The Horseman's Bride

Clara worshipped her aunt and uncle and looked forward to their rare visits. Never blessed with children, they lived a glamorous life in San Francisco and had traveled all over the world. They always came to the ranch laden with exotic gifts and thrilling stories. On their last visit they’d brought Clara a bolt of white Indian silk, exquisitely embroidered in silver thread. “For your wedding, dear, whenever that might be,” Aunt Annie had told her.

Clara’s mother had put the treasured fabric away for safekeeping, but every now and then Clara would lift the bolt from the cedar chest, touch the silk with her fingertips and wonder if it would ever be used. Many of the girls she’d known from school were already married. But she’d always been more interested in horses than in boys. The idea of pledging herself to a man for the rest of her life had always seemed as far-fetched as walking on the moon. Not that she wasn’t popular. At the town dances, she never lacked for partners. But none of the local boys, even the ones she’d allowed to kiss her, had piqued her interest. They were nice enough, but not one of them had offered a challenge to her way of thinking. In fact, they hadn’t challenged her at all. They had no curiosity, no desire to test the limits of their small, safe lives. On the other hand, a certain blue-eyed hired man …

The sound of muted voices from the front porch yanked her attention back to the present. At first she thought Tanner had come back to talk with Mary. But she was halfway out the door when she realized that the speaker wasn’t Tanner. By then it was too late to reach for Mary’s shotgun.

At the foot of the porch, two grubby-looking men sat bareback astride a drooping piebald horse. The man in front held a cocked. 22 rifle, aimed straight at Mary.

And Tanner was nowhere in sight.

“Go back inside, Clara.” Mary’s voice was low and taut.

“Come on out here, sweetie.” The man in front grinned beneath his greasy bowler hat, showing gummy, tobacco-stained teeth. “Let’s have a look at you.”

Clara walked past Mary as far as the porch railing. She could almost feel the two men eyeing her. She could sense their dirty thoughts, like hands crawling over her body. Her nerves were screaming, but she knew better than to show fear. She kept her head up, her gaze direct.

“That’s a good girl,” the man in the bowler chuckled. “How about unbuttoning that shirt and giving us a show?” When Clara hesitated, his voice lowered to a growl. “Do it, girlie, or the old lady gets it right between the eyes.”

Hands trembling, Clara fumbled with her shirt buttons. The .22 was a small-caliber weapon, mostly good for rabbits and vermin. Hard-core murderers would likely be carrying a more powerful gun. Still, at close range a well-aimed shot could be deadly. She couldn’t take chances with her grandmother’s life.

“Come on, honey, we ain’t got all day. Let’s see them titties.”

Clara’s fingers had unbuttoned the shirt past the top of her light summer union suit. The thin fabric left little to the imagination, but she had no choice except to keep going. Fear clawed at her gut. The men wouldn’t be satisfied with seeing her breasts, she knew. It would be all too easy for one of them to drag her down and rape her while his partner held the gun on Mary.

And then what? Would they murder both women to hide their crime, or maybe just for the pleasure of it? Perhaps the gun was only for show, and they did their real killing with knives or ropes.

Where was Tanner when they needed him?

Her fingers had reached her belt line. The shirt gaped open to the waist. The man with the gun was leering at her. “The underwear, too, missy. Go on, don’t be bashful!”

Clara groped for a shoulder strap. She was dimly aware of the second man, his long legs wrapping the horse’s flanks. He had pale hair and the dull-eyed look of a beast. His tongue licked his full, red lips in anticipation. Her stomach clenched.

“Stop this!” Mary’s voice shook. “Go inside the house. Take whatever you need, but leave my granddaughter alone! She’s an innocent girl!”

“Save your breath, lady. You ain’t the one giving orders. We’ll have our fun with honey pie, here, and take anything we want. And since I get first pick, I’ll be taking this smart little red pony you got tied to the hitching rail. He should make right sweet ridin’. Almost as sweet as—”

“No!” Driven by a blast of rage, Clara sprang between the gunman and her grandmother. One hand snatched up the knife she’d left on the porch railing. Brandishing the blade, she defied the gunman. “Don’t you touch my horse!” she hissed. “If you come near him or my grandmother, so help me, I’ll cut you to bloody ribbons!”

The man’s jaw dropped. For an instant his greasy face reflected shock. Then he grinned. “Why, you feisty little bitch! I’ll show you a thing or—”

“Drop the gun, you bastard!” Tanner’s voice rang with cold authority as he stepped from behind the toolshed. “Drop it and reach for the sky, both of you!”

Tanner had spoken from behind the two men. Now he moved forward to where they could see the .38 revolver in his hand. The .22 thudded to the ground as four hands went up.

“We was only funnin’, mister,” the gunman whined. “We never meant to hurt the ladies.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Tanner pulled back the pistol’s hammer. “The knives, too. Nice and slow. Don’t make any sudden moves and give me an excuse to pull this trigger. I’d shoot you in a heartbeat.”

Rooted to the spot, Clara watched the men draw their hunting knives and toss them to the gravel. Mary had risen and slipped into the house. She emerged with the shotgun cocked and aimed at the two desperados.

“I’ve got your back, Tanner,” she said. “Say the word and I’ll blow them to kingdom come.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Tanner’s grin flashed. Then for the first time, he seemed to notice Clara. “When you get yourself together, Miss Clara, maybe you could get down here and gather up their weapons.”

Cheeks blazing, Clara put down the paring knife and fumbled with her buttons. She must have looked like a fool, standing there with her chest exposed, brandishing that pathetic little blade. Behind that sneer, Tanner was probably laughing his head off.

“What should we do with these two buzzards, Mary? Do you want me to shoot them for you?” Tanner seemed to be playing with the two men, trying to make them squirm.

“That’s tempting,” Mary replied. “But I suppose the right thing would be to lock them in the granary and telephone for the marshal.”

Clara had come down off the porch, close enough for her to see the twitch of a muscle in Tanner’s cheek as he hesitated. What if he didn’t want Mary to call in the law? What if he was worried about being seen?

Still pondering, she moved to the far side of the horse and bent to pick up the gun and the two knives. That was when she saw the flicker of movement. The dull-eyed man who sat in the rear had slipped a thin-bladed knife out of his boot.

“No!” she screamed, but it was too late. The man’s supple hand moved with the speed of a striking rattlesnake. The knife sliced the air, sinking hilt-deep into Tanner’s right shoulder.

A curse exploded between Tanner’s lips. His gun hand sagged. The man in front yanked the reins and the piebald reared and wheeled, its hoof grazing Clara’s head. Clara reeled backward, lost her balance and went down rolling to avoid being trampled.

The shotgun roared behind the fleeing outlaws. But Mary had fired high. The blast went over their heads as the horse thundered down the drive toward the main road with the two men clinging to its back.

Still dazed, Clara struggled to her feet. Mary had collapsed in the rocker with the shotgun across her knees. Tanner had lowered the pistol. His face was ashen. His torn sleeve oozed crimson where the knife handle jutted out of his shoulder.

Clara could feel a throbbing lump at her hairline where the iron shoe had grazed her skull. A wet trickle threaded its way down her temple.

Mary laid the shotgun on the porch and rose shakily to her feet. “We’ll need some wrappings,” she said. “I’ll get something we can tear into strips. Meanwhile, Clara, you’d better help this fellow to the porch before he takes a header. Don’t try to take the knife out until we’ve got something to stop the blood.”

“I’ll be all right.” Tanner spoke through clenched teeth, swaying a little as he staggered toward the steps. Clara darted to his side and braced herself against his left arm. His body was warm and damp, the muscles rock hard through the worn chambray shirt. She felt the contact as a shimmering current of heat.

Mary paused at the door. “I suppose we should call the marshal. He’ll want to pick up their weapons and question us about what happened.”

Clara felt Tanner’s body tighten against her, felt his hesitation. “Why bother?” he asked. “In the time it takes the marshal to get here, those ruffians could be halfway to the next county.”

“But what if they try to rob somebody else?”

“They’re unarmed, Mary. And they know we can identify them. Trust me, all they’ll want to do is hightail it out of here, as far away as they can get.”

Beside him, Clara studied the chiseled profile, the narrowed eyes and tense jaw. Where she stood against his side, she could feel the pounding of his heart. If her grandmother called the marshal, she sensed Tanner would slip away and be gone—along with his beautiful stallion, and a wound that could be fatal if left untreated.

He had just rescued them, possibly saving their lives. Would it be so wrong to keep him here a little longer?

“Tanner’s right, Grandma,” she said. “Once those men are outside the marshal’s jurisdiction, there’s nothing he can do. Why waste his time?”

His eyes flashed toward her, caught her gaze and held it. In those fathomless blue depths she read gratitude, suspicion and a world of questions.

Mary sighed. “Oh, that makes sense, I suppose. But I hate the thought of that awful pair getting away. I’d have aimed lower but I didn’t want to hit that poor horse.” She opened the screen door and hurried into the house.

Clara supported Tanner as they covered the short distance toward the porch. “You don’t need to hold me up,” he muttered. “My legs are fine.”

“Don’t be so proud!” she scolded him. “You’re in shock. You look as if you could pass out any second, and you’re about to drop that pistol.” She took the heavy .38, which was barely dangling from his fingers. “Here, sit on the steps. I’ll get you something to drink.”