Bride On The Run

He saw that Anna had bent to pick up a sharp-edged rock. “Keep back,” he cautioned as she edged forward. “Stay behind me, and whatever happens, do exactly what I—”

He never finished the sentence because, at that instant, all hell broke loose. Pandemonium exploded in the small space as a huge, dark shape came hurtling in from the darkness, knocking him to the ground. Something struck his head as he went down. Through the spinning blur of pain he could hear Beelzebub wheezing wildly—which struck him as odd because the wheezer of the two mules was—

Malachi cursed with relief as his vision cleared. Lucifer, caked with mud and bleeding from a gash on his flank, stood quivering beneath the rock. Anna was clinging to the mule’s neck, fussing and crooning over the miserable beast as if she’d just recovered a long-lost relative.

They rode double to spare the injured Lucifer on the way down to the ferry. Anna clung to Malachi’s back in wretched silence. She was cold and hungry, and the hostility that radiated from his tense body did nothing at all to warm her. She knew what he thought of her, and she knew it would be a waste of time to try to set him straight. There was no chance of resolution here for either of them. The sooner she got out of this place, the better it would be for them both.

The storm had passed as swiftly as it had begun, leaving a wake of wispy clouds that trailed across the moon. Stars, as cold as they were beautiful, glittered like spilled diamonds across a black velvet sky.

She had felt Malachi’s desire when he’d held her. And she had felt the hot flame of her own response—the throbbing deep in her loins, the moisture that had trickled between her thighs, betraying her readiness for his thrust. How long had it been since a man’s touch had made her ache like that? How many nights? How many years?

Too many, Anna lashed herself. This was no time to be dwelling on what she had once had, and lost. The past was dead and buried, and a new life awaited her in California, as soon as she could find the means to get there. She would be a fool not to look ahead, to hope for better times.

The darkness around her quivered with sound—clicks, croaks and squeaks from a myriad of tiny creatures displaced by the storm. The small cries of life filled Anna with a melancholy so deep that it threatened to burst her heart. Desperate to ease it, she spoke into the sullen void of Malachi’s silence.

“How much farther?” she asked, knowing she sounded like an impatient child.

“Not far. Another mile or so.” His tone was flat and impersonal, as if he were reading some stranger’s obituary in the newspaper. “Why? Do you need to stop?”

Anna chose to ignore the question. “You must be anxious to get back to your children,” she said, pressing against the barricade of his reserve. “Can you tell me more about them?”

He sighed wearily. “Not that much to tell. Young Joshua’s a typical boy. Likes to ride and fish and help with the stock. Carrie…” he paused, as if conjuring the girl up in his mind. “She does a fine job of running the house. She’s getting tall. Going to be a pretty woman one day, like her mother.”

Anna felt the tremor in his chest as he swallowed. She could not doubt that Malachi’s drowned wife had been beautiful, nor that he still loved her deeply.

“What do you do about their schooling?” she asked, shifting the talk to safer ground.

“They school themselves—with help from me when the ferry traffic’s slow. We’re not as uncivilized as you might think. There are plenty of books at the ferry—Shakespeare, Dickens, Plutarch. There’s even a piano that I bought off a Mormon family in Kanab and hauled down to the house. Carrie plays a little—but only by ear. Can’t read the one music book we’ve got.”

“I could teach her—” Anna gulped back the rest of the offer. There would be no time for piano lessons. As soon as Malachi could clear the road and repair the buckboard she would be gone.

“It sounds as if you’ve done a fine job of raising them.”

“Credit their mother for that. It’s been a struggle for me just to keep them fed and schooled this past year, let alone dress them decently and teach them proper manners. They need the touch of a good woman at home.” He hesitated. “We all do.”

A good woman, Anna thought, feeling the sting of his words like brine in a razor cut. But certainly not this woman!

Suddenly it was all too much. She wanted to wound him, to ravage his pride as he had ravaged hers. “So, how many others have their been?” she asked casually.

“What?” She felt him jerk.

“How many other women has your cousin, Mr. Wilkinson, sent down to you?” she pressed him. “How many others, before me, have left because they couldn’t measure up to the perfect wife you lost?”

Malachi’s body had gone rigid beneath her hands, and Anna knew she had pushed him too far. But then, what did it matter? She had endured the long, punishing ride on the freight wagon, the dust, the flies, the blinding desert sun, only to come face-to-face with a man who’d despised her on sight. A man who’d by turns ignored her, insulted her and treated her like a tramp. She was soaked, frozen, half-starved and so sore she could barely move without wincing. If he didn’t like her question, the high-minded Mr. Malachi Stone could go skin himself with a rusty hatchet!

“How many do you think?” She could almost hear his teeth grinding as he bit back his irritation.

“I asked you,” she shot back. “You certainly can’t expect me to guess about such a delicate matter.”

He growled something Anna couldn’t understand. “Blast it, you know you’re the first, don’t you?”

“The very first?” Anna feigned shock. “But surely not the last! Do you plan to try again and hope for better luck?”

“Not until I’ve wrung Stuart Wilkinson’s neck and hired myself a new matchmaker.”

“Why not give me that job?” Anna needled him. “I could find you the ideal wife! All I’d have to do is look for a woman the exact opposite of me—as big as a barn door, as strong as a lumberjack and as proper as a nun! Now that would be worth the fare to San Francisco, wouldn’t it?”

Malachi swore under his breath, probably thinking that he would cheerfully pay her passage to hell and back if she would just leave him alone. Surely a railroad ticket to California wouldn’t be too much to ask of him.

Anna was about to push her request once more when a glimmer of light, far below the road, caught her eye. She strained outward, peering down into the darkness of the canyon. Malachi, sensing her excitement, said quietly, “It’s the ferry. They’ve hung out the lantern.”

Both of them fell silent as they wound their way into the depths of the great chasm. Anna could hear the hissing rush of the swollen Colorado. She could feel the air warming around her, growing as damp and heavy as a muggy New Orleans night.

The mules, in their eagerness to be home, had broken into yet another bone-jarring trot. This time Malachi made no effort to hold them back. Anna clung grimly to his waist, her jaw clenched against the agony of her strained hip joints and raw thighs. Drugged by exhaustion, she forced herself to stay awake, to think of the hot coffee and clean bed that would surely be waiting for her at the end of the ride. She would strip off her wet clothes, crawl between the sheets and sleep for hours—maybe for days. Malachi Stone had already declared their contract null and void. She was under no obligation to clean his house, cook his meals or wash his clothes. She could take her leisure while he repaired the road and the wagon. Then she could put this awful experience behind her once and for all.

The floor of the canyon had leveled out now, and the sound of the river was very close. Eight-foot clumps of spring willow and feathery tamarisk lined the road, obscuring whatever lay ahead. Minutes crawled by, each one an eternity, before Anna caught the flare of lamplight through the brush. An instant later her view opened wide, revealing a log fence with a lantern hung from a nail on one post. Beyond the fence, the light revealed shadowed glimpses of a barn, a corral, an open ramada and a rambling adobe house with a roof of Mexican tile.

As the mules clattered through the gate, the door of the house burst open, casting a long rectangle of light on the sandy ground. Silhouetted by that same light, two figures, one small and wiry, the other taller, willow-slim, stood framed by the doorway.

As they started forward, the smaller one bounding toward the gate like a terrier, the taller one—the girl—hesitant, hanging back, Anna’s heart shrank in her chest. She had done her best to put this first confrontation out of her thoughts. But that was no longer possible. Ready or not, she was about to meet Malachi’s children.

Chapter Four

Anna saw that the girl was holding a lantern. She raised it high as her father pulled Beelzebub to a halt, but she made no move to come closer. As Malachi had mentioned, she was tall, nearly as tall as Anna herself. But she was as thin as a willow wand, her eleven-year-old figure just short of budding into womanhood. Her hair was braided into frizzy black pigtails, and the pale flannel nightgown she wore barely reached her knees.

“Papa?” The uncertain voice was thin and musical. “Papa, is that you?”

Anna heard Malachi’s low breath of relief as his body slackened. Only then did she realize how worried he had been about leaving his children alone—and how important it had been to find them a mother.

As the girl hesitated, lantern raised high, a smaller form shot past her like a Pawnee arrow. “Pa!” Only Malachi’s carefully extended boot kept the boy from running headlong into the mule’s legs. “Is she here? Did you bring her?”

Anna’s spirit shrank from the eagerness in his young voice. She tried to avoid looking directly down at the boy, who appeared to be wearing nothing but one of his father’s old work shirts cut off at the sleeves. The long tails hung nearly to his small bare ankles.

“I brought her.” Malachi’s reply was flat and weary as he swung a leg forward over the mule’s neck and eased himself down the animal’s shoulder. Anna was left sitting alone on Beelzebub’s back with her skirts hiked above her knees. “Josh,” Malachi said without looking up at her, “this is Anna.”

The round, upturned eyes were dark brown and as friendly as a puppy’s. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Josh piped, ignoring Anna’s bedraggled hair and mud-soaked clothes. “Can I call you Ma yet?”

Anna’s mouth had gone chalky. She clung to the mule’s rain-slicked back, wishing she could melt into the darkness and disappear. She knew the boy was waiting for an answer, but for the life of her she could not speak the hurtful words.

In the awkward silence, the boy turned to his father. “Pa, can I call her—”

“Ma’am will do,” Malachi said gruffly. “She doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough to warrant being called Ma.” He turned and reached up to help Anna down from the mule. The hands he offered her were cool and rigid. His eyes were like silver flints in the lamplit darkness.

The boy edged backward as Anna slid wearily to the ground. She gazed straight ahead, trying not to look down at the small, dejected face, the drooping shoulders. Guilt gnawed at her. She willed herself to ignore it. The boy’s disappointment was Malachi’s problem, not hers. All she wanted right now was a hot tub, some dry clothes and a good night’s sleep.

Malachi’s daughter had remained on the stoop, her shy gaze darting up, down, anywhere but directly at Anna. Only now, as she caught sight of Lucifer’s gashed flank, did she react. With a little cry she ran across the yard to the injured mule. She pressed close to the big, muddy animal, her long, white fingers probing the gashed flank. “What happened to him, Papa?” she demanded. “Is he badly hurt? Wait—I’ll get some salve.”

“I’ll see to the mules,” Malachi said curtly. “You show Anna inside, Carrie. Get her something to eat and show her to the privy if she needs it. Is her room ready?”