Read Online Secondhand Bride by Linda Lael Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Lael Miller
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willing to acknowledge me as your wife?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer.
Chloe turned away and headed for the hotel, hoping he would call her back, hoping he wouldn’t.
He didn’t.
10
T he stagecoach was just too much of a temptation, stopped alongside the moonlit trail the way it was, and Jack Barrett couldn’t resist a chance to line his empty pockets. He reined in when he saw the rig from a tree-lined ridge, pulled his bandanna up to hide the lower part of his face, and yanked his rifle from its scabbard.
Besides the driver, who was squatting next to the coach, cursing a broken axle, there seemed to be only two passengers, a woman and a little girl, both of them wearing calico and bonnets. No telling who might be inside, though—Jack proceeded with caution. He’d been on a losing streak lately, and he wanted money, not trouble.
The driver wasn’t carrying a sidearm, Jack made sure of that first thing. As he rode up, he leaned in the saddle to look through the coach window: empty. He smiled behind his bandanna.
The woman and child stared at him in curious alarm, while the driver straightened and tried to bluff his way through the hopeless hand he’d been dealt.
“There’s no money on this stage, mister,” he said. “You’re taking a hell of a risk, and it won’t pay you.”
The little girl stepped forward, evading the woman’s grasping reach, and turned her face up to Jack, bold as you please. He figured she was seven or eight years old, ten at the most. He hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot her; he’d never gunned down a kid before, and he didn’t know how it would set with him.
“Are you a bandit?” she asked.
“Lizzie,” the woman said, sounding scared and angry. “Get back here. Now .” She was a good-looking lady, but shrill. Jack didn’t reckon he’d mind putting a bullet or two into her; he’d be doing a service to some man.
Lizzie didn’t move. “Answer my question,” she said, the brazen little snippet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the driver make a move toward the step leading into the box of the coach. No doubt he had a rifle or a pistol tucked away under the seat.
Jack turned the rifle on him and pulled the trigger, watching with satisfaction as the old codger fell, bleeding, to the ground. “That answer enough, little girl?” he asked.
The woman caught the child by both shoulders and drew her back against her skirts. “Please,” she said. “Don’t hurt us. I’ve got some jewelry, and some money, too. Take it and ride out.”
“Get it,” Jack said shortly, “and don’t do anything stupid, because, begging your pardon, ma’am, I’d as soon shoot you as spit.”
Her face was snow-pale, even shadowed by the brim of her bonnet. “I won’t. Just, please—”
The little girl was too young for good sense, it seemed, for she stood her ground. “You did a bad thing,” she said. “When my papa finds out, he’ll hunt you down and lynch you for sure.”
Jack chuckled. The kid was an irritant, but he got a kick out of her brass. “That so?” he countered, keeping a close eye on the woman while she fetched her reticule from inside the coach. “What’s your papa’s name? I’ll be sure and look him up.”
“Don’t you dare say a word, Lizzie Cavanagh,” the woman warned, and then bit her lip, realizing, too late, that she’d betrayed the very thing she’d wanted the kid to keep quiet about. She cast a worried glance in the direction of the inert driver, then handed up a drawstring bag, a fancy thing, made of velvet, and heavy.
While Jack was fumbling to open the purse, the woman drew a derringer from the pocket of her skirt and pointed it at him, her aim true. He barely dodged the bullet, heard it tear a chunk out of the coach, and retaliated with the rifle. The woman fell, the girl screamed and ran to her, and Jack jammed his gun back into its scabbard and swung down from the saddle.
“Aunt Geneva!” the child cried, shaking
He didn’t answer.
Chloe turned away and headed for the hotel, hoping he would call her back, hoping he wouldn’t.
He didn’t.
10
T he stagecoach was just too much of a temptation, stopped alongside the moonlit trail the way it was, and Jack Barrett couldn’t resist a chance to line his empty pockets. He reined in when he saw the rig from a tree-lined ridge, pulled his bandanna up to hide the lower part of his face, and yanked his rifle from its scabbard.
Besides the driver, who was squatting next to the coach, cursing a broken axle, there seemed to be only two passengers, a woman and a little girl, both of them wearing calico and bonnets. No telling who might be inside, though—Jack proceeded with caution. He’d been on a losing streak lately, and he wanted money, not trouble.
The driver wasn’t carrying a sidearm, Jack made sure of that first thing. As he rode up, he leaned in the saddle to look through the coach window: empty. He smiled behind his bandanna.
The woman and child stared at him in curious alarm, while the driver straightened and tried to bluff his way through the hopeless hand he’d been dealt.
“There’s no money on this stage, mister,” he said. “You’re taking a hell of a risk, and it won’t pay you.”
The little girl stepped forward, evading the woman’s grasping reach, and turned her face up to Jack, bold as you please. He figured she was seven or eight years old, ten at the most. He hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot her; he’d never gunned down a kid before, and he didn’t know how it would set with him.
“Are you a bandit?” she asked.
“Lizzie,” the woman said, sounding scared and angry. “Get back here. Now .” She was a good-looking lady, but shrill. Jack didn’t reckon he’d mind putting a bullet or two into her; he’d be doing a service to some man.
Lizzie didn’t move. “Answer my question,” she said, the brazen little snippet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the driver make a move toward the step leading into the box of the coach. No doubt he had a rifle or a pistol tucked away under the seat.
Jack turned the rifle on him and pulled the trigger, watching with satisfaction as the old codger fell, bleeding, to the ground. “That answer enough, little girl?” he asked.
The woman caught the child by both shoulders and drew her back against her skirts. “Please,” she said. “Don’t hurt us. I’ve got some jewelry, and some money, too. Take it and ride out.”
“Get it,” Jack said shortly, “and don’t do anything stupid, because, begging your pardon, ma’am, I’d as soon shoot you as spit.”
Her face was snow-pale, even shadowed by the brim of her bonnet. “I won’t. Just, please—”
The little girl was too young for good sense, it seemed, for she stood her ground. “You did a bad thing,” she said. “When my papa finds out, he’ll hunt you down and lynch you for sure.”
Jack chuckled. The kid was an irritant, but he got a kick out of her brass. “That so?” he countered, keeping a close eye on the woman while she fetched her reticule from inside the coach. “What’s your papa’s name? I’ll be sure and look him up.”
“Don’t you dare say a word, Lizzie Cavanagh,” the woman warned, and then bit her lip, realizing, too late, that she’d betrayed the very thing she’d wanted the kid to keep quiet about. She cast a worried glance in the direction of the inert driver, then handed up a drawstring bag, a fancy thing, made of velvet, and heavy.
While Jack was fumbling to open the purse, the woman drew a derringer from the pocket of her skirt and pointed it at him, her aim true. He barely dodged the bullet, heard it tear a chunk out of the coach, and retaliated with the rifle. The woman fell, the girl screamed and ran to her, and Jack jammed his gun back into its scabbard and swung down from the saddle.
“Aunt Geneva!” the child cried, shaking
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