“She could still be useful for persuading the other fellow,” the bigger man on the other horse said. Red was what the woman back at their camp had called him. She was on mighty friendly terms with Red. Clara supposed she was the one the comb belonged to—Miss Porter—and that Red was the same person that Roman had referred to as Hoskins.
Clara clenched her fingers to keep from trembling at Hoskins’s words. She didn’t know exactly what they meant, and if she thought about it, it would only serve to distract her from what she needed to do. So instead, she watched Roman.
He rode, rather than walked, and took off quickly toward the south. That letter the thieves made her write had worked, despite her hope that it wouldn’t. Perhaps she should have left more obvious clues in the letter, but it was too late now.
Instead, she found herself waiting on a horse some ways away from the livery with two thieves. They’d found her behind the boardinghouse a few hours ago, when she’d gone outside to hang clothing she’d helped Abigail wash. She’d been hidden behind some of the bed linens Abigail had hung earlier when they approached. They hadn’t wasted a lick of time with trying to lure her away. Instead, Hoskins had simply pulled a pistol and told her to come with them.
Clara had plenty of time since to wonder what else she could have done in that moment—screamed, ran, pretended to faint dead away. Instead, her heart in her throat, she’d let the tall, leaner Jones grab hold of her arm and lead her away.
She’d make up for her mistake somehow, she decided as they’d taken her with them to a little camp at the base of a hill just east of town. She wouldn’t let these men destroy the little Roman had left. The letter had been a failure, as had her attempt to escape while they’d spoken to Miss Porter. They’d caught her with embarrassing ease, and since then, she’d thought of nothing other than how else she could stop their plans.
Because despite the fact that Roman insisted on sending her back East, she couldn’t let him give up entirely. He might not want her, but he deserved something good in his life. She owed him that much for the adventure he’d given her here—and for the way he’d made her feel, for at least a short time. She could live the rest of her life a spinster, if she knew he had his horses and his livery. At least then she could rely on her memories—and the knowledge that he was still here in Crest Stone, living the life he’d worked so hard for—to keep her going.
And perhaps he’d tell herwhybefore she left. If she knew what defect existed in her character, she could make peace with it. He owed her at least that much, to tell her what it was.
But first, she would save his business.
“Ready?” the foul-smelling fellow behind her asked his partner.
“Let’s move,” Hoskins replied. He was the leader, she’d figured that much out in the few hours she’d been with them. She wished she could have discovered how they’d found Roman, two years after everything had happened at that ranch.
With a kick to the horse, they were moving toward the livery. A million different scenarios played through Clara’s mind. She could fall off the horse. She could somehow alert Jeremiah, who she imagined was still inside the stable. Or if she aimed just right, she could elbow Jones hard in the stomach.
Indecision raged through her as they grew closer. With Roman gone, only Mr. Wiley remained to defend the livery. These men hadn’t hesitated to knock him out the last time they’d come. Clara prayed they wouldn’t do worse this time.
As they rode up to the corral, Clara was relieved to see it was empty. Although that also meant they would need to force their way into the stable if they went through with their plans.
“Hold it right there.” Mr. Wiley’s voice boomed from somewhere nearby. In the darkness, Clara couldn’t see exactly where he was, but she’d certainly never heard the affable Mr. Wiley sound so threatening.
The men drew up their horses, much to Clara’s relief. If it was too dark for Clara to see Mr. Wiley, chances were that he couldn’t make out exactly who was on the horses in front of him.
“It would be in the best interest of this young lady if you put down your gun and let us take what we came here for,” Hoskins said from the horse next to Clara and Jones.
As if on cue, Jones slid a pistol from his holster and held it against Clara’s side. She gasped, and he clamped a hand around her arm.
“Relax,” Jones whispered. “I ain’t going to shoot you. So long as this fellow does as Red says, anyhow.” He chuckled, low and quiet, and Clara tried unsuccessfully to wrench her arm out of his grip.
“What young lady?” Mr. Wiley asked, and Clara knew for certain he couldn’t see who was on the horses.
Before Hoskins could answer, the smaller door to the stable opened, and a lantern inside illuminated Mr. Benton, the blacksmith, holding a shotgun. The light spilled out, showing Mr. Wiley just by the door, pointing a rifle at them.
If Mr. Benton’s presence alarmed the thieves at all, they didn’t show it. Jones still held fast to Clara, the muzzle of his pistol in her side. And Hoskins sat back on his horse, seemingly unconcerned.
“Miss Brown?” Mr. Wiley said as the door shut behind Mr. Benton, sending them back into darkness.
“We collected Miss Brown outside her boardinghouse earlier today,” Hoskins said, his voice light as if he were telling a story. “Say something, Miss Brown, so these good men will know you’re all right.”
Clara clamped her lips shut. The last thing she wanted was to help these men with their plans.
“Say something,” Jones growled in her ear, his fingers digging into her arm.
“Mr. Wiley,” she squeaked. “I’m here.” She hated herself for giving in to what these men wanted. She was supposed to be figuring out a way to stop them, not helping them along.
Hoskins leaned forward on his horse, and Clara could almost see him smiling. “If you’d like Miss Brown to survive this encounter, then I suggest you set down your weapons and open up that big door.”
A moment passed, one in which Clara didn’t dare take a breath. She was more aware than ever before of the presence of the pistol against her side, and yet despite that, she could hardly stand to see Mr. Wiley and Mr. Benton comply with these horrible men’s demands.
And yet they did. As the larger door—the one used for the horses and the wagon—opened, the lantern light from inside illuminated Mr. Wiley and Mr. Benton, scowling and standing with their guns on the ground.
