Renegade Bride Read online

  "All right now, none o' that," came a voice from behind Creed as someone grabbed his arm. He whirled to find himself nose-to-nose with Jamie O'Hurlehy, the blue-coated sergeant who just moments ago had been headed to meet his Maeve aboard the ship.

  "What in the devil's name is goin' on here?" O'Hurlehy demanded. "Speak up, before I arrest the two of ye an' throw ye in the stockade for murder."

  "Nobody's lockin' me up fer shootin' that piece of scum," Kraylor protested, a thin trickle of blood dripping down into his beard. "I got me legal papers sayin' dead or alive. Dead suits me jist fine." He got to his feet, still rubbing his jaw, and pulled a rumpled WANTED dodger from his dirty shirt pocket. "He's half mine. Yew remember that." He shot Creed a meaningful look.

  Creed barely controlled his impulse to strangle the bastard. Around them, the crowd pressed in and Creed felt like a caged animal in a traveling side-show. For the first time since the gunfight, his eyes were drawn to the girl he'd been sent here to meet.

  Mariah Parsons—pale-faced and trembling—was being helped up out of the mud by her lady-friend. But Mariah's horror-stricken gaze was fixed on Creed. Her amber eyes accused him without a word, causing his anger to shift into something more closely resembling regret.

  He glanced down at his arm, noticing for the first time the bloodstain spreading across his sleeve.

  LaRousse's bullet had torn a furrow across the muscle in his upper arm. Suddenly it burned like hell.

  Creed winced and covered it with his hand. Around him, the levee came back to life. People crawled from behind hastily assumed hiding spots and gathered around LaRousse's lifeless body.

  "And what have you got to say for yerself?" O'Hurlehy demanded of Creed. "Are you a bounty hunter, as well?"

  "Oui," he muttered.

  "What?"

  "Yes," Creed repeated louder. "I am a bounty hunter. This man was wanted for murder in the township of Bannack."

  O'Hurlehy frowned at the piece of paper Kraylor had handed him. "You sure this was your man?"

  "I'm sure," Creed answered, glancing back at the inert form of Étienne LaRousse.

  O'Hurlehy nodded. "Well then, best be seein' to that arm after we get the particulars sorted through here."

  Creed shrugged, sliding his gaze toward Mariah Parsons who had turned her back on him.

  "Who should we see about the pay?" Kraylor demanded.

  "Pay?" O'Hurlehy repeated icily.

  "For the hide. Who pays for the hide?"

  Creed smoothed a hand irritably over his disheveled hair and fitted his hat back on. "Shut up, Kraylor."

  "Well, if them soldiers ain't gonna settle up," Kraylor went on, "I ain't haulin' the redskin back to Bannack with me." He fingered the old Green River knife at his belt. "That red bastard's scalp alone oughta be proof enough."

  "Colonel Paullen will be able to take care of this whole affair back at the fort," O'Hurlehy replied grimly. Creed turned away, anxious to leave this business behind him.

  "Wait a minute, Devereaux—" Kraylor called to him. "Where're yew goin'? Hey, don't yew want a piece o' this?"

  "No," he muttered, then changed his mind seeing the eager disbelief on Kraylor's face. "Yes. O'Hurlehy, send my share to an Eleanor Wilcox in Bannack. LaRousse made her a widow. It's the least he can do for her now."

  "Aye, that I will," the sergeant answered.

  Creed nodded, then headed resolutely toward Seth Travers's woman.

  * * *

  At the edge of the levee, some twenty feet away, Mariah Parsons rubbed her aching cheek with the back of her muddy, shaking hand. She'd watched the men with growing revulsion. Bounty hunters. That's what they were. Hunters of men. Mercenaries of the worst ilk. And to think, only moments before, one of them actually tipped his hat to her. Her already shaky stomach had twisted another notch when she'd glanced back at him and found him staring directly at her. The nerve of the man! she thought, her cheeks hot with indignation. If Seth were only here, a man like that wouldn't dare look at her twice in such a way.

  Yanking at the black satin ribbon beneath her chin, she tore off her hopelessly damaged hat. Her legs were trembling, forcing her to lock them in place consciously to keep from falling back in the mire.

  Beside her, Maeve O'Hurlehy brushed at the mud on Mariah's ruined gown. They had met in Chicago through an ad Maeve had placed in the Daily Tribune for a traveling companion. Both were headed toward the same place and both were alone. Though Maeve was older by a good fifteen years, she had become a good friend whom Mariah would sorely miss after she left with Seth for Virginia City.

  "I'm afraid it's no use, Maeve. It's ruined," Mariah murmured, trying to hide her disappointment. "What will Seth think when he sees me this way?" She'd spent extra time dressing this morning so that Seth would see her at her best after four long years. Now, she looked like something that had been dragged through a rain gutter.

  "Arrah," Maeve replied with a shake of her head and a gentle touch to Mariah's cheek. "'Tis not this poor gown that's important. Nothing's broken and for that we can be grateful. Why, that awful brute might have killed ye."

  Mariah gingerly massaged her shoulder, recalling with a shiver the awful face of the man who'd collided with her. Another memory came rushing back as well: a male voice crying out her name just before she'd been knocked to the ground. The thought creased her brow. She could have sworn it was that dreadful man. That... that bounty hunter.

  Mariah, he'd called, as if he knew her. But that was impossible. She knew no one here but Seth.

  "Where could he be, Maeve?" Mariah's worried gaze swept the sea of men on the levee.

  Maeve glanced up at her. "You mean Seth?"

  "You read his letter, promising to meet me here. He couldn't have forgotten or gotten the dates confused, could he?"

  "Don't ye be worry in'. He'll be along. At any rate, ye'll come along with me an' Jamie and get yerself cleaned up a bit. Why, by the time your Seth see's ye—" Maeve halted abruptly and her eyes widened.

  "Miss Parsons?"

  Mariah gave a start at the sound of a man's deep voice behind her. When she turned, the tall bounty hunter was standing close, not two feet away. His black felt hat was pulled low over his eyes, without the slightest deference to social politeness. The man's gaze traveled rudely down the muddy length of her then back to the swelling bruise on her cheek. "Are you hurt?"

  She felt her world tilt ever so slightly on its axis as he towered over her. His voice was as rough as the growth of beard that darkened his angular jaw. His accent was undeniably French, and despite the fact that she'd just watched him gun down a man in cold blood, it was the most sensual male voice she'd ever heard. Shocked by her own observation and embarrassed by his scrutiny, she averted her gaze.

  "I've had better days, if that's what you mean." There was cool dismissal in her voice as she tugged at the ruined cuffs on her sleeves. She hoped her answer would make him leave, but he didn't move.

  "I'm sorry you were caught in the middle of all that."

  Was that sincere regret in his voice, Mariah wondered. It surprised her that a man like this would worry about such things.

  "Perhaps," he went on, finally lifting his hat, "we should have the fort doctor look at that cheek."

  We? With a sickening start, it occurred to her he'd called her by name again. Against her will, she forced her gaze to meet his. "That won't be necesary..." The rest died on her lips and she found herself staring.

  His eyes captured her attention first. Not exactly green nor truly blue, they were the depthless hue of the ocean just before a storm—stirred up and infinitely dangerous. The thick fringe of lashes fencing those unfathomable eyes were the same ebony as the long hair curling intractably at his neck and the shadow on his jaw.

  An odd-looking choker circled his throat, made of what appeared to be finely-carved bone with blue and red trade beads. It was beautiful, unique, and obviously Indian. A shudder raced through her. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that a
man as dangerous-looking as he would consort with savages, but the thought horrified her.

  "Miss?"

  Mariah blinked, unable to summon the courage to respond. She imagined her face looked as chalky as her stomach felt.

  "Are you all right?" he asked in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Perhaps you should sit—"

  Retreating from his hand as he reached toward her, she answered, "No, I'm fine. I'm waiting for my—" It was then she noticed the blood streaking his shirt sleeve.

  "Merciful heavens, your arm..."

  Creed followed her glance, then shrugged. "It's just a graze."

  Why she even cared, Mariah couldn't imagine. After all, the man had just snuffed out another man's life as if it were nothing. She turned away taking Maeve's arm. "I appreciate your concern," she said firmly, "but if you'll excuse us now—"

  "Miss Parsons—wait."

  Setting her teeth on edge, she whirled back to face him. "Mister-?"

  "Devereaux. Creed Devereaux."

  "If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Devereaux, that's the third time you've called me by my name. We haven't been introduced, have we? And since you have a most memorable way of introducing yourself, I'm certain I would have remembered."

  Something akin to a smile played across his lips and he fitted his hat back on his head slowly. "Seth sent me to bring you home."

  Chapter 2

  Mariah felt the blood drain from her face. "I—I beg your pardon?"

  "Your fiancé? Seth Travers?" Devereaux repeated slowly, as if she were dimwitted. "He sent me to escort you back to Virginia City on the stage."

  He might as well have told her he was from the moon. "Seth... sent you?" She glanced imploringly at Maeve, but the woman looked equally confused. "Why, that's impossible," Mariah argued. "Seth would never... I mean, you're a..."

  All traces of humor disappeared from his eyes. "Bounty hunter?" he supplied tightly. "That's true. I'm also a friend of Seth's."

  Mariah swallowed hard and stiffened her spine. "There must be some mistake."

  His jaw grew tight. "I'm afraid not. Seth was taken ill suddenly and couldn't come himself. That's why he sent me to fetch you."

  "Seth—ill?" she echoed in a small voice. Dear Lord... not Seth... not now...

  Creed shifted uncomfortably. "He came down with camp fever the day before he was supposed to come here. Quite a few of the miners in Virginia City are down with it."

  Numbness crept into her voice. "Camp fever. Is it... serious?"

  He glanced at the ground, unable to meet her eyes.

  "Serious enough to keep him from coming here for you. He would have tried, too, if I hadn't threatened to tie him to the bed."

  It was worse than he was telling her. She knew that from his evasive glance. She blinked at the tears that burned the backs of her eyes. Seth. Oh, Seth.

  "I... I don't even know you," she managed at last. "How do I even know you're telling me the truth?"

  Devereaux pulled what looked suspiciously like her last letter to Seth from his pocket along with a small heart-shaped pin she'd given him four years ago when he'd left for the West.

  "He gave me these so you wouldn't doubt my word."

  Mariah took both in her trembling hands, unable to deny they were hers. Her gaze returned to the bounty hunter. What could Seth have been thinking, sending a vicious killer like Creed Devereaux to protect her? It must have been the fever. He couldn't have been in his right mind.

  "I... I suppose you're who you say you are." She blinked rapidly, determined not to cry. "He... Seth could have just sent word to me. You needn't have gone to all the trouble of riding up here to fetch me, Mr. Devereaux. After all, there is a stage that runs between here and Virginia City, isn't there? I would be perfectly safe—"

  "No," Devereaux interrupted. "No, you wouldn't."

  "He's right," put in Jamie O'Hurlehy who had walked up beside his wife. "Not a soul's safe on the road 'tween here and Virginia City, Miss. It's bein' used as a kind of toll road for a gang of highwaymen callin' themselves 'The Innocents.' Even though they hanged the gang's leaders this past winter, a fair number of 'em are robbin' stages every week for the gold shipments, or the miners traveling with their dust."

  "Well, why doesn't the law do something about it?" Mariah demanded.

  "You're not in Chicago now," Creed reminded her. "I'm afraid there's not much law out in these parts yet."

  "Except for men like you."

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. "That's right."

  "I suppose the Montana Territory hasn't caught up with the American concept of 'innocent until proven guilty' either, has it?" she pressed on recklessly. "Do you always shoot men down in cold blood, Mr. Devereaux, or only the ones you have personally convicted and sentenced?"

  "I've never killed a man who didn't need killing, Miss Parsons. Nor have I ever felt the need to answer to anyone but myself."

  "Not even to God, Mr. Devereaux?"

  Something in his eyes—perhaps the flicker of pain that seemed to vanish as soon as it appeared—made her wish she'd kept quiet. He was, after all, Seth's friend. Or so he claimed. But for the life of her, she'd never understand how her gentle Seth could have fallen in with a man as ruthless as Devereaux.

  His eyes narrowed with his scowl and it took him a moment to answer. "That's between Him and me, isn't it? Look, Miss Parsons, you're not obliged to like me, but I promised Seth I'd bring you to him, safe and sound. I intend to do just that. I suggest, however, if we're to be traveling together, you keep your opinions of me to yourself and I'll do my best to do the same. Do we understand each other?"

  Never, she thought, hitching up her chin defiantly. "Perfectly."

  "Good. Now, if you want to change out of those things before we take off, I suggest you hurry," he continued, cracking open an incongruous-looking gold pocket watch he'd withdrawn from a pocket in his fringed buckskin pants. "The only stage for Virginia City leaves in about forty-five minutes."

  Creed placed his hand over hers on the handle of her bag intending to relieve her of it, but a peculiar shock traveled up his arm at the contact. For a moment, he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He sucked in a breath and with an effort, blinked the sensation away. He wondered if she'd felt it, too, as he took her bag from her.

  Mariah, seemingly unfazed by his strange reaction, cast a forlorn glance at her filthy attire. "W-we're leaving now? So soon?"

  Creed forced a casual shrug, belying the tension in his jaw. "Or, you can wait until tomorrow, as you wish."

  Maeve patted her arm. "Mari, dear, why don't ye wait a day or so? Get yer bearings straight. Ye've had quite a scare." She shot a cold glance at Creed, then returned her attention to Mariah. "Yer welcome to stay with us."

  "Aye," agreed Jamie. "There's room at the fort, lass."

  Mariah shook her head. Her throat was knotted with emotion. "I haven't seen Seth in over four years, Maeve. Now he's sick and he needs me. He... he could be dying, for all I know. The sooner I go, the sooner I'll be with him.

  "I'll need my things," she told Devereaux curtly. She snatched back the tapestry grip, then turned to Maeve. "If you can find a suitable place where I can change, I'll be ready whenever Mr. Devereaux is."

  The bounty hunter glanced at the steamer. "You have more luggage, I assume."

  "Only a small trunk. It has yet to be off-loaded."

  "I'll see to it. Meet me at the stage depot at the end of the street in thirty minutes. I'll have your ticket." He turned his back on her without waiting for a reply and stalked up the gangplank.

  Mariah scowled after him, giving a mock salute to his back. "Yes, sir." If he heard her, he didn't turn around. Mariah paced, twisting her hands around the leather handles on her valise.

  "Imagine," she fumed to Maeve, "Seth sending a man like that to protect me! Why, I think I'd be safer in that randy crowd of miners we just rode in with than with that... that barbarian."

  "Faith..." Maeve shook her head sympathetically. "'Tis su
re ye are that goin's the right thing, lass?"

  "What else can I do? But I can tell you, Seth will have a piece of my mind for this." Her anger faltered. "When he... when he gets well, that is."

  "And he will, Mari. Don't you be worryin' yerself sick over it. Yer man'll be fine. You'll see." She patted Mariah's arm. "Come along now. Jamie will find us a place close by where ye can change out of these things."

  Mariah cast one last, disparaging glance at the tall man aboard the Luella. She wondered exactly how long it would take to travel the almost two hundred miles between here and Virginia City. Four days? Five? How would she stand being near him for that long?

  One thing was certain: however long it took, she'd be counting the minutes until Creed Devereaux would be out of her life and she'd be safely back with Seth.

  * * *

  The hand-lettered wooden sign above the A.J. Oliver Stagecoach Depot swung in the rising breeze and nudged the still-green wood frame building with a steady, annoying thud. Creed leaned one shoulder against the storefront wall, keeping time with the toe of his boot against the wooden walkway.

  Tossing his cheroot down, he ground it to ashes beneath his heel and yanked his watch out of his pocket for a third time. Thirty minutes, he'd told her. It had been nearly forty and the driver was stowing the last of the luggage into the canvas-covered boot of the mud-coach. Creed's agitated gaze swept the crowded street. Where is she?

  "Pow, pow!"

  Two young boys careened by him in the muddy street, shooting imaginary guns at each other.

  "You're dead, Jeremy!" cried the older of the two, a boy whose worn britches were held up by a piece of twine.

  "Ain't neither!" retorted the smaller one, balling his fists on his hips. His small face clouded like a thunder-head.

  "Are so! I got ya 'tween the eyes, outlaw!"

  Turning to make good his escape, the younger boy raced up the steps and collided with Creed's knees with a whoof of breath.

  "Whoa, there," Creed said with a gruff smile as he caught the boy by the shoulders before he could fall to the planked flooring. He steadied him while the tow-headed child, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, scanned Creed's extraordinary height.