The Bride's Prerogative (106 page)

“Up!” Vashti yelled, and the lead team plunged toward the span. If they would just charge onward, maybe they could cross the bridge and leave the outlaws behind.

Griffin fired toward the robber on his side of the road, and she knew it might be the only shot he got off. Another gun went off somewhere behind her. Wood splintered between her and Griffin. A horse screamed. On the far side of the bridge, another man stood squarely in their path.

One of the two men she’d seen first ran toward her side of the coach. Vashti unfurled her whip, jerking the tip off to the side. Beside her, Griffin half stood, bracing his feet, as she cracked her whip at the outlaw on the ground. The masked man leaped back from the stinging lash. His gun fired, but the bullet went wide.

The horses thundered toward the bridge. The outlaw on the far side of the span drew a bead and fired. The off lead horse veered left and crashed into his harness mate, throwing the near leader off balance only a few feet short of the bridge. The two horses went down in a tangle, pawing and whinnying shrilly, while the two wheelers plowed into them. The stage swayed. Griffin and Vashti flew forward.

Vashti grabbed wildly as she landed on the off wheeler’s rump. Somehow she managed to keep hold of the reins and clutch the backstrap of the harness. A moment later she felt Griffin’s huge hand as he clenched a fistful of her vest and yanked her up beside him. She sprawled between the seat and the footrest.

“You hurt?” he asked.

She stared up at him, gasping. “I don’t think so.” She still held the reins in her hands.

“Stay down.” He shoved her head lower. “They shot one of the horses.”

“I know.”

The horses plunged and clattered, trying to get their footing—all but the wounded one, who neighed piteously and thrashed about on the ground. Two more men had appeared out of the brush and leveled pistols at Griffin. Someone was keeping up fire from within the coach.

“Throw down your weapons,” the man at the far end of the bridge yelled over the noise.

“Griffin!”

He looked down at her, and she reached a hand toward him. “Don’t give them the mail.”

“We’ve got no choice, Georgie. There’s five of them at least.” Griffin laid his gun down in the driver’s boot. They’d take it, just like they had his other gun. Scowling ahead at the outlaw across the bridge, Griffin slowly raised his hands.

“Put ‘em up!”

Vashti realized he meant her, and she straightened enough so that she could obey. Raising her hands over her head was the hardest thing she’d ever done. A lull in the shooting brought a stillness broken only by the horses’ breathing and struggling.

“All right, you two. Throw down the box.”

Vashti caught her breath and stared toward the man on the bridge. He seemed to be the leader. She rose on her knees and wrapped the reins around the brake handle, staring all the while toward the outlaw. She squinted, eyeing his tall, lanky form closely. It couldn’t be—

“Hurry up!” His boots thudded on the bridge as he walked toward them. “Get that box down here.” He stepped carefully around the fallen horse and off the bridge.

When she heard his voice, Vashti was sure. After eight years, she was looking into the eyes of Luke Hatley, the man she’d at one time hoped to marry. The man who’d sold her to settle his two-hundred-dollar poker debt.

CHAPTER 32

P
ain stabbed through Griffin’s knee as he tried to straighten it. When he’d catapulted forward, he’d slammed into the metal rail on the footrest. Good thing, or he’d have sprawled on top of the wheel team, the way Vashti had, but he’d smashed his knee in the process.

A quick glance around told him that two outlaws stood on the near side of the stage—his side—and one on Vashti’s side. One of their men must have gone down, but whether it was the one he’d shot at first, he had no idea. Maybe one of the passengers had hit a robber.

He focused on the leader, who walked deliberately toward them with his gun pointed squarely at Griffin’s chest.

“We can’t throw the box down,” he called.

The leader stopped and stared at him through the eyeholes in his rude sack of a mask. “Why not?”

“The box is bolted to the frame of the stagecoach.” Griffin waited, his hands still at shoulder level, half expecting the man to shoot him point-blank. He glanced uneasily at Vashti. She still crouched between the driver’s seat and the footrest, staring at the man. “You all right?” he asked, low enough that he hoped no one else heard.

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t answer.

“All right, get down,” the outlaw said, gesturing with his rifle. “Nice and easy. Get over the side and stand a couple yards away from the coach. And don’t try anything.”

“Come on, Georgie.” Griffin lowered his hands slowly and gripped her shoulder. “With one horse down, we’re not going anywhere, so we may as well do this peacefully.”

“But we can’t let them take the mail!”

“Yes, we can,” he said between clenched teeth. “Come on. I’m not letting you get shot because of your stubbornness.” Her eyes snapped. That was good. She was mad at him now, and that anger would get her moving. “Climb down on my side. I don’t want the coach between us so I can’t see you.”

He turned to get his footing. One of the outlaws, wearing a mask, stood just below him. He jerked his rifle, indicating that Griffin must get down. He looked back at Vashti. “Come this way. Stay close to me.”

She nodded but kept her gaze fastened on the leader, who now stood near the wheelers.

Griffin hopped down. Another outlaw had opened the coach door and was herding the passengers out.

“Leave all weapons and belongings in the coach, folks,” he said, as if this were a sightseeing trip.

Griffin looked up. Vashti was at the edge of the messenger’s seat, about to lower one foot over the side.

“Get over there,” the outlaw near Griffin said, nodding toward where Hiram, Libby, Bitsy, and the other three passengers huddled.

Griffin ignored him and stayed close until Vashti hopped down from the steps to the ground. “Come on, Georgie.” He placed himself between her and the outlaw and walked beside her toward the others.

“That one’s Benny,” she hissed.

“The one behind us?”

She nodded. So she recognized one of the robbers from the earlier holdup, even though they wore masks this time. If they ever got the chance, she might be able to identify him in court.

“I’m sorry, Griff,” Bitsy said when they reached the knot of passengers.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he said.

“Hiram got one of them, but—”

“Shut up!” The man guarding them lunged toward Bitsy, pointing his gun at her midsection.

Bitsy clamped her lips together and glared at him. The red feather on her hat quivered.

Griffin noted the checkering on the stock of the gun the outlaw held. That was his shotgun—the one the robbers had stolen weeks ago. He looked away.

“Keep your hands up,” growled Benny.

Griffin turned slowly, his hands in the air. Vashti stood between him and Bitsy, her mouth set in a hard line. He looked down the line at the others. They stood still in the sun with the breeze fluttering the spruce boughs. Leo Rice, whom they’d picked up at the Democrat Station, had blood on his cheek. Not shot, Griffin decided. A splinter must have caught him when the outlaws peppered the coach.

The leader and the fourth outlaw climbed up to the driver’s box and rummaged around. One of them lifted Griffin’s shotgun and examined it. The other held up the little canvas bag Vashti carried on her trips. He pulled out a skirt and a pair of pantalets and held them up, laughing. “Well, boss, I guess you was right.”

Griffin scowled. He expected them to pull out Vashti’s pistol next, but he didn’t see them do that. Instead, the leader used his own handgun to shoot the lock off the treasure box. Griffin winced. More repairs to the coach. The two outlaws whooped.

“Well, boys,” the leader called, “we hit pay dirt this time.”

“All right,” said the one who’d threatened Bitsy. “If you folks have anything of interest in your pockets, now’s the time to hand it over.”

Griffin sighed and reached into his pocket for Cy Fennel’s watch. He handed it to Benny, with a few coins and his case knife. “That’s it.”

“And you, young fella?” The outlaw shifted his attention to Vashti.

“I’ve got nothing of value,” Vashti said, stony faced.

“That right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

While Benny relieved the cowboy, Hiram, and the third male passenger of their cash, his companion looked Vashti up and down. “I heard they was a girl driving stage out here, but I didn’t believe it.”

Vashti said nothing, but her cheeks colored.

“Leave the driver alone,” Griffin said.

“I just want to know what he’s got in his pockets.” The outlaw reached toward Vashti’s vest.

“Here! You want this? You can have it.” She swiftly unbuttoned the front and wriggled out of the vest.

The shocked outlaw stared at it and then at her cream-colored shirt. “Well now.”

Griffin caught his breath and made himself look away. When she’d peeled off the vest, Vashti had turned her back slightly toward him. Stuck in the back of her trousers’ waistband was her Colt revolver. The outlaw crumpled the vest in his hands and then explored its pockets, pulling out a snowy cotton handkerchief. While the robber was occupied, Griffin snaked his hand out and slipped the pistol from Vashti’s waistband. She never twitched, but he knew she felt him take it. Her body shielded his action as he tucked it behind him, in his own belt. He wished he had Libby’s voluminous skirts to hide it in. If the robbers decided to search him, he’d had it.

The leader and his companion climbed down from the stage laden with treasure and Griffin’s new shotgun.

“You got everything?” the leader called.

“There’s two sacks of mail in the coach, boss,” Benny replied.

“Could be some money in it,” said the man holding Vashti’s vest.

“Leave it,” said the leader. “We’ve got plenty. But bring the driver.”

They all stared at him.

Vashti’s stomach lurched. He knew. That was why he’d attacked this stage. But she wouldn’t go with Luke, not if it meant losing her life.

Libby spoke first. “You can’t take Georgie.”

“Can’t I?” Luke strode forward, holding his rifle trained on Griffin. “Step back, mister.”

Griffin hesitated.

“I’d as soon shoot you as not,” Luke snarled.

Griffin took one step back. Vashti wondered if she could distract Luke and give Griffin time to bring out her pistol. But it would be one gun against four.

“Cover the others, Benny.” Luke seized Vashti’s wrist and yanked her toward him. “Come on, Georgia, you’re coming with me.”

“No. You left me in Cheyenne, Luke Hatley. I’m not going anywhere with you.” She twisted her arm, but his grip clamped her wrist like a vise.

He twisted her arm and pulled her closer. “Oh yes, you are, sweetheart. You can come along peaceful, or you can watch these good people die one by one. Which is it?”

Sick dread shot through her. The Luke Hatley she’d known wasn’t a violent man, but that was eight years ago. She’d changed immeasurably. Perhaps he had, too.

He pulled her arm back farther, and she gritted her teeth.

“All right.”

Luke loosened his grip but kept hold of her wrist. “That’s better. Come on. I’ve got a horse for you across the bridge.” He looked at Griffin and the passengers. “Don’t try to follow us, folks, or your darling little driver will wind up dead.”

He pulled her toward the bridge. The other three outlaws followed, walking backward and still brandishing their guns. Vashti stared at Griffin. He stood stock still, watching, a look of pain and disbelief on his face. Would she ever see him again, or would Luke take her far away? And if he did, would Griffin even try to find her? No man she’d trusted had ever come through for her before.

“Come on now.” Luke jerked her around and dragged her past the horses.

Griffin watched in shock as the outlaw leader pulled Vashti with him. Luke Hatley must be the man who had given her to a brothel owner. He wanted to kill the man, but with three others holding him at gunpoint, he was helpless. The only thing he would accomplish by drawing the pistol would be to get himself and his unarmed friends killed. Then who would help Vashti?

When Luke got to where the team still stood, with one lead horse down and moaning, he hauled Vashti around the horses, onto the span of the bridge. The other three outlaws turned and ran after them.

Griffin whipped the pistol from behind his back.

“Hiram!” Bitsy called. She bent and pulled the right leg of her bloomers up to her knee.

“Griff, wait,” Hiram said.

Griffin looked over at him. Bitsy thrust her tiny, genuine Deringer pistol—made by the master gunsmith Henry Deringer himself—into Hiram’s hand.

“All right, now!” Hiram ran a few steps forward.

The outlaws were still on the bridge. Hiram took cover behind the horses and aimed. The Deringer popped, and one of the outlaws fell.

The leader had reached the far end of the bridge. He looked back and saw one of his men had fallen. He raised his rifle. Vashti wrenched away from him and leaped over the side of the bridge.

Griffin fired once and ducked behind the team, near Hiram.

“They’ll likely drop the rest of the horses,” Hiram said.

“You got another shot left?” Griffin asked.

“Nope. Single shot.”

“Then take Vashti’s sixer.” Griffin handed him the revolver. Hiram was a better shot than he would ever dream of being. “There should be five shots left. I’ll distract them.”