said. She drew a deep breath before she asked the only question that really mattered
to her. “Do you love Willow?”

“Be hard not to. She’s everything I ever wanted in a woman.”

Jessica felt herself going pale. Until that moment she hadn’t known how deeply she had been certain that Wolfe was hers, that he had been hers since he had plucked her from the haystack, that he would always be hers.

She had never expected Wolfe to love another woman. The pain of it was shocking. It took the world away, leaving only a blankness where each heartbeat shook her, making her dizzy.

The stagecoach lurched and bucked over a rough spot. The driver’s shouts and cracking whip vied with the rattling of the wheels to deafen the passengers. For once, Jessica was glad of the violent motion. It made further conversation unnecessary. She braced herself as best she could, closed her eyes, and wondered how she could hurt so much and show no visible wound.

Wolfe gave Jessica a hooded glance. He knew she was only pretending to sleep, for her body was too stiff and she shivered from time to time as though standing in a cold wind. She clearly didn’t have any more questions about Willow Black. It was equally clear that Jessica had no desire to hear any more on the subject of Western women.

With a rather grim smile, Wolfe tipped his hat forward over his eyes, braced his feet on the facing seat, and congratulated himself on finding a chink in the aristocratic armor surrounding Lady Jessica Charteris Lonetree. He had been beginning to wonder if she had one. Her stubbornness had surprised him. He had expected her to give up and return to England long before now. She was accustomed to being waited on, to having endless rounds of
teas and balls, to being protected and comforted by everyone within reach of her bewitching smile.

None of that had happened in America. Wolfe had deliberately left her alone. When that hadn’t affected her determination, he had made her go without servants, but that had been harder on him than on her. He would never forget the silky electricity of her hair clinging to him as he brushed it, or the elegant femininity of her back beneath fine lingerie as he buttoned each tiny button for her. Nor would he forget the stab of fear he had felt when he heard her scream, or the relieved laughter that had followed when he found her safe, though held prisoner by her braid.

A girl that helpless won’t last long out here,
Wolfe assured himself silently.
The West requires a woman with staying power. A woman like Willow.

But it wasn’t Willow’s blond hair and hazel eyes that haunted Wolfe’s thoughts and his fitful sleep. It was a sensuous red-haired elf weeping crystal tears.

T
HE
silence between Wolfe and Jessica wasn’t broken until afternoon, when a young, rather pregnant woman got on board. Her single trunk had been lashed awkwardly to the boot, for Jessica’s trunks took up much of the top, even though Wolfe had decreed that only three would come on the stage with them. The rest had been put aboard a freight wagon destined for Denver.

“Thank you, sir,” said the young woman, as Wolfe handed her into the stagecoach. “I’m afraid I’m more clumsy each day.”

“It’s a difficult time,” Wolfe said, subtly eyeing the girl’s waistline. In the stagecoach’s dim interior light, she looked at least six months pregnant. “Are you traveling alone?”

The kindness in Wolfe’s voice made the girl smile shyly at her hands. “Yes, sir. I couldn’t bear being away from my husband any longer. My aunt and uncle wanted me to stay in Ohio until the baby was born, but I just couldn’t wait. My husband is stationed at Bent’s Fort, you see.”

“Then you have an even longer trip than we do. We’re going only as far as Denver.”

The girl sat down thankfully and smoothed her
hands over her dress. The costume was as expensive as Jessica’s, and considerably less mussed. The girl looked barely seventeen. She was plainly uneasy at the prospect of the stage ride.

“I’ll sit up with the driver,” Wolfe said. “It will be more comfortable for you.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she said quickly, looking no higher than his chest. “It’s too raw out there for man or beast. Besides, it’s the wilderness that makes me nervous, not you. There are rumors of Indians.” She shuddered. “The thought of those murderous heathens being anywhere near me just gives me the shivers.”

Wolfe concealed his amusement.

“Not all Indians are murderous,” Jessica said. “Some are quite hospitable. I’ve spent time in their camps.”

“You were a hostage?” the girl asked, horrified and fascinated at the same time.

“Hardly. Lord Robert Stewart was a friend of the Cheyenne. We were guests.”

“I’d sooner befriend the Devil as a redskin, and that’s a fact. You can’t trust them.” She smoothed her dress again and changed the subject with transparent determination. “That’s a lovely dress, ma’am. Is it French?”

“Yes. My guardian preferred English styles, but I like the simplicity of the new French fashions.”

The girl looked quickly at Wolfe, wondering if he was the guardian in question.

“My husband,” Jessica added, stressing the word lightly, “prefers no style at all. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Lonetree?”

“There’s little use for silks and foolishness in the West, Lady Jessica.”

“Lady?” said the girl quickly. “Then you’re English?”

Jessica bit back the temptation to correct the girl. “Close enough.”

“A true titled lady?” the girl persisted.

“Not here,” Jessica said. “Here I am Mrs. Lonetree.”

“I’m Mrs. O’Conner.” The girl hesitated. “Lonetree is an unusual name.”

“The true name is Tree That Stands Alone, but Lonetree is easier for most people,” Wolfe said.

“It sounds Indian.”

“It is.”

The girl’s face paled. She stared at Wolfe, noticing for the first time the man beneath the expensive city clothes.

“Dear Lord, you’re a redskin!”

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “Sometimes I’m an over-civilized citizen of the British Empire. Most of the time I’m just a Western man.”

The young Mrs. O’Conner made a low, unhappy sound and began twisting her handkerchief between trembling fingers. She looked everywhere in the coach but at Wolfe.

Wolfe sighed, settled his hat more firmly on his head, and reached for the door of the bouncing coach. When the door was opened wide, he braced himself in the doorway and reached for the luggage railing that ran around the top of the coach.

“Wolfe, what on earth…?” Jessica asked.

“Mrs. O’Conner will feel easier if I’m not inside with the civilized folks.”

With that, Wolfe swung himself up onto the top of the stagecoach with feline grace and moved forward to sit next to the startled driver. The coach door banged shut.

“You’re acting like a complete ninny hammer,” Jessica said, eyeing the young woman coolly. “My Wolfe is more a gentleman than anyone I’ve met in America.”

“My family was murdered by redskins when I was twelve. I was hiding, but I saw what they did to Mother and Sissy, and Mother was seven months along.” The girl’s hands smoothed over the swell of her own pregnancy. “That poor little babe died before he ever lived. Savages. Murdering savages. I hope the Army sends them all back to the devil that spawned them.”

Jessica closed her eyes as nightmares turned and coiled just beyond the reach of memory. She, too, had seen babies born dead. There was a horror in those tiny, still bodies that words couldn’t describe.

Shivering, Jessica pulled her heavy travel cloak more tightly around her body. Wishing she could curl up against Wolfe’s warmth, she did the next best thing. She curled up against the small leather travel bag Wolfe kept inside the coach with the rifle case.

Numbing miles went by. Jessica made no effort to speak to Mrs. O’Conner again. The loathing and fear in the girl’s voice when she spoke of Indians were not subject to reason any more than the aristocrats who spoke of “the viscount’s savage” were amenable to seeing past Wolfe’s Cheyenne mother and bastardy to the man beneath.

Finally, Jessica slept, only to be brought awake by the sound of shots and a high scream of terror from Mrs. O’Conner.

“Indians!” the girl screamed, crossing herself frantically. “Jesus and Mary, save me!”

Jessica bolted upright and yanked open the side curtain while the young Mrs. O’Conner’s screams
pierced the interior of the coach. At first Jessica could see nothing but the flat landscape. Then she realized the terrain wasn’t as flat as it seemed. The land was folded gently, providing shelter for men and animals. It also provided ambush sites for unwary travelers. Apparently, a band of Indians had waited in one of those folds for the stage to approach.

“Dear God,” Jessica breathed as she heard rifle fire booming from the low hills.

Wolfe was on top of the stagecoach, exposed to every shot. He could use the driver’s shotgun, but there was no accuracy with such a weapon. It was intended to deter hold-ups, not an Indian attack.

The driver’s whip cracked repeatedly as he yelled at the team, demanding every bit of speed from the big horses. The coach bucked and swayed wildly each time it hit a rough spot on the road, and there were many spots. Jessica braced herself as best she could and stared out the window.

The Indians were a bit ahead and considerably to the left of the coach. They were too far away for accurate shooting. Granted, they were racing closer with every moment, and firing as they came. Even so, Jessica had hunted enough game to realize that the trap—if indeed it was a trap—had been sprung too soon.

Mrs. O’Conner’s screams rose to the point of pain as she began to claw frantically at the door, as though she believed safety lay outside the coach rather than within. When Jessica grabbed the girl’s hands and dragged them away from the door, Mrs. O’Conner turned on her like a wildcat. Jessica’s palm smacked against the girl’s cheek with a force that cut through her hysteria. Abruptly her screams
gave way to sobbing. She sank to the floor and hid her face in her hands.

In the silence, Jessica suddenly heard Wolfe’s rough voice and his fist pounding on the outside of the stage. Apparently, he had been trying to make himself heard over the screaming for long enough to lose his temper.

“Jessica, stop that damned screaming and hand me the rifle case!”

The frightened Mrs. O’Conner heard only a harsh male voice demanding something unknown.

“What?” she screamed, her voice so shrill it was almost unrecognizable.

“The case on the floor!” Wolfe yelled fiercely. “Pass it up to me!”

Jessica had already grabbed the presentation case and was shoving it through the window opening. Before she finished, the case was yanked from her hands. It leaped upward as though it had wings and vanished from sight. Bracing herself against the wild swaying of the coach, Jessica looked out the window. The Indians had disappeared behind a fold in the land.

Suddenly a horse burst up over a nearby rise, running flat out. A rider was bent low over the horse’s neck, urging the lathered animal on. The rider was white, not Indian.

A ragged line of pursuing Indians thundered up over the rise several hundred yards behind the man. They fired sporadically, trying to bring down the fleeing rider.

On top of the stage, Wolfe braced himself and sighted down the gleaming barrel. The Indians were more than a thousand feet away and the stage swayed unpredictably. Real accuracy shouldn’t have been possible under those conditions, even
for someone with Wolfe’s uncanny rifle skills.

Wolfe began shooting methodically, picking targets, squeezing the trigger, levering in another cartridge, shifting the barrel to a new target, squeezing the trigger again, ignoring the return fire despite his vulnerable position atop the stage. The man fleeing the Indians was in much more immediate trouble than Wolfe was.

The horse’s pace fell off a few hundred yards from the stage. All that prevented the Indians from closing in for the kill was the withering fire Wolfe poured down on them from his swaying perch.

Praying through clenched teeth, her hands curled into fists, Jessica watched the man rein his horse into a long, shallow curve that brought him up to the stage. When the man was alongside, she kicked the door open and dragged Mrs. O’Conner out of the way.

The rider stood in the stirrups, grabbed the luggage railing with his right hand, and swung himself into the stage through the open door. She realized suddenly that he was a big man, bigger even than Wolfe.

Jessica yanked the door shut behind the man. A bullet ricocheted off the iron rim of a wheel with an eerie whine.

“Obliged, ma’am,” the stranger said. “Might you know if the rifleman up top is getting low on cartridges?”

“Oh, Lord!” Jessica grabbed Wolfe’s travel bag and rummaged quickly inside. “He has some in here. They were one of our wedding presents, like the repeating rifles.”

“Sounds like my kind of wedding.”

Jessica looked up into a pair of tired, yet amused gray eyes. Wordlessly, she held out her hands.
There was a full box of cartridges in each. Then her breath came in with a harsh sound as she saw the blood sliding out from beneath the cuff of the stranger’s jacket.

“You’re wounded!”

“I’ll live, thanks to you and your husband. I can’t shoot worth a damn right-handed and I’d run my horse into the ground trying to get free of those Indians.”

Reflexively, Jessica and the man ducked as bullets thudded against the stage. An arrow pierced one of the side curtains and buried its lethal point in the opposite side of the stage where Mrs. O’Conner huddled. The sight of the arrow set her to screaming again.

The stranger ignored the pregnant girl. He scooped both boxes of cartridges into one big hand and turned to a front window. His shrill whistle pierced the sound of screaming. He shoved his arm out the ruined curtain and held the boxes up as close to the roof of the stage as he could. The cartridges were taken from his hands instantly.

The stage lurched and staggered, slamming the man against his wounded arm. With a stifled curse he lowered himself to the seat, reached across his body awkwardly, and drew his six-shooter with his right hand.

Mrs. O’Conner kept screaming.

Jessica leaned past the broad-shouldered stranger and shook Mrs. O’Conner. When that had no effect, Jessica slapped her just hard enough to get her attention. The screams stopped as abruptly as they had begun.

“There, there,” Jessica said, hugging the terrified girl and stroking her disheveled hair. “Screaming doesn’t do a bit of good. It only makes your throat
raw. We’ll be all right. There’s no finer rifleman alive than my husband.”

“I’ll second that,” the stranger said without looking away from the window. “He sat up there cool as a gentleman at a turkey shoot. And what he aimed at, he hit.”

Mrs. O’Conner cringed when Wolfe opened fire once more, but she didn’t scream again. She simply wrapped her arms protectively over her womb and trembled while the coach shook and bounced her around. Jessica smiled encouragingly before she turned back to the stranger.

“Let me help you, sir.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone called me sir,” he said, smiling oddly. “My name is Rafe.”

“Mr. Rafe,” she began.

“Just Rafe.”

He squeezed off a shot, then hissed through his teeth as the stagecoach lurched and banged against his wounded arm.

“Save your bullets,” Jessica said as she began undoing buttons on Rafe’s jacket. “Wolfe has enough for a time. Let me see to your wound.”

“Wolfe? Is that your husband?”

She nodded.

“Lucky man.”

Startled, Jessica looked up. Rafe was watching her with clear gray eyes. There was appreciation in his glance, but nothing impolite. She smiled uncertainly and went back to work removing Rafe’s jacket.

“Luck is a matter of opinion,” Jessica said. “Can you get your jacket off your right shoulder?”

Shots came from overhead. A few shots came in reply from the Indians, but they sounded distant. Rafe looked out the window, holstered his gun,
and shrugged out of his heavy jacket. Jessica realized anew how big the man was. Were it not for the humor in his gray eyes, he would have been a rather fearsome presence.

“They’re still coming, but not for long,” Rafe said. “Your husband’s pure hell with that rifle. Besides, their horses can’t take much more. They ran me a good long ways before I cut the stage road.”

With his good arm, Rafe braced both Jessica and himself in the wildly jolting stage while she examined his wound. Her lips tightened as she saw the amount of blood covering his gray wool shirt. Saying nothing, she ripped more of the cloth away from the wound. After a better look at Rafe’s muscular arm, she let out a sigh of relief.

“It’s not as bad as I feared,” Jessica said as she pulled up the hem of her dress. “The bullet missed the bone. You lost a chunk of skin and some muscle, but you have plenty of both to spare. Do you have a knife?”