The Christmas Journey

Chapter Three

As he saddled the horse, Ry eyed the livery operator from the corner of his eye. Why in the world was she so prickly?

True, he had mistaken her for a man at first, but she didn’t know that. And he’d stepped in to defend her brother at no small personal risk. Why, he hadn’t even haggled over the outrageous price she’d demanded for the use of her horse.

Still, he couldn’t forget he’d actually let this woman—a member of the fairer sex for all her rough edges—face down a pair of armed thugs while he’d stood by.

His gut clenched every time he thought about it. It was an unforgivable act, going against everything he’d been taught about duty and honor. So he was willing to give her more than the usual bit of leeway.

He felt her gaze studying him as he worked, could almost see the questions forming in her mind.

Finally, she broke the silence. “I suppose you’re anxious to get your business taken care of so you can spend Thanksgiving at home.”

Home. Ry paused, patting the horse absently. Lately he’d been trying to figure out exactly where that was—in Philadelphia with his grandfather or Hawk’s Creek with his brother and sister.

Sometimes he was torn between the two. Other times he felt as if he didn’t belong in either place. And holidays hadn’t felt special or festive in a very long time.

He gave himself a mental shake. Time enough to work through that problem after he saw Belle. And Miss Wylie was watching him curiously, expecting a response. “My family’s not big on holiday celebrations.”

That earned him a surprised frown, but no further comment. Instead, she moved across the stable and grabbed a bedroll. Retracing her steps, she hefted it onto the stall next to him. “Quinlinn is between here and Foxberry. You should reach it well before dark, but if you end up having to sleep on the trail you’ll need this. Gets cold at night this time of year.”

He grinned. “Believe me, this is mild compared to New England.”

Far from setting her at ease, his words deepened her scowl. It had been a while since he’d found it so difficult to coax a smile from a woman. But it seemed he couldn’t say anything to charm this one.

Well, so be it. The bedroll would come in handy since he wasn’t planning to stop in Quinlinn. He’d push on as far as he could until darkness made traveling dangerous, then get up with the first lightening of the sky. The sooner he reached Foxberry, the sooner he could get the answers he wanted.

He had to hand it to Miss Wylie, though. He gathered she was her family’s provider—a responsibility she appeared to take seriously. Even if life had set him on a different path, he could certainly respect that.

How big a family was it? He’d already met Danny and she’d mentioned a sister. Were there more?

“You got any kind of weapon with you?”

He raised a brow at her unexpected question, then reached into his coat and pulled out his pocket pistol. “I carry this when I travel.”

She surprised him with an unladylike snort. “That peashooter won’t be much protection on the trail.” Moving with quick strides, she retrieved the rifle she’d wielded earlier. “Here, take this. Never know what kind of varmints you’ll meet up with—and I don’t mean just the four-legged kind.”

Ry slipped his unjustly-maligned derringer back inside his coat. The double-barreled pocket pistol was more formidable than it appeared. “Don’t you need that rifle yourself?” He wasn’t about to compound his first blunder by riding off with her best means of protection.

But she shrugged off his concern. “I’ve got another one.” A nod toward the far wall indicated a second rifle.

He studied her a moment, noting her earnest expression, the tightly concealed concern lurking in her eyes. It appeared she was making a peace offering and it would be rude to brush it aside.

He took the weapon. “Thanks. I’ll return it when I bring the horse back.”

She nodded. “Once you leave Quinlinn in the morning, it’ll be an easy half day’s ride to Foxberry.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t imagine you’ve had lunch yet.” She fiddled with a straw she’d plucked from the pitchfork. “If you were of a mind to remedy that before you head out, you could head over to the boardinghouse. Just tell my sister I—”

Ry held up a hand. “Thanks, but I’ll just purchase a few supplies from the mercantile and head out.” The itch to be on his way had returned with a vengeance. He’d wasted too much time already.

He mounted the horse, gathered the reins and turned to say a quick goodbye. Then paused.

She’d shoved her hands in her overall pockets and stood watching him. For just a moment, despite her outspokenness, Ry sensed something wistful, something almost vulnerable about the unorthodox female. He had the strangest urge to climb back down and lift some of the weight from her shoulders.

Which was strange. She wasn’t at all the sort of girl he was usually attracted to.

Then she straightened and her eyes narrowed. “You take good care of Scout, you hear. I raised him from a colt and I’d take it poorly if you let something happen to him.”

So much for his instincts. There was nothing vulnerable about this woman. If he offered to help her she’d no doubt throw the offer back in his teeth. And Belle, who actually wanted his help, was waiting in Foxberry.

“Don’t worry.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll treat him as if he were my own prize thoroughbred. See you in about a week or so.” With that, he set the horse in motion.

Jo felt another stab of jealousy as Mr. Lassiter turned to go. What must it be like to just pick up and head out anywhere, anytime you took a notion to? Someday she’d find out.

Or so she prayed every night.

She rubbed the side of her face. I truly am trying to be patient, Lord. But I’m twenty-three and not getting any younger.

With a sigh, she let it go and watched Mr. Lassiter ride the short distance to Danvers’ Mercantile. One thing she could say for the man, he sat a horse well. Seemed to have a knack for appearing both relaxed and in command at the same time.

Seemed he’d do all right with Scout, after all.

At least he wouldn’t have the weather to worry about. November was one of those changeable months in these parts. You could have mild weather one day and frost the next. This was one of the sunnier days.

Jo watched him step past the table of pumpkins and gourds Mr. Danvers had set up out front and enter the mercantile. With a shake of the head, she decided she’d wasted enough time worrying about the stranger, and turned back to the livery. Then frowned.

Otis’s and Clete’s horses were hitched in front of the saloon. Now, why in blue blazes were they still hanging around town?

She retrieved the second rifle and carefully loaded it. They probably wouldn’t be back to bother her, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. Especially if those polecats were getting liquored up.

Jo sat at her worktable where she had a clear view of the street, and picked up a harness that needed mending. From here she could watch both the mercantile and the saloon.

A few minutes later Mr. Lassiter stepped back out on the sidewalk. Sure hadn’t wasted any time. He quickly attached a bundle to Scout’s saddle and gathered up the reins.

Yep, something had definitely lit a fire under that man.

As if he felt her watching, he glanced up and his gaze locked on hers. Even from two blocks away, Jo felt the impact of that look down to the tips of her toes.

Land sakes—what was it about this man that could irritate her, confuse her and make her want to squirm all at the same time? And if he thought she would look away first he could just—

A wagon passed between them and the connection was broken. When Jo’s line of sight was clear again, Mr. Lassiter had already mounted up and was headed out of town. Not wanting to be caught staring again, Jo managed to watch his progress without looking directly at him.

When he passed in front of the livery, Mr. High-and-Mighty Lassiter gave her a brief tip of the hat, but didn’t bother to pause or speak. Which was just fine with her. She didn’t care if he paid her any notice or not.

After he’d passed by, she slammed the bridle down with a thunk and stood, stretching her muscles. She suddenly felt restless, felt the urge to do something physical.

Then she stilled. Someone else was watching Mr. Lassiter leave town. Otis and Clete lounged outside the saloon, all but licking their chops, nudging each other like a pair of weasels who’d spied a way into the chicken coop.

Even after they stepped back inside the saloon, Jo couldn’t shake the notion they were up to no good. And that Mr. Lassiter was their target.

She retrieved her lunch pail and absently picked at her meal, not tasting a single morsel.

Sure enough, ten minutes later Otis and Clete swaggered out of the saloon, mounted their horses and rode off in the same direction as Mr. Lassiter.

Otis glanced her way and the ugly smile he flashed sent alarm skittering up her spine like a frightened centipede.

She had to do something. But what?

Jo tugged on her earlobe. Business wasn’t exactly brisk right now. She could likely afford to leave things unattended for a bit.

A few minutes later she was marching down the sidewalk, her pace just short of a trot, trying to figure out exactly what she’d say to Sheriff Hammond.

Otis and Clete had caused enough trouble in town lately that she was sure the sheriff would be inclined to believe they were up to no good. But she didn’t really have any proof, other than a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. And even if he agreed with her that Mr. Lassiter was in danger, would he be willing to take action now that they were headed away from Knotty Pine?

A few minutes later Jo marched back into the livery, as frustrated as a frisky dog on a short leash. Just her luck—Sheriff Hammond was out. No telling when he’d be back either. And she just couldn’t shake the feeling that every minute counted.

She might be wrong about this whole mess, but fool or no she had to find out what Otis and Clete were up to. If those two varmints ambushed Mr. Lassiter she didn’t have a whole lot of trust in his ability to hold his own.

Heavenly Father, help me figure out what to do.

She tugged on her ear again, trying to come up with a plan. A heartbeat later she spied a familiar towheaded boy on the sidewalk, and as quick as that made up her mind. “Tommy, I need you to do me a favor. Head up to the boardinghouse quick-like. Tell Danny I need him back here for a spell.”

With a nod, the boy set off at a run.

Jo grabbed a saddle and headed toward Licorice’s stall. She set to work, praying alternately that her suspicions were wrong and that she wouldn’t be too late.

By the time Danny arrived she was ready to go.

She gave him a smile she had to force. “I need to ride out after that Lassiter gent. He forgot something.” Like watching his back. “Think you can keep an eye on things while I’m gone? It might take a while to catch up with him.”

Danny’s chest puffed out. “You can count on me.”

Jo ruffled his hair. “Especially when it means you get out of doing chores for Cora Beth, huh?”

Danny answered with a prisoner-set-free grin.

“Don’t forget what I said about not getting into any dust-ups while I’m gone.” She patted Licorice and casually retrieved the rifle.

Danny frowned at the firearm. “You expecting trouble?”

“Just being careful.” Jo mounted up. “Mr. Lassiter’s had a good head start so tell Cora Beth not to worry if I’m late for supper.”

Before Danny could ask more questions she headed out.

As soon as Jo was clear of town, she nudged the mare into a trot. Otis and Clete hadn’t seemed in much of a hurry to catch up with Mr. Lassiter. Even no-account slugs like those two would know better than to bushwhack the man too close to town. Sheriff Hammond would be on them like a hungry hound on a meaty bone.

No, more’n likely they were going to hold back for a while. Which meant she had a chance to—

Jo eased Licorice to a walk. To do what?

Otis and Clete were between her and Mr. Lassiter. What would she do if she caught up with them before they caught up to him? And how much time did she have?

She did some quick reckoning. They’d wait until they were well out of Knotty Pine, but would want to strike before Quinlinn. Up ahead a piece, the trail cut through a stretch of woods where there wasn’t even a farmstead in hollering distance. Even though it was November, there were plenty of leaves left and the brush was thick enough to provide good cover if a body had need of it.

Past that the trees gave way to Whistler’s Meadow. Just a small clearing really, but a spring cut through it, and most folks stopped to refill their canteens and water their horses.

The cowards could use the tree line for cover. Even if Mr. Lassiter didn’t stop, just slowed a bit, they’d be able to pick him off, easy as shooting a penned colt.

Jo nudged Licorice into a trot again as a plan took shape in her mind. She’d hang back just a bit. But as soon as she got close to the meadow, she’d fire a few shots in the air, then hightail it for the cover of the woods. That ought to put Mr. Lassiter on the alert, make him aware he wasn’t alone. For a man as sharp as him, that ought to be enough.

Dear Lord, please let me get there in time. And give that fool Samaritan the smarts to recognize the warning shot for what it is.

By the time she neared the meadow her back and neck were stiff with tension, and her head pounded with the effort to stay alert to everything around her. So far she hadn’t seen any hint of a scuffle or heard any shots.

She slowed Licorice to a walk. The meadow was about a quarter mile ahead. Time to make her move if she was going to do it.

Jo pulled the horse to a full stop and lifted her rifle. The road ran nearly straight from here to the meadow. She stared hard, trying to make out what lay ahead. Otis and Clete weren’t the smartest curs in the pack—not by a long shot. Surely she’d see some sign if they were there.

Nothing seemed out of place. A crow cawed in the distance, some squirrels scurried in the nearby trees—just normal forest sounds.

Had she imagined bugaboos where none existed? Had her own yearning for adventure set her mind to creating one for her?

Or what if she’d guessed wrong about where they would spring the ambush? If she fired now, would she be tipping her hand?

A second later she spied the glint of sunshine reflecting off metal. A gun barrel!

Praying again that her plan would work, Jo quickly fired off a shot. Two other shots rang out before the echo died.

A high-pitched squeal of pain followed closely behind the blasts. Her heart in her throat, Jo abandoned her plan to duck for cover. Instead, she urged Licorice into a gallop, full tilt ahead. Sounded like the man needed reinforcements.

If her shilly-shallying had cost Mr. Lassiter serious injury she’d never forgive herself. The least she could do was race in, fire a few shots to distract the bushwhackers, and then get out before they could react.

She refused to believe she might already be too late.

Chapter Four

Ry grimly took stock of the situation from his position behind the fallen horse.

He thanked God for the hunter who’d fired that shot. If the sound hadn’t caught his attention it would likely be his blood staining the ground instead of Scout’s.

The horse jerked, making a feeble attempt to get up. Ry patted the animal’s back. “Easy boy.” Scout’s muscles quivered under his hand.

Ry’s jaw clenched at the animal’s struggle. Those gunmen had a lot to pay for.

But he couldn’t collect on that debt if he stayed belly to the ground with only the horse for cover. His pistol wouldn’t do him much good unless the highwaymen got a whole lot closer, something he’d rather they not do.

If he could just get to the rifle Miss Wylie had loaned him…

The scabbard was tantalizingly close, yet too far to reach without giving the unseen enemy a clear shot. Silently apologizing to Scout, Ry pulled against the saddle with one hand, tugging at the weapon with the other. The rifle slid a few inches, then stopped.

More shots rang out and a searing pain exploded through Ry’s shoulder. With an oath, he flattened himself to the ground again.

A quick check revealed that the bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his upper left arm. Lots of blood and it felt as if a hot poker were pressed against his skin, but the wound probably wasn’t serious. Leastways, not nearly as serious as things were going to get if he didn’t yank that rifle free.

“He ain’t firing back.”

That sounded like Scarcheek’s voice hissing across the clearing. So this wasn’t a random attack.

“You reckon he’s hit, or just playing possum?”

That had to be Mustache.

“Only one way to find out.”

The gunmen didn’t try to hide their approach. They’d be on him in a minute and he had no doubts about what would happen next.

He had to get hold of that rifle! If he could fire before they were on him, he might have time to get off two shots.

Keeping as flat as possible, Ry ignored the pain in his arm, grasped the rifle with both hands, and yanked for all he was worth.

But it was no good, not from this angle anyway. He pulled out his derringer and prepared for the worse. He wouldn’t make this easy for them. Sorry Belle, seems I’m not going to be there for you after all.

A moment later, two man-sized shadows blocked the sun.

“Well, looky here. Pretty Boy done got all mussed up.”

Ry twisted his neck to see the two men looming over him, their ugly grins and rifles pointed at his back. He slowly raised himself to a crouch, carefully keeping his pistol hidden. He might not live to see nightfall but at least one of these cowards was going down with him.

“That’s right.” Scarcheek made a menacing motion with his rifle. “Up where I can see your face and hands.”

Tension coiled inside Ry. His muscles bunched, ready to spring. He had to make this move count.

It would be the only one he had.

“Ayyiiieeeeee!”

The shrill war cry shattered nerves already drawn taught. Scarcheek and Mustache whirled around as a wildman swooped into the clearing, riding at breakneck speed straight toward them.

Thank you, God.

Scout made another spasmodic attempt to rise and Ry dove for the rifle. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he jerked the weapon free an eyeblink before the horse collapsed again.

The mounted banshee fired two shots that missed their marks.

Mustache returned fire and the one-man cavalry charge leaned lower in the saddle. The rider’s hat went flying and a tawny braid flapped free, whipping in the wind like the tail of a kite.

Miss Wylie!

Was the woman insane? He’d wring her neck over this fool stunt.

If they lived long enough…

Seeing the men take aim at his rescuer, Ry gritted his teeth against the throbbing in his arm and tried to simultaneously fire his rifle and position himself between the gunmen and Miss Wylie. His first shot found its mark and Mustache went down with a grunt.

But a second shot echoed his own and Ry whirled in time to see Miss Wylie’s horse go down.

It was getting more difficult to hold the gun steady, but Ry pushed harder, moving between her and Scarcheek, firing again.

He swore when he took a misstep and his shot missed the mark. From the corner of his eye he saw the horse get up.

But not Miss Wylie.

At least he’d turned Scarcheek’s attention back toward him. If only it wasn’t too late…

Ry fired again. Or at least attempted to. Either the rifle chamber was empty or it had jammed.

Tossing the useless weapon aside, he dropped to one knee, barely dodging another bullet as he jerked out his derringer and fired.

This time there was a satisfying report.

Unfortunately, Scarcheek was a split second faster.