Outlaw (2 page)

Time-Travel
Romances
Timeless Winter
(1999)
(anthology w/Sandra Davidson and Kathryn
Hockett)
Timeless Spring
(1999)
(anthology w/Sandra Davidson and Cynthia
Thomason)

OUTLAW

by

Lisa Plumley

Chapter One

April 1879

Near Gila Bend, Arizona Territory

"You say you're guaranteed to please?"

Amelia O'Malley blinked at her questioner as
their stagecoach rolled deeper into the wilds of the Arizona
Territory. He appeared harmless enough—an elderly gentleman
passenger dressed in a gray-checked cutaway suit, tie, and small,
rolled-brim hat. He was seated so closely across from her their
knees nearly touched.

"Pardon me?"

"Guaranteed to please, that's what you
said," he repeated, raising his eyebrow. The grizzled,
dusty-clothed miner reclining beside him shifted his attention to
Amelia, too, his interest apparently caught by their conversation.
She felt her face heat.

"Well, now," she began, loudly enough to be
heard over the clattering stagecoach wheels and jingling harnesses,
"I—"

He elbowed the miner. "How 'bout that,
Horace? The lady's guar-ran-teed."

They both gazed at her with interested,
narrow-eyed expressions. The gray-haired man licked his lips.

"The books, sir, are guaranteed," Amelia
explained rapidly, smoothing her palm over the leather-bound volume
in her lap. "As I said before. Every publication issued by J.G.
O'Malley & Sons is beautifully printed on toned paper and
illustrated with several engravings. This volume of p-poetry, for
instance—"

"Don't need no poetry out here." The miner
spat a wet brown stream of tobacco juice out the stagecoach window,
and it was borne away by the hot, dusty wind. Although it was
nearly sunset, the air felt only a few degrees cooler than it had
at midday. "Now a guaranteed, sure-to-please woman, I could use me
one of them."

The two men laughed, both of them fixing
Amelia with a look that made her grateful for the presence of the
two remaining stagecoach passengers. Why hadn't Jacob warned her
there might be rude and dangerous men out West?

Simply deliver the books
, he'd told
her.
There's nothing to it—just a long stagecoach ride between
Yuma and Tucson, then a few deliveries in town
. And Amelia,
unable to say no and eager for the chance to prove to her father
and brothers she really could help with the family business, had
agreed.

For the sake of her mission, she fixed a
polite, professional smile on her face, although the last thing she
felt like doing was smiling.

"For as little as fifty-nine cents, any one
of you can own the immortal words of Keats or Milton," she said,
addressing the passengers as a group. It was hard to keep her voice
from quavering. The men laughed harder.

Amelia frowned. She was only supposed to
deliver the books that Jacob had taken orders for on his last turn
through the Arizona Territory, but she couldn't resist trying to
take new orders of her own. She imagined the surprise and pleasure
on her father's face when she returned home to Michigan with a full
order book, and redoubled her efforts.

"For a little more, you can indulge in a
cloth and gilt bound volume of Mark Twain's stories and
essays—"

"How much to
indulge
in a kiss?"
asked the elderly passenger, leering. The miner guffawed, jabbing
him in the ribs.

Amelia could scarcely believe this man—who
was probably somebody's beloved grandfather—was asking such a
question. Beneath his whiskers, his smirk revealed straight teeth
and thin red lips. The lout puckered them, making kissing
sounds.

"Oh!" She whisked the book from her lap and
thrust it into her J.G. O'Malley & Sons satchel, then snapped
the locks closed with quivering fingers. "Sir, my...I—I am
not
for sale!"

The stagecoach lurched, swaying from side to
side and picking up speed. The motion echoed the sick feeling in
Amelia's stomach as she contemplated a hundred more miles in the
close company of men like these. She must have been insane to even
begin such a mission.

She might have expected as much, as a woman
engaged in trade, traveling unaccompanied. But Amelia had hoped
such things might be different in the West than they were back in
the States—after all, in Wyoming Territory, women had been allowed
to vote for ten years already. Surely, she'd hoped, westerners
would be more progressive.

The miner eyed Amelia's curled blond hair
and fashionable pink Polonaise dress. "All women's for sale," he
said. "One way or t'other."

"I can assure you, sir, that I am not!"

Amelia cast a beseeching glance at the
dark-clothed, bespectacled banker seated to her right. He stared
stone-faced out the canvas-curtained opposite window, shutting out
everyone, but he'd have to be deaf not to hear what was happening.
Why didn't he speak up? Why didn't he act to protect her?

Her eyes met those of the banker's pale-eyed
young wife, seated directly across from him. That lady offered a
slight, fleeting smile of commiseration, then wedged herself
further into the corner, completely crushing her traveling gown.
Amelia was on her own.

The notion terrified her.

Perhaps she could go sit up front with the
stagecoach driver, she thought suddenly—surely a man like that
would protect her?

"Come, now," said the elderly man suddenly.
"There's no need for this book agent ruse, Miss O'Malley. We're all
mature folk here."

He leaned forward, sending the overpowering
scent of liberally applied Bay Rum hair tonic washing over her.
Before she could guess what he intended, he snatched Amelia's
bulging J.G. O'Malley & Sons rubber cloth satchel from beneath
her seat.

"Only a lady of a
certain sort
is
compelled to work for a living," he said, struggling to pry open
the satchel's sturdy gold-colored lock. "I'll wager there's not a
single book in here, other than the one cheap volume you showed
us."

Amelia grabbed for her satchel. It, along
with the second identical case tucked beneath her seat, represented
more than a hundred dollars' worth of book sales for her family's
company. It also contained her order book and all of her traveling
money. If she lost that satchel, she might as well never return
home—her father would disown her for certain.

She missed. "Please, that satchel belongs to
the J.G. O'Malley & Sons book company. You can't—"

"Yer playing us for fools," interrupted the
miner, scowling at Amelia as he rummaged in his pockets for
something. An instant later he pulled out a wicked-looking knife.
The blade gleamed in a shaft of golden-orange light from the
setting Arizona Territory sun as he tested its sharpness with his
thumb.

Amelia moaned, fervently wishing herself
safely back at Briarwood Young Ladies' Seminary—where her father
and brothers all believed her to be. Only Jacob knew her true
whereabouts, and he was busy eloping with Melissa Chancellor, her
closest friend from the seminary.

"Please, I'm only trying to do my job," she
said, gripping the smooth russet leather seat beneath her with both
hands to steady herself. Her palms squeaked across it, too damp to
offer much purchase.

"I believe we know what line of enterprise
you're in," said the elderly man, pausing in his struggles with the
satchel long enough to leer at Amelia. His gaze dipped and centered
itself on the lace-trimmed neckline of her new traveling gown.
"Ain't that right, Horace?"

The miner's bushy eyebrows furrowed in
concentration as he peered at the satchel's lock. Briefly he
glanced at Amelia. She fought the urge to yank her perfectly
respectable bodice higher.

"No, you're wr—wrong," she stammered,
"I—"

With a savage thrust, he rammed the tip of
his knife blade into the lock. Amelia jumped. What kind of men were
these, to ravage her poor satchel so viciously? Wiggling his knife
fiercely back and forth, the miner worked at the lock.

Amelia stifled another moan. At least he
hadn't meant to use that knife on her. Then, realizing they'd
probably destroy the books if they managed to pick the lock open,
she lunged for the satchel again. Her fingers brushed the black
rubber cloth, caught hold of the handle...

The stagecoach heaved and came abruptly to a
stop. Hatboxes, assorted baggage, and the banker's wife all fell to
the floor. So did Amelia; she found herself inelegantly on her
hands and knees, staring at the elderly man's shoes. Dust swirled,
filling her nose with a dry, ticklish itch. She sneezed
mightily—right on his laced-up brown oxfords.

Above her, the miner abandoned the lock and
stuck his head out the stagecoach window. Taking advantage of the
distraction, Amelia reached around his denim-clad leg and snatched
her satchel from the elderly man's lap. Luckily, the mean old
lecher was too engrossed in what was transpiring outside the window
to notice. She got warily to her feet, hugging her bag tight
against her chest.

The miner looked over his shoulder. "We're
bein' robbed!" he said, the wad of tobacco in his lip waggling with
the words. He spat, then looked out the window again.

"Robbed!" The banker's wife clutched both
pale hands to her bosom and gave a little moan of fear. Her husband
glanced heavenward, his lips moving silently.

Amelia gasped, nearly dropping her satchel
with shock.
Robbed
? Her heart racing, she lurched toward the
other window. The canvas curtain slapped her nose. She leaned back
just in time to miss another stinging blow. The canvas, unrolled
from its mooring, flapped noisily in the breeze. She couldn't see a
thing past it.

"Oh, for pity's sake," she muttered, shoving
her satchel toward the banker. "Would you hold this please?"

Before the words had left her mouth, Amelia
had re-rolled the stiff black canvas. Her trembling fingers made
fastening it considerably more difficult, but finally she managed
it. She stuck her head out the window.

"What's happening?" wailed the banker's
wife. "Can you see anything?"

Amelia's breath caught. Near the driver,
just to the rear of the horses, stood a man dressed entirely in
black. His rifle was aimed directly at the driver as he shouted
something to him.

"Don't be tiresome, Miss O'Malley," prodded
the banker from the depths of the stagecoach, "what do you
see?"

She ducked her head toward her shoulder and
spoke rapidly. "We are being robbed."

The banker's wife burst into tears. Amelia
pulled her head back inside and wrapped her arms around the woman's
bony, lace-enshrouded shoulders. "There, there," she murmured,
giving her a little pat. "I'm sure everything will be fine. All any
road agent wants is the strong box, and the driver's probably
handing it down right now. Don't you worry a bit."

The woman wailed louder. "They'll k-k-kill
us!" she cried, sniffling. Her head bobbed wetly against Amelia's
neck. "Ohhhh!"

"Shhh," Amelia soothed, patting harder. She
glared at the banker, who still hadn't moved to comfort his wife.
He clutched Amelia's satchel, looking terrified himself. Were there
no good, brave men in the west?

"There's only one robber," she said to the
woman, trying to sound comforting, "and he'll do no such thing, I'm
sure of it."

She wished her stomach were sure of it,
too—Amelia's insides somersaulted with fear, despite her brave
words. If she were to die on a lonely Arizona Territory road, who
would tell her family? They might wonder forever what had happened
to her. Why, oh why, had she agreed to deliver Jacob's book
orders?

The woman raised her red, puffy face to
Amelia's. "H-how can you be so s-s-sure?"

Despite her tears, she looked a little
calmer. For that, Amelia was glad. Being the person somebody turned
to for help was a new, unexpected experience for her. It made her
feel surprisingly brave herself. She drew in a deep,
courage-enhancing breath.

"Because it's the poet bandit out there,"
she explained, dabbing at the young lady's watery eyes with the
soft corner of her lace shawl. "Haven't you heard of him?"

Mutely, the banker's wife shook her
head.

"Well, I have," Amelia rushed to assure her.
"I've read all about the poet bandit in the periodicals—publishing
is my business, remember?"

Delivering book orders for her father's
company hardly constituted a future in publishing, but Amelia
figured it couldn't hurt to embroider the truth a bit. It was for a
good cause, after all.

"The poet bandit is strictly a gentleman. He
won't hurt us, really he won't. He's never hurt anyone, in all his
stagecoach robberies."

The banker snorted. Just beyond him, the
miner dragged the elderly man up by his shirt and shoved him toward
the window.

"Look, he's comin' this way!"

The banker's wife shrieked.

"Now you've done it," said the banker,
waving his plump finger in Amelia's face as though she'd brought
the whole thing on them herself.

"Save yourselves!" yelled the elderly man.
Amelia watched in astonishment as he wrenched his gold pocket watch
from its chain and flung it out the window. His billfold was next,
followed by a pocketful of coins.

"Give him everything you've got!" he cried,
whirling away from the window. Rushing forward, he plucked the
dangling pearl earrings right from the young lady's ears. Her
screams of pain became one continuous, ear-splitting cry as he
tossed them outside.

"It's our only hope!" said the banker, his
gaze roving over Amelia—looking for valuables, she presumed. She
clapped her hands over her earlobes, protecting her new gold
flower-shaped earrings.