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Cooper paced to his team of horses, waiting in the shade of a wind-bent tree. He ran a hand down the black’s hide and noticed his own skin, callused and rough, sun-darkened nearly to a shade like that of his Sioux family.
His white skin had given him an advantage over the men he called his brothers. He’d taken a land grant offered only to whites. He’d traded and sold years’ worth of furs for wagons and tools, caught his own horses and purchased everything else he’d needed to start his business.
For now, he could only take food and winter supplies to the reservation, but someday, and he hoped it would be soon, he would be in a position to really help his people. And Tess Cordell would help him do just that.
Hallie covered her mouth and nose with her damp handkerchief and tried not to choke on the thick dust gusting in around the drawn shade. The wheels hit another gully and her groan was drowned out by the other women’s cries.
Zinnia Blake held her wilted, green-feathered hat in place on her head with a dirty-gloved hand and Hallie tried not to laugh at the way the flesh beneath her chin jiggled. They hit another indentation and Zinnia flattened the hand over her enormous bouncing bosom. Even in the dim interior, her face glistened as red as a freshly washed tomato. “Isn’t it awfully hot for this late in the fall?”
“It can’t be much farther,” Olivia Mason predicted. She pounded on the roof with the heel of her hand and peeled back the shade. “Mr. Tubbs, is it much farther?”
The monotonous sounds of the creaking coach and the horses’ hooves were the only reply.
The wind stuck a coil of red hair to Olivia’s pale cheek and she dropped the shade back into place. “He promised we’d be there this morning.”
“Mr. Tubbs is doing the best he can,” Evelyn Reed said, coming to the driver’s defense. Hallie hadn’t heard her speak more than a dozen words the entire ten-day trip and figured she must be as tired of the other women’s complaints as she. Zinnia had been sick from the steamer’s constant chugging up the river. Olivia had insisted on changing clothes twice a day, and then complained about having no clean ones.
Once they’d crossed the Missouri and boarded Mr. Tubbs’s stage, things had grown progressively worse. Zinnia had a case of heat rash that drove her to tears. Olivia thought there should be a laundry at each rustic relay station. The meals were horrible, facilities for tending to nature’s call primitive to nonexistent, and Hallie had a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up.
But she was having a glorious adventure. She took copious notes, describing the weather conditions, the vegetation, the stark but beautiful outcroppings of stratum eroded by time and nature. She would have a story to beat all stories when she got home. Maybe she would even write an article for a magazine... or perhaps a book!
The jarring motion of the coach slowed, and the women glanced expectantly at one another.
“Thank God!” Zinnia panted. “We must be there. And, good heavens, I no doubt look a fright.”
Olivia tucked stray red coils into her neat chignon.
The stage picked up speed again. Overhead, Mr. Tubbs shouted unintelligible orders to the horses. Inside the coach, the farers bounced and jostled. Hallie flipped up the shade and peered through the dust, gritting her teeth at the jarring of her backside against the poorly padded seat.
Appearing from a cloud of churning dust, horses and riders drew up with the stage. Shots were fired, and piercing screams erupted beside her. Heart pounding, she watched the riders gain on the stage. “Stage robbers!” she cried.
She’d stayed up many a night, thrilling to the excitement and action depicted in dime novels. Now, here was she, Hallie Claire Wainwright, participant in an adventure as exciting as those! Her heart pounded and terror shivered up her spine. She strained to see through the thick haze of dust, trying to impress each detail into memory for later.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the stage slowed to a halt. The door was flung open and the barrel of a gun poked inside. Zinnia shrieked.
“Come out!”
Hallie glanced at the women’s panic-stricken faces. As long as they were being delayed, she might as well make the best of it. Her father would love the firsthand story of a stage holdup! Let Evan Hunter try to top this one.
“Let’s do as they say.” She gestured to the others, gathered her skirts and stepped out into the sunshine.
Chapter Two
Three bandanna-masked men in sweat-stained shirts and ill-fitting trousers pointed guns at the women exiting the coach. With their hats pulled low, the invisibility of faces and expressions was as threatening as the weapons. Two others in the same disguising attire sat atop horses. Another, this one barrel chested and short legged, held Mr. Tubbs at gunpoint on the ground.
The grizzled old driver squinted from the bandits to the women, one side of his unshaven cheek jerking in a nervous twitch.
“White women,” one of the three standing men said in awe. He wore a battered and wide-brimmed black hat.
The tallest, standing near Hallie, jerked his gun barrel toward the back of the stage. “The bags.”
The riders dismounted and lithely leapt onto the coach, unfastening the leather straps and tossing trunks and cases to the ground. Jumping back down, they opened the bags and trunks, pausing only seconds to shoot off resisting or locked latches.
The bullets frightened Zinnia to hysteria. She threw her hands toward the sun and wailed.
“Quiet!” The black-haired man moved forward and struck her with the back of his hand. Olivia couldn’t support her, and she wilted into an unconscious heap in the dirt.
“Take what you want and go,” Olivia objected. “There’s no call to hurt women.”
He yanked Olivia’s hair. She yelped, and her red mane tumbled across one shoulder. Grasping a strand in his leather-gloved fingers, he tugged her closer.
She slapped his hand away and stepped back.
“Open that pouch.” The man in front of Hallie, who appeared to be the leader, indicated her reticule.
He stood too close; his eyes were black and unyielding. The men’s aggressiveness frightened her. She’d never seen women treated disrespectfully. This was what the papers called the untamed West. There was no law. No one would even hear the shots. They could die out here and not be found for days or weeks.
Wisely, Hallie chose to open her bag and withdraw the contents. Three men darted forward, taking the other women’s possessions. At the same time, one climbed inside the coach.
The leader stuffed Hallie’s money into his pocket. She swallowed her objections. It was only money, after all, and her life was more important.
“You don’t cry.”
Hallie stared into his black eyes, her heart jumping into her throat.
“Do you talk?”
She raised her chin without reply. He circled her slowly, keeping the gun pointed at her. Halfway around, she had to turn her head and wait for him to approach from the other side. The way he looked at her body sickened her and made her feel naked.
“Lift your dress.”
She took a step back. “I beg your pardon.”
“You do talk.” He lowered the gun barrel to the front of her open jacket and nudged the material where her blouse buttoned. “Lift your dress, or I will.”
Nervously, 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 happened?” Vernon asked, Stu and Angus at his side.
“Six of ‘em,” Ferlie said. “Rode us down at Big Stone. Robbed the womenfolk. Skeered ’em good. Woulda done worse.”
Vernon clenched his fists.
“This brave young woman took a gun away from one of those border ruffians and saved us,” the redhead explained, pointing to the hellcat. Beside her the fat lady sputtered into a fresh bout of tears.
The men cast one another skeptical looks.
Finally Vernon took the initiative and spoke. “Which of you is Miss Blake?”
The fat one sniffed. “I am.”
Vernon reached for her gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you. Would it be all right if I called you Zinnia?”
A smile bloomed on her round face. She ogled Vernon as though he were rain for her parched soul. “Mr. Forbes?”
