The Ranger's Bride
Author
Laurie Grant
Reads
15.5K
Chapters
30
Chapter One
Texas, 1874
He looked like an outlaw on the run, she thought, with his lean, sun-bronzed, beard-shadowed cheeks that hadnât seen a razor in at least two days, his wide-brimmed hat pulled down low enough so he could see, but no one could really see him. She couldnât determine whether his eyes were brown or as black as his soul inevitably was.
Or maybe he wasnât an outlaw, but a gunslinger, a man who made his name by the speed of his draw. There was no gun belt around his waist, but the battered saddlebags he kept on his lap looked heavy and lumpy enough to conceal a pair of Colts. His long legs intruded into space in the crowded stagecoach that was rightly hers, causing her to sit slightly sideways so their knees didnât bump. Sitting sideways, however, forced her either too close to the big sweaty man who kept giving her avid sidelong glances, or the weary-looking old woman who hadnât said a word all the way from Austin. It was too hot on this early June midday to sit too close to anyone.
What would either an outlaw or a gunslinger be doing on the stage that ran between Austin and Connorâs Crossing? Wouldnât such a man have his own horse and keep to himself, except when he was robbing or gunslinging or whatever such men did?
Perhaps, though, she was wrong about the man slouched opposite her on the swaying seat. God knew she had been wrong about men beforeâespecially about her husband, Charles Parker. Ex-husband, she reminded herself. After the divorce sheâd had her surname legally changed back to her maiden name, so it was time she remembered to think of herself only and always as Adelaide Kelly. It was imperative that no one in Connorâs Crossing ever discover that she wasâgaspâa divorced woman. If they did, the respect that had been automatically extended to her as the widowed niece of the late Maud and Thomas Connor would automatically vanish.
Charlesâher gambler ex-husband took himself way too seriously to refer to himself as Charleyâwas nothing like the man seated across from her. A head shorter than the enigmatic stranger and fanatically neat, Charles would never have appeared in public without the benefit of a shave. He would smell of bay rum, and his watch chain, a wedding present from Adelaide, would gleam across his brocade waistcoatâor it would have, if he hadnât lost it in a game of monte. Heâd get it back, he had assured Addy. By that time, though, she no longer believed his promises.
Addy knew now Charles had sniffed out the information that her family had money before heâd ever asked for that introduction three and a half years ago. But at the time, her head had been so turned by his fervent courtship that she had been deaf to her fatherâs skepticism and blind to Charlesâs faults. It was only after she was Mrs. Charles Parker that sheâd discovered that her husband had no assets of his own to speak of and that heâd only married her to get ahold of hers. The honeymoon had barely begun when heâd started going through her bank account at such an alarming pace that Addyâs father had counselled Addy to leave him. âItâs the only sensible thing to do, Adelaide, dear,â her father had said.
However, Charles was always promising heâd make it up to her if she just continued to have faith in him. Addy would seeâheâd settle down and become a diligent employee at her fatherâs shipping firm and an excellent husband. But there was always another game, and heâd need to borrow her diamond and ruby earbobs as a stake. Oh, not that sheâd need to fear their loss, for he would win this time.
Sheâd have saved time and heartache if she had left him early on, but pride prevented her from admitting her mistake. So sheâd stayed with him for three years even after her inheritance was gone and theyâd lost the house her parents had given them for a wedding present. There followed a succession of rented rooms, each one dingier than the last.
The last straw had been when heâd filched her plain gold wedding band off the nightstand while she was bathing and had lost it at poker. Sheâd gone back to her parents then, and allowed them to pay for her divorce. After all, it was not only the sensible thing to do, it was the only thing left to do.
But she couldnât stay in St. Louis, Addy had decided. However glad she was to be free of Charles, a divorced woman was still a pariah in society. No, she needed to start over somewhere new.
Her widowed Aunt Maud had written offering her a home with her in Connorâs Crossing. Addy, who had visited there as a young girl and remembered both the house and locale fondly, accepted with gladness and relief. She would have to work for a living, but she had discovered, during those hard times with Charles, an unexpected talent as a seamstress.
Sheâd been packing to leave St. Louis when word arrived of Aunt Maudâs unexpected death. She had left Addy her house and its small acreage in Connorâs Crossing, on the Llano River on the western edge of Texasâs hill country.
Addy had lived in Connorâs Crossing for a few months now and had been accepted without so much as a ripple of suspicion, for her aunt and uncle had been liked and respected. Today she was returning to the town after a brief trip to Austin, where the selection of fabrics and sewing notions for sale was plentiful.
Suddenly, the stranger across from her straightened in his seat, interrupting her recollections. Lifting the heavy leather flap that kept out most but not all of the road dust, he peered outside, his eyes narrowing as the brilliant afternoon sunlight bathed his lean face. He was unaware of the obvious displeasure of the derby-hatted drummer next to him, who had been peacefully snoring until the lifted flap flooded him with blinding sunlight, and the bony middle-aged woman on his other side, whoâd been whining about a migraine all morning.
Angling his head, the stranger peered around curiously. Addy could not see out the stage window because of the way he was holding the flap. He kept it shut on her side, but she supposed she should be grateful, for at least the dust wasnât coming in on her. But the stranger stared out for so long with a vigilant, narrowed gaze that she finally asked, âSir, is something wrong?â
It was the first thing she had said to him. A lady was not supposed to speak to a man to whom she had not been properly introduced, even if they were traveling many miles in the same uncomfortable small box.
He sat back and let the flap fall back in place before he answered. âNope, not that I can see.â
She didnât believe him, for he had shown no interest in their whereabouts heretofore.
âOh. Well, did you hear something, then?â she persisted.
âJust wanted to have a look at the countryside, maâam.â
She studied him for a moment; then, giving up on getting the truth out of him, said, âExcuse me, sir,â to the florid-faced big man sitting next to her and leaned forward to lift her side of the flap.
Rede Smith took advantage of her momentary distraction to appreciate the sweet line of her bosom as she bent from a trim waist to look out the stage window. Heâd been covertly looking at her ever since sheâd climbed into the stagecoach just ahead of him in Austin. Heâd first been transfixed by the graceful sway of her silk bustle, but that was before he had been able to get a good view of her classic oval face with its soft, lush lips, pert little nose and round, green eyes.
He was careful not to leave his gaze on her long enough that she noticed. He had no desire to make her uncomfortable. There was already a wariness about her that didnât subside except for a brief period when she had fallen into a doze, just outside of Round Mountain. Then he had let his eyes drink her in and savor her rosebud lips, the slenderness of her neck, the rich chestnut hair that framed her forehead and was evidently caught up at her nape in some sort of a twist.
He wished he had been sitting next to her, instead of across from her. Then he could have stolen closer while she slept. It would have been torture to feel the length of his thigh against hers, but still damn well worth it.
Rede, thereâs just no use putting yourself through that for a lady. Ladies had no time for a man like him, a man with no permanent home and with a job that could put him on the receiving end of a bullet at any time. A lady wanted a man who was settled, with a little bit of land and maybe a thriving business to boot. A man who didnât feel he had something to prove. A man who had not been already disgraced by the last name heâd been born withâa name his mother had changed as soon as sheâd finally left James Fogarty.
He hadnât answered the lady truthfully when sheâd asked him what was wrong because he could not have said what had made him uneasy and given him that prickling along his spine. Heâd been unable to identify its cause as heâd gazed out over the rocky landscape of the Texas hill country. He had seen nothing unusualânot even the telltale flash of metal that could indicate the presence of horsemen hiding in ambush.
He preferred the flatter terrain of farther southâit was harder for Indians or white rascals to hide in that country, where the tallest things in it were scrubby mesquite and knee-high clumps of prickly pear. Anything or anyone could hide in this rolling country of wide, juniper- and mesquite-covered hills and limestone outcroppings.
For the hundredth time he wished he wasnât in this swaying, rattling box, and had his good roan gelding under him. But heâd known he had a better chance of sneaking into the area without the news reaching the Fogartys if he wasnât seen riding into town on his roan. Word had a way of spreading fast, as if the wind whispered the news.
âThree Mile Hill,â the woman murmured as she let go of the flap and sat back on her seat. âIâll be home soon.â
She had a pretty voice, Rede thought. Not high and shrill, or mannishly low, but pleasantly pitched. Not twangy-Texan, either, though it wasnât nasal or clipped like a Yankeeâs. Sheâd been raised somewhere else, somewhere in the Midwest, he guessed. He wished he could ask her, but knew he wouldnât.
âYou live in Connorâs Crossing?â the big man between her and the window asked her, exhaling down on her so gustily that a loose tendril at her forehead fluttered for a moment.
Rede saw her nostrils flare involuntarily, and guessed she had gotten a potent whiff of the manâs beer-and-onion scented breath. But her smile was polite as she nodded.
âWell, ainât that nice,â the big man said. âHappens thatâs where Iâm headed. Gonna set up a business there. Mebbe I could come callinâ sometime, mebbe take you drivinâ, soonâs I get me a rig and a hoss.â
âIâm sorry, but Iâm a widow,â she said, with a meaningful glance at her clothing.
Rede had been so intent on the sweet curves of her body, he hadnât noticed she was dressed in half-mourning, a gray dress banded in black. Such shades indicated the death had been some time ago, didnât it? Several months, or was it a year or more?
He wondered how she had felt about her husband. Had she been devastated by his death? Did she still grieve? A man couldnât judge by her answer to the big smelly manâmost women would have used any excuse not to have that one come calling.
Rede felt a flare of anger, not only that the man had been such an insensitive idiot, but also, he recognized, because the man had made overtures to the very woman Rede wanted himself. A part of him already thought of the woman as his.
If only things had been different. Idiot.
But not as bad an idiot as the big man. He couldnât imagine the green-eyed woman would have consented to let the malodorous big man call on her even if heâd been the only gent left in Texas.
âSorry, maâam,â said the other man. âI jesâ saw you were wearinâ half-mourninâ, and I thought maybe itâd been long eâŚâ His voice trailed off, as Rede purposefully intercepted his gaze and narrowed his eyes in warning. âSorry,â he mumbled.
âAinât this the road the Fogarty Gang used to rob the stage along, back before the war?â the drummer asked just then.
The womanâs eyes widened with alarm, and her face paled. Rede longed to slam his elbow into the skinny drummerâs ribs hard enough to make him lose his dinner, just for frightening her.
âBut I heard they hadnât been robbing stages around here for years,â she said. âEver sinceââ
âThey havenât,â Rede said flatly, wanting to banish the furrow of worry from her forehead. âNot since mâsince Jim Fogarty was hanged.â My father. My father died at the end of a choking ropeâyears ago.
James Fogartyâs execution for the killing of a stagecoach driver should have taught the rest of the gang a lesson, and it hadâfor a while. They had lit out to the wild Pecos country for several years. But recently theyâd been inching back to their old locale, the limestone-studded hills of central Texas.
âHarrumph. They better keep their eyes peeled and the shotgun ready,â the drummer said, jerking his head to indicate the driver and the stagecoach guard riding up on top.
A lot of good that would do, if the Fogartys wanted to rob this stage, Rede thought, watching the color slowly ebb back into the womanâs face.
He wondered what her name was. Something prim and fancy, he thought. Not harsh, like Harriet, or dowdy-sounding, like Ethel.
Elizabeth, he decided. He wondered if she went by Beth or Liza.
Then all hell broke loose.
