The Gunfighter and the Heiress (7 page)

However they accomplished the feat, their gunmen nearly disposed of her new husband and accidentally hit Bart. Or had they been aiming at
her
and missed…?

“Dear God,” she wheezed, her blood practically turning to ice in her veins at the awful thought of Crow or Bart Collier dying because of her. In addition, she hadn't signed the marriage license so the fortune was still up for grabs.

“What's wrong?” Van glanced every way at once. “Did you spot someone on the roof of the butcher shop again?”

“No.” Natalie inhaled several cathartic breaths and told herself to calm down now that the danger had passed—for the moment, at least. “What can I do to help Bart?”

“Let's get him on his feet after I apply a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.”

With the tourniquet in place, Crow clutched Bart's good arm and gently drew him into a sitting position. Together Natalie and Crow hoisted Bart to his feet. He staggered slightly but gritted his teeth and moved forward under his own power as best he could. Natalie and Crow wrapped their arms around his back for additional support as they headed toward the Simon House.

Once the shooting had stopped, the crowd converged to see who had been hurt. Natalie gnashed her teeth when someone in the middle of the crowd commented the shooting didn't surprise him, considering who the groom was.

“What is the matter with you people?” she burst out. “Donovan Crow is a good and decent man and—”

“It's all right, I'm used to—” Crow tried to interrupt but she was having none of that.

“This is my husband and I demand you show him the consideration and respect he deserves—”

“Sun—”

“He travels the country, capturing vicious criminals who prey on all of you and yet you—”

“Sunshine—”

“—went running when trouble arose,” she said, talking over him. “Any of you volunteering to help Crow hunt down the bushwhackers? No? I thought not. You cowered behind his gun. But thank you so much for partaking of the free food and drink at our reception, and then running
like cowards while Crow covered everyone who turned tail and ran.”

Natalie huffed out an agitated breath as she motioned for the crowd to move out of their way. When Bart grinned at her—in between painful grimaces—she glared at him. “Why are you smiling? You've been shot.”

“I thought this marriage might be a mismatch,” Bart mumbled. “I was mistaken. What Van does with his weapons you can do with words. I'll have to strive to be that animated when I'm arguing my next case in court.”

Natalie tried to get past her anger and indignation but it wasn't easy. When she glanced at Crow, he raised his eyebrows and bit back an amused smile. He didn't have a damn thing to smile about, either, but he didn't realize it yet.

She knew Marsh and Kimball—or their hired gunmen—had fired the shots. They had barely missed their mark and Bart was suffering for it. Knowing those greedy bastards, she predicted they would strike again. Soon.

Her guilty conscience beat her black and blue while they shepherded Bart across the street toward the hotel. Crow was on high alert, looking for trouble in the form of another ambush. He stuck to the shadows beneath the porches outside the stores to reach the hotel lobby without mishap.

Natalie managed to keep her trap shut while they ascended the steps to escort Bart into a spacious, expensively furnished suite that rivalled Crow's living quarters.

Then she blurted out, “I'm so sorry! This is my fault and Bart is suffering for it! This is not what I intended.”

Both men gaped at her as if she had ivy vines growing out her ears.

“The two men who want to use me for their greedy
purposes obviously located me sooner than expected. I predict they will attack again.”

“Nice of you to shoulder the blame, sunshine, but the three men who swore revenge because I killed their little brother in self-defense are the ones who retaliated. Although I put them behind bars, they recently escaped.” He walked Bart across the sitting room to the bedroom. “They sent me a note, promising an eye for an eye.”

Natalie hurried to the commode to fetch a cloth to dip in water to cleanse Bart's wound while Van eased him into bed.

“I'll fetch the poultice then stitch him back together,” Crow said as he reversed direction to hurry off. “Lock the door behind me.”

“What three men is he talking about?” she asked Bart when she returned from securing the door.

Natalie eased down on the edge of the bed to clean the jagged wound. She told herself she wouldn't faint. She was headed for the wilderness as fast as she could get there and she refused to be squeamish, whether she treated her own wounds or someone else's.

“The Harper Gang—” He hissed in pain when she touched a tender spot. “Damn, that stings!”

“Sorry.” She tried to be exceptionally gentle.

“The cutthroats committed a series of bank robberies and shot tellers and innocent bystanders. Van told the bankers to sic the Texas Rangers on the outlaws when they escaped jail. Apparently they haven't tracked down the Harpers and recovered the stolen money.”

Natalie marshaled her determination to have the wound completely prepared by the time Crow returned with his poultice and needle. When she felt the bullet lodged against muscle she pulled a pin from her hair, dipped it in water and gently probed to remove it.

Bart glanced at the bullet she placed on the end table, and then at her. “I'm impressed.” His gaze drifted past her when a knock at the sitting room door rattled the hinges. “Get that, will you? I'd do it myself but my arm's blown off.”

She rolled her eyes at his exaggeration, then hurried off to unlock the door. Crow sailed past her, carrying a leather pouch twice the size of the one he kept in his shirt pocket.

His medicine bag, no doubt. She wouldn't be surprised to learn this competent warrior was also a shaman. Natalie wished she could acquire half his talents and skills before she rode off to seek adventure and feed her hungry soul.

 

“No need to bother looking for the bullet. She removed it already,” Bart told Van. “I didn't know you'd found time to give her a few survival lessons.”

Van glanced over his shoulder and stared pensively at Natalie who hovered by the bedroom door. “I haven't. She must be a natural. Either that or she has skills she hasn't divulged, along with her real name,” he added quietly.

He gestured toward the bag he'd set on the floor. “There's a sedative in a silver tin,” he told her. “Give it to Bart with a glass of water before I stitch him up.”

While Bart munched on the painkiller and sipped water, Van packed numbing salve around the jagged edges of the gunshot wound. Then he stitched the skin together and applied healing poultice. All the while, his conscience railed at him for allowing his best friend to suffer injury from a bullet meant for him. Furthermore, Natalie had come close to being shot, too, and the thought made him cringe.

In addition, she had stood up for him and lectured the citizens on their bad behavior and rude comment. He was
flattered and astounded by her daring and courage. Whoever she was, she wasn't short on gumption.

“My, that's a fast-acting potion.” Natalie frowned when Bart stopped talking in midsentence and slumped on the bed.

“Peyote,” he informed her with a wry grin. “It affects people in varying degrees. I used it on Bart after those hooligans beat him to a pulp. He reacted the same way, then he slept the night away in total oblivion.”

“Well, I suppose I should return to my room,” she said as she tucked the quilt beneath Bart's chin. “It has been a hectic day, what with last-minute plans for the ceremony and the unnerving bushwhacking ordeal.”

Warily, Van watched Natalie shift from one foot to the other. She refused to meet his gaze, just kept casting concerned glances at Bart. He wondered if she was apprehensive about their supposed wedding night or upset because she thought the ambush was her fault. Which it wasn't. It was
his.
Men shot at him all the time. It was a hazard of his assignments. He was accustomed to it. She wasn't.

He had to admit the prospect of having Natalie in his room on their wedding night—whether anything intimate came of it or not—held tremendous appeal. But this was a marriage in name only, he reminded himself. Under the circumstances, it was probably best if all three of them stayed in separate rooms, in case the Harper Gang came gunning for him again.

Bart had been shot because he had been standing too close to Van. Bullets had flown over Natalie's head. It was a wonder one of them hadn't hit her. The thought of stitching up wounds on her flawless skin made him grimace is distaste.

“You can return to your room if you want,” he mur
mured. “You're a woman of independence now. Just stay off the streets, lest you get shot and I have to patch you up.”

She finally met his gaze. “I do have my freedom now, don't I? Well then, I'll bid you good night. And thank you for seeing that I am free to go where I want and do as I please. I will always be indebted to you for that and I will pay you tomorrow.”

“No rush,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

She swept across the bedroom in her grass-stained white gown. Van got up and followed her into the sitting area. “Stop right there, sunshine.”

She glanced at him as she reached for the door latch.

Van shook his head warningly, then pulled her sideways. “Never open a door while you're standing directly in front of it. Especially after a near brush with bushwhackers. They could be lying in wait.”

“Good advice. Is that Rule Number One in Crow's Survival Handbook?”

“Top ten at least.” He eased open the door to ensure no one lurked in the shadowed hallway, waiting to gun him down.

She hesitated momentarily, then pressed a kiss to his lips. “Thank you for coming to the wedding.”

He smiled. “Thank you for inviting me to be your groom.”

She opened her mouth and then clamped her lips shut, as if she'd decided against voicing whatever thought was racing through her mind. “Well, good night, Crow.”

He watched her cling to the shadows and noted which room she entered, in case he needed to come to her rescue. He strode quickly to the bedroom to check on Bart, who hadn't moved a muscle. Van decided this was the perfect time to change into his everyday clothes, run the important
errand he had overlooked after the shooting and then look around town. If the Harpers were lurking about, hoping to shoot the right man the second time around, he vowed to stop them in their tracks so Natalie wouldn't be caught in the cross fire—like Bart.

N
atalie scurried around her room, gathering her belongings and cramming them into her satchel and carpetbag. Disguised in the men's clothing she'd purchased for traveling, she checked that no one was waiting in the hall to pounce on her. She slipped outside the door, then inched down the hall to the metal fire escape and into the alley.

She planned to be long gone by morning and the two bastards and their hired assassins could chase her and leave Crow and Bart alone. No one else was going to suffer because of her, she vowed fiercely.

Leaving her luggage behind the livery stable, Natalie scampered around the corner of the building, then ducked inside. She surveyed the string of horses in their stalls. One powerful-looking gelding caught her attention. He was solid black, except for a strip of white down the length of his nose. The marking resembled an arrow.

Making her selection, she pulled her oversize cap down round her ears then strode toward the door she presumed led to the owner's living quarters. She rapped on the door and waited impatiently before knocking again.

“Hold your horses, I'm coming,” the owner grumbled from the other side of the door.

Natalie nodded to the fifty-year-old—or thereabouts—barrel-bellied man who had a sparse smattering of gray hair on his head. His shoulders were as wide as a bull's and his legs reminded her of tree stumps.

“Whad'ya want, kid?” he demanded gruffly.

“Need a horse,” she replied in her deepest voice, to throw off the owner so he would mistake her for a boy. “Want to buy the strapping black one and I got money to pay for it.”

“Yeah? Stolen money?” he asked, and snorted. “Can't have that one. Belongs to Crow. He pays me damn good money to make sure Durango is well fed and ready to ride when he wants him.”

Should've known, she thought. The muscular mount looked as if he could run all day and night without breaking a sweat. The horse reminded her of Crow—tough, powerful and dependable.

“Give me the second best mount you have. I gotta ride west to see my sick mama,” she mumbled. “A boy's gotta be there when his mama needs him, ya know.”

The owner squinted suspiciously at her. “You sure you got money that ain't stolen?”

“Hard-earned,” she insisted. “I'm not a thief, mister.”

She must have sounded convincing because the older man finally nodded and lumbered down the aisle to open the stall where a strawberry roan waited. “I s'pose you need tack, too, huh, kid?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” She fished several bank notes from her pants pocket to give to the owner.

Within a few minutes, Natalie led her mount around the corner to toss her luggage on the back of her horse. She tied the satchels in place then caught sight of a darting
shadow from the corner of her eye. She tried to scream her head off but a man's hand clamped over the lower portion of her face, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to yell for help. He slammed her back against his solid chest and leaned down to growl venomously in her ear.

“Going somewhere? I don't think so. Besides, you forgot something and I'm here to see you get it.”

 

Van jerked the cap off Natalie's head. Wild curls tumbled around her shoulders. He had a good mind to give the glossy strands a yank. Despite her boy's clothing, he'd known by the way she moved that she was female—and he knew exactly which female in particular. His runaway wife.

Hell, they hadn't been married five hours and already she was hightailing it out of town without him.

And she hadn't paid him, either. In good faith, he hadn't pressed the issue. Maybe he should have.

“Good Lord,” she gushed when he removed his hand from her mouth and she glanced up at him. “You scared ten years off my life.”

“Too bad, sunshine. I'm mad as hell at you for scaring ten years off mine. I stopped by your room and found you gone. I thought the bushwhackers had sneaked in, grabbed you and your belongings and decided to hold you for bargaining power to get even with me.”

He got right in her face, bared his teeth and added, “Do not ever do that again. Understand?”

“I'm doing you a huge favor, damn it,” she snapped.

“Are you? Doesn't feel like it to me.” He displayed the document he'd retrieved from the justice of the peace a few minutes earlier and shook it in her face. “I thought you were in an all-fired rush to get hold of this paper. My name is on it. So are the witnesses. And where's my money
for the use of my name? You trying to skip out without paying?”

He wasn't really worried about his marriage fee, but he was irritated and he hadn't liked the unfamiliar feelings of fear and concern that lambasted him when he realized Natalie had vanished into thin air.

“Certainly not,” she said in offended dignity. “I would have wired you the money as soon as possible.”

“Instead, you can give it to me in person when we return to your room because you are not leaving town without me.”

She blinked, startled. “I'm a liability you can ill afford, Crow. My stepfather tracked me here and hired someone to dispose of you. Or me. I'm not sure which and I won't risk your life again. If you take another assignment and leave town, I'm hoping the hired assassins will come after me instead of you.”

Van clutched her elbow to quick-march her to the hotel but she stubbornly set her feet and refused to budge from the spot—short of being scooped up, tossed over his shoulder and carried off.

“What about the horse I bought?” she challenged. “I can't just leave him here to be stolen. I'm going to need him. And there's the matter of my luggage—”

His annoyed growl cut her off. Van untied the satchels, dropped them at her feet and then muttered, “I'll be right back. Do…not…move…or else.”

He knew the instant the words flew out of his mouth that he'd made a mistake. Her chin tilted to a rebellious angle and her spine went ramrod stiff.

“Good God, I married a tyrant,” she sniped.

“Please do not leave without me,” he corrected himself in a gentler tone.

She looked down her pert nose at him, then struck a
haughty pose that would have made him grin at her antics if he hadn't been so aggravated by her.

“Fine, dear, since you asked so nicely.”

He led the strawberry roan into the livery to contact the owner and concoct an explanation for returning the horse.

“What did you tell him?” she demanded the instant he returned. “I want to make sure we have our stories straight.”

“I told him that the kid and I are heading in the same direction tomorrow. I also told him to take care of the boy's horse as well as he usually takes care of mine.” He arched a brow. “That suit you, sunshine?”

“Yes, but what is
not
going to suit me is if you are ambushed on my account,” she grumbled as he swooped down to grab her luggage.

“I told you that it's
my
would-be assassins who are lurking about, not yours. So stop feeling guilty—”

His voice dried up as he rounded the side of the Simon House to see three horses tethered to the gutter pipe in the alley. Instant concern blazed through him. “Damn Harper brothers,” he scowled. “Stay here.”

He wasted his breath because Natalie, with her curly hair flying around her, leaped over the satchels he'd left behind and followed him up the metal fire escape. With both pistols drawn, Van eased into the hallway. He felt Natalie's piddly little two-shot derringer jabbing him in the elbow.

“Be careful with that thing,” he warned in a whisper. “Don't shoot me by mistake.”

“I won't. Just let me know when I can unload my weapon on those two bastards and their hired killer,” she demanded.

Just what I need,
thought Van.
A trigger-happy bride.

He definitely had to take time to give her proper weapon and self-defense training before she rode off into the sunset. The way she waved around that snub-nosed pistol, she was going to shoot somebody—and he hoped to hell it wasn't him!

Van went on full alert as he crept down the hall toward his room. He jerked to attention when he noticed Bart's door was standing ajar. Bemused, he tiptoed into the sitting room and pulled Natalie along with him. He heard jeering voices in the bedroom so he motioned for Natalie to remain where she was while he crept to the bedroom to investigate.

He instantly recognized the three men standing over Bart, who apparently had regained consciousness after one of the burly brutes pounded on him. Bart's eye was swollen shut and his split lip was bleeding.

“Toss your weapons on the bed,” Van demanded ominously.

When Jonas Potts wheeled around, his weapon raised threateningly, Van fired off a shot. He left Potts with a wound similar to the one Bart suffered. In the meantime, Bart caused a distraction by hurling the spare pillow at the second burly brute who went by the name of Pete Caine. Van pounded him on the back of the head when he tried to retrieve the pistol he'd tossed on the bed. Caine's legs folded up like a tent and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Van lurched around to confront the third intruder— Evan Rigsby—but he was a moment too slow. Rigsby plowed into him, knocking him off balance and groping at Van's pistol.

“You ain't gonna save this scrawny little bastard again, Crow,” Rigsby snarled. “This time both of you—”

His voice fizzled out abruptly and his gray eyes
widened in surprise. “What the hell…?” Rigsby chirped, and went perfectly still.

Van glanced around Rigsby's thick shoulders to see that Natalie had defied his orders—again—and had crept into the bedroom. She stood over Rigsby with a cloud of auburn hair floating around her face and the barrel of her pistol crammed into the side of his head.

“Can I shoot him, Crow?” she drawled, then got a crazy gleam in her eye that was amazingly convincing.

Rigsby swallowed with an audible gulp.

“I've been itching to shoot somebody all day.”

“No,” Van snapped, and bit back a grin.

“Why do you always get to have all the fun?” she complained. “I want to draw blood, too, and watch them squirm in pain.”

Van shoved Rigsby aside, then gestured toward the injured bully who was clutching his bloody shoulder. “If Potts tries to move you can blast away at him.”

He gestured for Rigsby to get down on his knees, then used the ties from the curtain to restrain him.

“Thanks for the help.” Bart stared at Van with his one good eye and licked his split lip. “Looks like I owe you again.”

“No, you'd have handled these goons easily if I hadn't given you peyote for the pain.”

Taking charge of the situation, Van dragged the unconscious Caine into the sitting room while Bart held Rigsby and Potts at gunpoint.

“Sunshine!” Van called from the other room.

She poked her head around the corner of the bedroom door and arched a questioning brow. “You decide to let me shoot one of these hombres for target practice?”

“Not tonight. Please put a cold pack on Bart's eye and
lip and change the dressing on his arm while I march these goons to jail.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave him a snappy salute. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, don't shoot Bart for practice, either. He's had a rough night.”

When Natalie disappeared from sight, Potts stared curiously at Van. “Why'd you marry that hellion? She's plum loco.”

“She's the best I could do,” Van said with a straight face. “Now let's move. You're disrupting my wedding night.”

 

Natalie dabbed lightly at Bart's puffy eye and swollen lip. “Who were those men? And what did they want with you?”

Bart shifted position and winced in pain. Apparently, the sedative was wearing off. “Those were the bullies I told you about that attacked me when I first moved to Wolf Ridge.”

Natalie blinked in surprise. “They retaliated because you made sure they served jail time for all their crimes?”

“Yes, and I am so sorry they targeted me during your wedding reception,” he said out the side of his mouth that wasn't swollen. “They spoiled your evening.”

“
They
shot you?” she chirped. “Not the men hunting for me?”

“And not the Harper Gang that Van thought had arrived to ambush him and hit me by mistake.” Bart levered himself against the headboard and reached for the glass of water on the end table. “Turns out
I
was the original target and I was to die for making those goons spend so many years in prison.”

“Eight years is a long time to hold a grudge,” she murmured.

“Not if you possess their spiteful mentality.” Bart sighed in frustration. “This should have been my opportunity to use the self-defense tactics Van taught me. Instead I was sleeping the evening away.”

“A shame they didn't do you the courtesy of contacting you in advance, the way the Harper Gang did for Van. Which is why he presumed
he
was the target of ambush and
I
assumed I hadn't covered my tracks well enough to prevent my stepfather and former fiancé from finding me so quickly.”

“There is a very real possibility of that happening to you,” Bart forewarned. “Van has the uncanny knack of finding people who plan to stay lost. He might be the best in the business, but there are others less honest who dispose of witnesses or anyone else if the price is right. Hired killers are easy to come by in any part of the country, I'm sorry to say. I've seen to it that several were convicted in court.”

Bart stared at her grimly with his good eye. “That is why you need to tell me your real name so we can be prepared for possible ambush that might place you or Van in danger.”

Natalie shook her head, sending the curly tendrils drifting around her shoulders. She considered Crow and Bart trustworthy—to a point. But she'd been serious when she informed Crow that she trusted no man explicitly. The Robedeaux-Blair name was a blessing and curse. People often accepted bribes to offer information that might earn them large rewards. It would break her heart if Bart or Crow betrayed her, for she counted both men as friends.