Badlands Bride. Cheryl St.John
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Hallie glanced at the others. The bandits searched Olivia and Evelyn’s bodies roughly through their clothing, and the women screamed. Stoically, rather than have this man touch her the same way, Hallie raised her skirt and petticoats to her waist.
He squatted and patted her cotton-clad hips and legs with gloved hands. She clenched her teeth, nausea suffusing her insides.
Beside her, Olivia cried out and sprawled on the ground. The man wearing the black hat straddled her. Her red hair spilled across the dirt, and her skirts bunched beneath her.
“Wait just a gol-durned minute!” Mr. Tubbs cursed from his prone position.
The leader, still in front of Hallie, paused with a hand on her calf. She could see plainly that the bandit on top of Olivia had no intention of stopping. The others stood watching.
Hallie had a good idea of what that ruffian intended to do to Olivia, and it probably wouldn’t take long until the rest of them figured it was a fine idea and stopped being spectators. The leader, crouching before Hallie, bracketed one of her thighs with his gloved hands. With a strength born of terror, she kneed him in the face, knocking his hat off and releasing her skirts.
He yelped and dropped the gun, reaching for his nose and scrambling for balance.
Before he could stand, Hallie grabbed the gun and aimed it at him, securing both trembling index fingers on the trigger.
Since the bandanna was still tied across his face, only the top of his head, his black brows and obsidian eyes were visible. Hastily he grabbed his hat, jammed it over his black hair and stood, bright red blood soaking through the bandanna. He backed away.
“She won’t shoot,” said one of the others, now standing quietly.
If she didn’t, one of them would take the gun away from her and she’d be in an even bigger fix. Before she could think about it, Hallie turned the gun toward the man on Olivia and squeezed. The weapon jumped in her hands, jerked her shoulders and set her off balance. Acrid smoke curled from the barrel and Hallie steadied herself. The black hatted man clutched his arm and backed away. “Kill her!” he shouted to the others.
Hallie’s insides quaked and she waited for a bullet to impact with her skull. That shot had been a miracle. She could never shoot the rest before they killed her. A brief regret for the grief and shame she would cause her father and mother streaked through her head.
“No.” The man with the bleeding nose raised an arm, his gloved palm halting the action. Across the distance separating them, their eyes met, and his penetrating black stare sharpened her already soul-piercing fear.
He grunted a command. Hallie couldn’t tear her gaze away. If he’d told one of them to shoot her, she’d never see the bullet coming. Surprisingly however, the men gathered their stolen goods and mounted the horses.
With a final lingering perusal of Hallie, the leader leapt atop his horse and signaled. The gun trembled and her arms ached, but determinedly she kept it pointed at him. The bandits turned their horses and rode off, leaving a trail of dust on the horizon.
They were all still alive. Hallie shook so badly she finally dropped her arms, and the heavy gun barrel hit her knee.
A cackle rose on the air. “Whoo—ee!” Mr. Tubbs chortled, and spat a brown stream on the ground. “The fella what sent for you’s got a job cut out for him!”
She swung her attention back to Olivia. “You all right?”
The slender woman stood and brushed her clothing off without taking her eyes from Hallie. “Th-thanks t-to you,” she stammered, and promptly burst into tears.
Hallie groped behind her for the coach and sat on the step. “I figured we’d all be next.”
“I would rather have had them kill me,” Evelyn said softly.
A moan rose from the ground. Zinnia unfurled from her faint and sat. She blinked about like an owl, rolled to her hands and knees and stood, wobbling. “What happened? Where are they?”
“Miss Wainwright scared them away,” Olivia said, a look of amazement adding to her already bizarre appearance. Tears streaked her dust-caked cheeks and her bright hair stood out around her head like frazzled yarn.
“That she did!” Mr. Tubbs cackled and dusted himself off. “Whoo—ee! That she did!”
Zinnia’s ragged hiccuping breath jostled her ample breasts.
What had she done? Hallie regarded the baggage strewn across the ground and their clothing flapping in the wind. What could possibly happen to top this?
Her mouth curved into a relieved but jubilant grin. Boston Girl Foils Attack On Women. What a story!
Cooper glanced up at the sun. He’d just decided to unhitch the black and ride out to meet the stage when he spotted a cloud of dust on the horizon.
Anticipation rolled head over heels in his chest. He didn’t have to like her. It didn’t matter what she looked like. He didn’t care how old she was or if she was a widow ten times over. All that mattered was that she could read and write, and she’d promised him that in her letter.
It would probably be easier if he didn’t like her, since she was, after all, a white woman, and she would not like him. She didn’t have to like him. City women were vain and shallow. Her reasons for coming out here probably bore as much desperation as his for needing her.
The small dot appeared on the horizon, and his gaze followed it. What would prompt a city woman to come to the Dakotas? Love for a man? Not in this case. Lack of funds? Probably. No other prospects for marriage? Miserable thought.
“They’re comin’!” Stu shouted.
Slowly, Cooper strode to where the others stood watching the approaching Concord. He could make out the driver, Ferlie Tubbs, now, and sighed with relief.
Hooves pounded the earth, the jingle of harnesses and rings loud in the expanse of clear air. The stage drew near, distressed wood and leather creaking to a stop.
Ferlie squinted down at Cooper.
“Trouble?” Cooper asked.
The toothless ribbon sawer spit a thick stream of tobacco on the dusty ground and nodded. “Sonsa-bitches ran us down back at Big Stone Lake.”
“Everyone all right?”
“Alive,” Ferlie said.
“Hurt?” Cooper asked in alarm.
“Nah. Skeered the bejesus out o’ the fat one, and the orange-haired crybaby bawled the whole damned way.”
Cooper wondered whether he was marrying the fat one or the orange-haired crybaby.
“The hellcat’s just madder’n a bear with a sore ass,” Ferlie continued.
The door was flung open and, without waiting for assistance, a young woman in a dusty green dress with a matching hat askew on her head raised her skirts nearly to her knees and jumped to the ground. She wasn’t fat and her hair, beneath the ridiculous hat and dust, was nearly as black as a Sioux’s. The hellcat.
Her eyes, dark from this distance, surveyed the windswept vista and weathered log building and finally regarded the four men. Cooper met her stare. She was young, strikingly beautiful, with winged brows and a full mouth—definitely not a woman without better prospects in the city.
A sniffling sound came from inside the coach. She cast a significant glance over her shoulder and quickly stepped away saying, “One more mile in there and I’d have forgotten I was a lady.”
The whining came from a short young woman whose drab dress resembled a sausage casing. She appeared in the doorway, another girl with wild hair the color of a stewed carrot holding her elbow. Tearstains streaked the dust on both their faces.
Ferlie jumped down.
“What