Chapter Three
“MISS GROVES?” THE SHERIFFsaid.
Lina nodded. Her heart thumped like some wild beast caged in her chest. She redoubled her grip on Papa’s revolver. It seemed to be the only thing keeping her grounded in this awkward moment. She didn’t know what she’d expected of Sheriff Rodgers. Most of her thoughts had centered on how she might convince him to tell her of her father’s last words. But one thing was for certain.
She hadn’t expected him to look likethis.
Stop being foolish. She wasn’t here to trip and giggle like some love-sodden girl. Lina came on a mission, not to simper over the man’s imposing stature and deep brown eyes. She had no time for that.
Nor did she have time for idiots like the ones who held up the stage and caused it to tip over. Her own father might have built his treasure from robbing and stealing, but it was never from regular folks—only from companies he’d decided could stand to part with their money.
Whether that made it more right or not wasn’t something Lina wanted to think on for too long.
“I’m glad you’ve made it here safely,” the sheriff said. He paused a second, scrunching his forehead as if he just realized what he said. “Or, well, mostly safe.”
He motioned to one of his men, an older, grizzled fellow who looked as if he’d seen more than his share of trouble. They conferred a moment before the older man none-too-gently yanked the outlaw to his feet and led him away.
“You can put that pistol away now.” The sheriff nodded at Lina’s hand, and she realized she was still holding the gun. She returned it to the pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt. When she looked up, it was to find Sheriff Rodgers watching her. She couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking, but he looked somewhat bemused.
Lina pulled herself up straighter. She wasn’t here for anyone’s amusement, least of all this man who was to be her intended. “Would you like to hear what occurred?”
The sheriff replaced his hat, a beaten thing that looked as if it had once been a decent shade of brown. It covered the dark hair that hung just a bit too long, and yet somehow made him even more fascinating to look at.
Lina bit her lip and looked down, trying to compose herself. This was much easier done when her eyes weren’t on him. “We rounded the bend over there, and that fellow and at least six other men—it was hard to count them in the melee—swooped down seemingly from nowhere.” She went on to explain how the men’s sudden appearance frightened the horses, causing them to rear up and the stage to tip over. The shotgun messenger must have jumped away and started shooting. They’d injured him, obviously, and once the driver raised his hands, the men pulled off a trunk that had been strapped to the rear of the stage.
Lina had stayed put inside the overturned coach with the other two passengers, trying to gather her wits. The situation had been unexpected and terrifying, but watching the two men she was with cower in fear gave her pause. Her father hadn’t raised a helpless girl. It was why she’d thought not only to bring the pistols, but to place one of them on her person before boarding the train all the way back in east Kansas. So when one of the outlaws made comments about opening her own trunk, Lina drew on that strength, pulled out her own pistol, and aimed it through the window right at his leg.
“Did you hit him?” Sheriff Rodgers asked, quickly hiding the incredulous look that had shot across his face.
“Of course I did. My father taught me to shoot when I was young. I don’t miss. Anyway, they’d apparently gotten what they came for, and with a passenger shooting at them, they scattered. Well, all except that man. He had the misfortune to catch his foot on one of the ropes that held the trunks. I held him here and the driver tied his hands.”
Sheriff Rodgers pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and replaced it, as if he needed the moment to think on what to say. “Well, Miss Groves, I’d say you handled yourself well. I’ll send a man to see if that man you injured might have left a trail of blood.” He paused. “You didn’t catch any names, did you?”
“No, I didn’t hear them speak a name,” she replied.
The sheriff nodded, his lips pressed together. And Lina wondered just how many outlaws roamed these mountains. “Perhaps that fellow you captured will be loose-lipped,” he said.
“Hawk,” one of the sheriff’s men, a blond, ruddy-faced man closer to the sheriff’s age, called as he approached them. “There ain’t no fixing that wheel up here. It’s splintered pretty good. Probably needs a new one altogether.”
“All right.” Sheriff Rodgers rubbed a hand over his chin, which held a good day or two’s shadow of a beard. “Tell the passengers to get what they need, and we’ll ride down. Oh, and ask Jackson to look around the perimeter again for any sign of blood. Miss Groves here wounded one of the men with her pistol.”
The other man glanced at Lina with approval, his lips lifting into a smile, before hurrying off to do as Sheriff Rodgers asked.
Lina retrieved a few needed items from her trunk, for which the sheriff had kindly given her one of his saddlebags. She closed and locked the trunk, praying no one would abscond with it before a new wheel could be affixed to the stagecoach. Her clothing certainly wasn’t worth much, but it was all she had.
With the stage driver, the injured shotgun messenger, and the two passengers on one of each of the stage’s four horses, and the outlaw on his own horse, Lina found herself staring up at the sheriff’s horse and facing a long ride down the mountain—with him.
