Now if he could only extend that success to the rest of the county.
When they grew close to the pass, Hawk motioned for the group to stop. Young Billy Morrell slid from his horse, and with a nod from Hawk, crept forward until he disappeared into the trees.
Minutes stretched on, until Hawk thought for certain Billy had either fallen down the mountain or had, inconceivably, been spotted. Finally, Billy reappeared as quietly as he’d left, but this time with a grin the size of the sky above plastered across his face.
“Found it,” he said. “And you won’t believe what I saw.”
Hawk raised an eyebrow. The outlaws—if there were any—must be long gone.
“You gonna tell us?” Garland asked, impatience lacing his voice.
“Them fellas must’ve gotten the shotgun messenger, but standing aside the stage was a lady, hair yellow as the sun, with a man trussed up at her feet and her holding a pistol on him.” Billy’s voice conveyed the awe and respect it was clear he held for this woman.
Rafe caught Hawk’s eye. “You don’t think . . .?”
Hawk shrugged, an attempt to look nonchalant even as his thoughts tumbled over one another. Miss Groves had described herself as fair-haired, and he’d certainly asked for a capable woman—although he’d had cooking and keeping house more in mind with that description than holding road agents at bay with a pistol.
“Let’s get up on there,” he said, motioning to the rest of the men to move forward.
Billy led the way, and before too long, they’d come upon the scene. Hawk immediately looked to the boulders and large rock outcroppings that surrounded the road that cut through this part of the mountains. Many a man had passed through here and lost his horse, his wallet, and—on occasion—his life. It was no wonder that yet another band of outlaws chose this very spot to ambush the stagecoach.
Satisfied that Billy hadn’t missed anyone still lurking behind the boulders, Hawk turned his attention to the scene that lay spread out before him in the Pass. Sure enough, the coach was over on its side. The driver had unhitched the horses, who snuffled impatiently. One man nursed an arm wrapped with a makeshift blood-soaked bandage, while the driver and a couple of pasty-looking fellows who looked as if they couldn’t lift a cat assessed what looked like a broken wheel.
And there, off to the side, stood a young woman in a dress the color of sage, holding a pistol aimed at a man who sat on a nearby rock with his hands tied behind his back.
Hawk and his men wasted no time in dismounting.
“I don’t see any other ladies about.” Garland clapped a hand on Hawk’s back before joining a couple of the other men at the fallen stage.
“Need any help with that one?” Bartholomew Jackson, a grizzled Army veteran, nodded at the presumed outlaw.
Hawk shook his head. There wasn’t much danger in a man tied up with a woman holding a gun on him. “Can you check the outskirts?”
With one last look at the young woman with the pistol, Jackson nodded before ambling off to see what might be found in the area around the stagecoach.
Hawk glanced back at the woman only to find her eyes were already on him. She looked him up and down, as if she were appraising what she saw. He couldn’t help but wonder if he met her approval.
Of course, he didn’t know for certain if this was Miss Groves. He didn’t know how many other fair-haired young women were due to ride the stage from Pueblo. The man tied up next to her was somewhere near Hawk’s age and looked resigned to his situation.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said as he approached her. She narrowed a pair of arresting blue eyes at him. Her hair, gathered under an unpretentious hat, was so light in color that it was almost blinding. Combined with her smooth skin and heart-shaped face, it was quite a picture—one that made Hawk draw in a sudden breath. If she wasn’t Miss Groves, he decided he’d be quite disappointed.
“Good afternoon,” she said as if they were meeting at a social occasion instead of on the side of this narrow road while she held a pistol at one of the men who had robbed her stagecoach.
Too late, he remembered to remove his hat. “I’m Hawk Rodgers, Costilla County sheriff.”
Something flickered across her face, too quick for him to catch it. But her mouth turned up at the corners, only a little but enough to set him more at ease. So, he didn’t displease her entirely. That was something, he supposed.
“Sheriff Rodgers,” she said, as if she were testing the feel of his name. “I believe you might be expecting me.”
