Bandit's Hope (2 page)

Reddick "Tiller" McRae stiffened and leaned forward in the saddle. Plodding hooves and the steady creak of wagon wheels echoed through the pine and hardwood forest, stirring his heartbeat. From his perch high above the Natchez Trace, his darting gaze watched to see who rounded the bend.

As the rig pulled into view, Tiller rolled the kinks from his neck and dried his palms on the legs of his britches. Some things never got easier.

Ducking beneath a sagging branch, he spurred his horse and rode downslope to the muddy, sunken road. Gritting his teeth, he forced a twinkle to his eyes and a winsome smile to his lips, two tricks he’d gotten plenty good at.

The white-haired old coot, slumped in the seat of the cargo wagon, shot upright and went for his gun faster than a greased thunderbolt, training it at Tiller’s pounding heart. "Hold up there, stranger," he growled through shriveled gums. "State your business, and make it quick."

Both hands to the sky, Tiller widened his grin. "Relax, old-timer. I’m as harmless as a snaggletooth viper. Unarmed to boot." Both statements true enough on the surface.

The man’s tongue flicked out to swipe his bottom lip, and his jaw shifted to the side. "You take me for a fool, don’t you, boy? Nobody rides the Devil’s Backbone unarmed." His eyes narrowed, and his gaze tracked up the rise to the shadowy brush. "Or alone."

Tiller chuckled. "It’s been many years since this rutted trail was known as the Devil’s Backbone, sir. Not since Robinson Road pulled the starch right out of her spine." He winked. "More to the point, you’re riding alone."

One gnarled finger tapped the pearl handle of the six-barreled Remington revolver. "Your eyesight’s failing you, son. My little friend here don’t talk much, but he’s pretty fair company in a pinch." His flashing stare demanded answers. "If you like Robinson Road so much, what are you doing out here?"

Slapping his thigh, Tiller laughed with delight in his most charming and persuasive manner—and if anyone could be charming and persuasive, it was Tiller McRae. "You’ve got me there, mister." He nodded toward the rising band of orange sky on the horizon. "I guess a fellow has to get up earlier than daybreak to pull one on you."

A smug grin lifted the wrinkled cheeks. "You got that right. Now, commence to telling me what you’re up to a’fore I dot your eye with this pistol."

Paying careful attention to the man’s surprisingly steady hand, Tiller raised the brim of his hat and scratched his head. "Truth be told, sir, I’m a little embarrassed to say."

His new friend sat forward on the seat, his rheumy eyes bulging. "You’ll be a sight more embarrassed with air holes in that Stetson and a part in your taffy-colored hair."

Bright smile waning, Tiller swallowed hard, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder at the empty trail. What was taking them so almighty long? "All right, mister. Keep your suspenders fastened and I’ll explain." Grimacing, Tiller shifted in the saddle while his mind scrambled for a likely account. Quirking one brow at his edgy audience, he released a shaky laugh. "The sad truth is I got hitched a couple of days ago. Up Carthage way, where I’m from." He cocked his head and beamed a sweet smile. "Married the girl of my dreams."

"Married?" The saggy eyelids fluttered. "You don’t say."

Tiller drooped his shoulders and sighed. "Our bliss was short-lived, I’m afraid. We’d barely doused the lights in our bedchamber when her brothers knocked down the door. They dragged her from my loving arms, kicking and screaming, and carted her out." He stared off in the distance and shook his head. "Still in her dressing gown."

The gun barrel dropped a quarter inch. The old man gulped and leaned closer, curiosity burning in his eyes. "What’d they go and do that for?"

Tiller cut his gaze to the ground. "Her pa in Jackson ain’t so fond of me. He didn’t approve of our union, so we ran off together. The scoundrel sent his ill-mannered sons to fetch her."

A long, slow whistle followed. "That ain’t hardly right, young fella’ … not with you hitched to the gal. Why didn’t you stop ’em?"

"I tried my best, sir, but her three brothers are as stout as oaks. I was no match for the burly brutes. They loaded up Lucinda and whisked her away before I could catch my breath."

"Lucinda, huh? That’s a real nice name."

Tiller waved his hand across the sky, as if painting a picture he saw in his mind. "I can still see her delicate arms reaching for me … tears shining in those big, doe eyes."

The old man lowered the revolver to his lap. "Now that’s a dirty shame. The poor little thing. What do you plan on doing about it, son?"

Sitting tall in the saddle, Tiller squared his shoulders. "I’m bound to bring her home, if I have to waltz clear to Jackson and dance right up to her daddy’s door."

"That’s tellin’ him, boy!"

Tiller nudged back his hat. "So you see … that’s why I’m fool enough to brave the Trace alone. I’m on a quest to rescue my darlin’ bride. I figured on shaving some time by cutting through on this old stretch of road. Might even catch them before they make it home."

Softness eased the lines of the traveler’s face as he holstered the Remington. "I was engaged once myself. To the sweetest little thing this side of the Mississippi Delta." He worked his jaw, trying to contain his grin. "But her pa was a horse’s rear end." Giving in to mirth, he beamed and lifted his chin. "Tell you what, boy. I’m headed to Jackson, myself. Why don’t we ride on down together?"

Tiller angled his head. "You mean it, mister?"

"Well, sure I do." His toothless smile seemed childlike. "The good Lord makes fine company on a long trip, but it’s nice talking to a fella’ wearing skin for a change." He motioned to the rear of the wagon. "Tie that animal to the back and sit up here with me. Two brains ciphering your problem may hit on a plan to bring your little wife home." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "You ain’t mentioned if you’re a religious man, but if you’d like, I’ll ask God to help you out." He winked. "Him and me are fairly close friends, you see."

Shame—Tiller’s constant companion of late—surged in the pit of his stomach. He stole a quick look at the line of brush and young magnolias on the opposite side of the gulch. Except for a few leaves caught in a sudden breeze, the trees were still. "Listen, old-timer"—Tiller nodded at the furrowed road winding in the distance—"maybe you’d best get on without me. It’s not safe to lollygag for too long in these parts."

The stranger scooted over and patted the seat. "All the more reason for you to join me. Why, together we could fend off—" He swallowed the rest as his head jerked to the side.

A flurry of masked riders swept over the steep slope, bearing down on him like all wrath.

His mouth gaped in shock, and his palsied hand groped for his holster. Caught off guard, the old man’s draw wasn’t fast enough.

"Don’t try it, grandpa," the lead rider’s voice growled. "Twitch a finger, and you’ll lose it."

Digging in his heels and yanking his reins to the side, Tiller bolted, the sound of gunfire and the old man’s pleas ringing in his ears. At the top of the rise, a bullet slammed into his Stetson, spinning it into the air.

He wove through the woods alongside the road until he no longer heard the shouting voices of the ambushing men. Ducking into a clearing, he dismounted and secured the horse to a branch then plopped down on a fallen pine log.

With his arms hugging his head, he didn’t hear a rider approaching, didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until someone tapped his shoulder.

Fire surged through his limbs. Fists clenched, his chin came up.

His oldest friend in the world, Nathan Carter, stood over him holding his hat. "I reckon this belongs to you," he said, passing Tiller the Stetson.

Tiller snatched his favorite hat, turning it over in his hands and poking his fingers through the bullet holes. "What were you thinking, Nathan? You cut it a little close that time, don’t you think?"

Nathan’s booming laughter flushed a covey of bobwhite quail. They scattered to the sky in a rush of brown speckled wings. "Don’t you believe it, son. That bullet found its mark." He hitched up his pants. "We have to make it look good, don’t we?"

Tiller tossed the hat at Nathan’s feet. "You owe me thirty dollars."

Nathan grinned, his brown eyes dancing. "That shouldn’t be a problem, once we split the take. The old buzzard was sitting on his life savings. Under his seat there was a fortune in—"

Tiller’s hand shot up. "Spare the details."

Pushing long strands of his black hair behind his ears, Nathan smirked. "Ignorance makes you innocent, is that it? You don’t seem to mind when you’re sitting around patting a full belly."

With a devilish grin, he drew back and kicked. The Stetson sailed in the air, landing upside down in the cold, gray ashes of the campfire. "Tiller boy, the cost of new headgear seems a small price to pay for a lily-white conscience."

Tiller tensed. "Nate, that’s enough."

Nathan slapped his shoulder. "After ten years, you’re still not cut out for this game." He leaned close to Tiller’s face. "Don’t think I didn’t see what you tried to do back there."

Warmth crawled up Tiller’s neck. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Oh, I think you do."

Noticing his hands wringing like a washerwoman’s, Tiller clenched them and slid them along his trouser legs. "They didn’t hurt that old man, did they? I mean … he was all right when you left?"

Nathan gave a harsh laugh. "He’ll have a sizable knot on his head, but I expect he’ll live."

Tiller scowled at the rugged face he knew so well. "They hit him? Why’d they go and do that?"

Nathan shrugged. "Reckon he asked for it. Or else Hade got one of his urges to hurt something. I didn’t hang around to see." He jerked his thumb at Tiller. "I lit out after you."

Propping his sizable foot on the log, he leaned to study Tiller’s face. "While it’s just you and me, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask."

Less than eager to hear, Tiller cocked his head. "Well, go on. Get it out of your system."

Nathan’s brows rose. "I’m wondering how that mind of yours works, is all. How you can twist the truth around to suit you." His smile turned cold. "Don’t you get it, pardner? You may not wear a bandanna or wave a gun, but your part in this operation still makes you a thief." He paused to spit, his mocking gaze pinned to Tiller’s face. "The way I see it, owning up to what you are is better than what you looked like just then."

Tiller scowled. "And what’s that?"

"Instead of the raider who robbed an old man on the Trace, you’re the coward who rode off and left him."

TWO

M
ariah beat the sunrise to the house, but just barely. The surrounding forest blocked her view of the horizon for most of the way home, but the glowing sky over the treetops meant the first bright sliver of the sun would soon appear.

Casting a nervous glance at the inn, she wheeled the rig into the barn and leaped to the hay-scattered floor. Grunting from the effort, she wrestled Sheki free from his harness, a worrisome task with the stubborn beast straining his neck for the feed bucket.

Mother did well to name him the Choctaw word for buzzard. The greedy animal nuzzled for every morsel in his trough and never missed a chance to scavenge for a bite of grass.

Sheki pawed the ground and nickered softly. Mariah patted his freckled back and smoothed his white mane. "You’re ready to eat, aren’t you, friend?"

Urgency surged in her limbs at the reminder of food. For the cost of a night’s stay at one of the last working stands left on the Natchez Trace, her father promised his lodgers a fine, hearty breakfast. She’d inherited the promise, if not the inn, and had less than an hour to fulfill her end of the bargain.

Mariah left the horse eagerly chewing a mouthful of oats. Sidling up to the barn door, she made a quick check of the house before stepping outside and heading up the path.

God was with her. Early morning gloom still cloaked the first floor, despite the glimmer of a lamp burning in a back room upstairs. Up front, Miss tasseled shade was blessedly dark.

She had to rush. Before long, Dicey Turner would trudge out of the woods beside the house, dragging her apron as well as her behind, dreading the workday before it started. Rainy Boswell would come, once the dew dried, to cut the grass.

Crossing the yard, the nagging dread returned to tug at Mariah’s spirit. With Father’s death, she could lose all claim to Bell’s Inn—what should be her rightful inheritance and the only home she’d ever known. It would take a miracle for a Choctaw man in Mississippi to hold on to such valuable property. A miracle wouldn’t help a lone, half-breed woman.

In the desperate early hours at Father’s bedside, the answer had come. Despite the body she’d rolled into a hidden grave, her father could not be dead.

Whatever it took, Mariah would keep the proprietor of Bell’s Inn alive in the world’s reckoning until she found a suitable man to marry. What an English father could not do for her, even in death, a pale-faced husband could.

She had plenty of would-be suitors among the sons of her tribesmen, those who stayed behind after the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek and the exodus of her people. Handsome young braves who vied for her attention.