Authors: Elaine Levine

Logan's Outlaw (2 page)

BOOK: Logan's Outlaw

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Logan propped himself up against a corner of the trading post and continued listening to their conversation, intrigued that the woman was not the soldier's wife.

“Thank you, Captain. How far did you say Defiance is from Cheyenne?”

“About three days ride.”

What did she want in Defiance? No one ever went there intentionally. Not unless they were looking for trouble or heading up to the lumber camps. She followed the captain out into the sunshine. Light poured over her pale features, making the braids that circled her hair look as if they were woven from gossamer strands of white-gold. She pulled her bonnet on and tied it beneath her chin.

“I think I'll get to Cheyenne myself in a couple of months.” The captain stopped and faced the woman. “Would it be terribly forward of me to think that I might call on you, Mrs. Hawkins?”

Logan ground his teeth.
Mrs.
Hawkins. She wasn't the captain's wife, but she was married. Still, he held his breath, waiting for her response. She lowered her head, letting her bonnet block her face from both him and the captain. “You have been the very soul of kindness, Captain. I shall not forget that. I regret, however, that I'll not be in a position to entertain gentleman callers. It is too soon.”

The captain did not take that as a no. Or perhaps he'd stopped listening after her first sentence. Logan almost had. Her voice was husky yet sweet and feminine, the kind of voice that set all the wrong sort of images floating around a man's head. The captain hooked a finger beneath the woman's chin, forcing her to look up. Logan felt the shock of that contact through his entire body. He started forward, intending to teach the bastard to keep his distance, but Bella, the sutler's wife and a sublimely talented cook, came out to stand with him.

Logan didn't waste time exchanging greetings. “Who is she?”

“Poor Sarah Hawkins. Bless her heart. She and her husband were attacked by a Sioux war party about a year ago. Her husband was killed and she was taken captive. She showed up here at the end of April, a ghost of a woman, near frozen and half starved. It's taken the women of the fort all this time just to feed her up to the puny thing she is now.

“And as if that wasn't enough, someone vandalized her room yesterday. Shredded everything she owned, including all of the clothes that had been donated by those of us with something to spare.” The matronly woman shook her head, anger darkening her features.

“She's a kind soul, that one.” She shoved an elbow into Logan's side, giving him a meaningful look. “All the single menâand even some that ain'tâare plumb crazy about her. Heard that red devil who married her still wants her back. I hate to see her leave. She would be safer if she stayed here.” Bella looked at Logan. “What kind of world do we live in where Indians can do that to a family? When are we ever gonna be safe out here?”

Logan didn't offer a comment. How many Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors had asked him the same thingâbut about the soldiers that dogged them?

“Bella, I'd be forever in your debt if you'd pack up as much of that fine corn bread as you can spare. I'm gonna get some supplies from your husband and retrieve my saddle.”

“Logan Taggert! You ain't even stopped for a real visit yet. Where are you running off to?”

Logan grinned as he kissed her cheek. “I got a stagecoach to catch!”

Chapter 2

The leather curtains did little to keep the dust out of the tight stagecoach cabin. It settled like a fine powder on every surface. It was in Sarah's hair, her teeth, her eyes. After four long days, the terrain was little changed, and they were still more than a week from Cheyenne.

Though her fellow traveling companions were generally disinclined to chat, she'd discovered the middle-aged matron, Mrs. Powell, was recently widowed and traveling to her son's home in Cheyenne. Mr. Reimer was a man whose occupation was unknown to her. His clothes were not elegant enough for a gambler, or plain enough for a rancher, but he wore a pistol as comfortably as a seasoned gunfighter. The remaining passenger, Mr. Taggert, was the gray-eyed stranger she'd seen at the fort the morning they'd left. A trader of some sort. She still felt the chill of his eyes, the way he'd probed into her mind through the single glance they'd shared, as if he could see her secrets. As if he knew her shame.

She wondered if either of the men had known her husband. They both had a look of violence about them. Had one of them ransacked her room? How could her husband's associates have found her at the fort? Her hand shook as she held the curtain.

The trunk.

She'd asked a neighbor to keep it for her. She'd hidden the papers she'd stolen from her husband in the false bottom. When she arrived at the fort and was able to draft a letter, she'd sent word to have the trunk delivered to her. Her husband, Eugene, hadn't had time to discover his papers were missing before Swift Elk raided their ranch, but someone knew they still existed and wanted them back.

She shivered despite the heat. Her hands were sweaty, but she had no intention of removing her gloves and exposing her scars for all to see. Lifting the corner of the leather curtain, she forced herself to watch the countryside slowly rolling by. It would be over soon. Once she'd given the papers to the sheriff in Cheyenne, she would cease being a threat to her husband's enemies.

Sarah could feel the weight of Mr. Reimer's gaze. She'd managed to avoid conversing with him so far on the journey, but his interest in her had intensified over the last few days. Now he leaned back in his corner seat and watched her. “Is it true you married one of them Injun chiefs?” he asked, breaking the cabin's comfortable silence.

The matron gasped, settling her shocked gaze on Sarah. “I thought Mr. Chandler was more selective about whom he allowed on this stage,” Mrs. Powell complained.

Sarah made no comment, silence being the best answer to such observations. She studied the edge of the curtain she held.

“The government mollycoddles those savages on huge reservations, feeding them, teaching their children, training the few who are willing to work, and yet they still go raiding, terrorizing honest citizens,” the woman continued.

Hearing a kindred spirit, the man spoke directly to Mrs. Powell. “They're still crawling around everywhere. Ain't nowhere a person can go that's safe from them.”

Sarah's stomach clenched at Mr. Reimer's chilling reminder. They traveled across open prairie, a lone coach protected only by a single gunman. She sent Mr. Taggert a sideways glance. He had yet to join this or any conversation in the cab. He was sprawled in his corner, his hat pulled down over his face, his arms crossed over his chest. Perhaps he was asleep.

“Your husband is Sioux? Cheyenne?” Mr. Reimer asked. The matron's gaze flew to Sarah's face with a look of unmitigated disgust.

“My husband is dead. He was murdered,” Sarah quietly announced. She looked at Mr. Reimer, then at Mrs. Powell. “I will thank you to find another topic of discussion.” She gritted her teeth, feeling the crunch of dust in them.

“Don't think I ever met a gen-u-ine squaw before,” the man in the corner persisted, drawing out the vowels of “genuine.”

Before she could respond, before she could even sigh, Mr. Taggert kicked the opposite seat, his boot landing midway between Mr. Reimer's spread legs.

“The lady said drop it,” he growled, pushing his hat back far enough to glare at the man.

“You her squaw-man?”

Fast as lightning, the stranger next to her had Mr. Reimer's collar in his fist and the stage door open. He held him out over the ground as it passed in a blur. The swift change in positions made the cabin sway. The woman issued a shrill sound as wind, road noise, and dust filled the cabin.

“Whoa! Hold on there!” the man pleaded, grabbing for a handhold on the sides of the coach.

“You got something else to talk about?” Mr. Taggert asked between clenched teeth. He leaned closer to her detractor, pushing him farther out the door. “ 'Cause I'm done listening to your Indian prattle and the lady doesn't need your prying questions.” Mr. Reimer nodded vigorously. “Good. In fact, how about you just keep your trap shut?” Mr. Taggert suggested as he pulled the man back inside the cabin and shoved him roughly into his seat.

Sarah wrapped her arms about herself. Her heart was hammering. She was alone in the worldâa pariah, as the conversation of this little gathering showed. She didn't know what to do or where to go, and she had only until Cheyenne to decide. She blinked the grit from her eyes and drew a long breath from the open window. She wished it had all turned out differently. She wished her husband had been the man of her dreams, the man he'd appeared to be during their brief, whirlwind courtship.

A few hours later, they stopped for the night at a stage station, the first along their journey that provided overnight accommodations. It was past eight in the evening. The sun had dipped close to the horizon, coloring the sky in the soft pastels of a prairie sunset.

Sarah waited for the two passengers on the opposite seat to disembark before climbing down, assisted by the driver. The man who had ridden shotgun tossed down her satchel.

Mr. Taggert stepped out of the coach. He paused, looking down at her. He was easily a head taller than Sarah and broad-shouldered. His eyes were a light gray, so pale they were hard to look at. They seemed to see far more than she wished. His skin was weathered, darkened by the sun. It was impossible to tell his age. His nose was narrow and straight. His brows were a dark blond. His hair was shaggy, and what she could see of it was bleached white by the sun. His cheeks were lean. All of him was lean, like a long, sharp knife.

“Thank you, sir, for your assistance earlier.”

His cold gaze dropped to her face. “They were like dogs with a bone. Made it hard to sleep.” He looked beyond her, scanning the land surrounding the station. He reached back inside the cab for the rifle he'd stowed on the floor by their seat. He sent another look around them.

Feeling his tension, she cast a look around as well. There was only sagebrush, paintbrush, and short grass as far as the eye could see, green with recent rains, washed orange with the sunset. It was an evening like this when the Sioux had come down the hills surrounding the small settlement where she and Eugene had lived, a silent tide of raging violence.

“Best get inside.” The stranger's voice broke into her thoughts.

Agreeing with that directive, she stepped into the small mud-brick building. The stationmaster's wife was lighting lanterns as she directed the passengers to a back room where cots were set out, one for each passenger, both men and women to sleep in the same room. Mrs. Powell had taken a cot on one side. Sarah selected the one next to it and set her satchel, coat, and bonnet down on it. In her turn, she made use of the outhouse, then freshened up at the wash station.

The mouthwatering smell of biscuits and stew drew her to the common room. She was the last to come to the table as the stationmaster and his wife filled bowls with hot stew. Her stomach grumbled. She took the open seat across from Mr. Taggert. Mrs. Powell set her spoon down rather loudly, but Sarah paid it no heed. The woman made a loud huffing sound. The men at the table grew tense. Sarah did look up then. The driver, the guard, and Mr. Taggert kept eating, but Mr. Reimer and Mrs. Powell were glaring at each other in silent communication.

“I will not sit at a table with a woman who has been used by savages like a common trollop.”

Sarah felt her cheeks color. Memories she'd fought to bury deep rose to the surface. Horrific images popped through her mind.
God, the pain.

The driver and the stage's hired gun looked at each other. “Now, there's no call for that kind of talk. We're all just passing through, ma'am.”

Mrs. Powell huffed again. Sarah started to rise, but Mr. Taggert's hand grabbed her wrist, forcing her back to her seat. The touch was fastâhe released her almost immediately.

“There's plenty of space on the floor, lady,” the gray-eyed stranger told the matron. “Sit where you like.”

“Well! I never!” Mrs. Powell pressed a hand to her chest; her mouth hung open in mortification.

“Then I reckon it's high time you did,” Mr. Taggert added.

Mr. Reimer stood up. “Never mind them, ma'am. We can use the bench on the porch.” He lifted up his bowl and utensils and went to stand near the offended woman while she got up from the table and gathered her things. They went out front, leaving Sarah alone with the cold-eyed stranger and the stage's men.

“I don't need you to fight my battles, sir.” Her statement would have carried a great deal more impact had her voice not wavered. She lifted her head, glaring at her defender.

Mr. Taggert paused, his spoon midair. His gray eyes met hers. She fought the chill his look caused. “I wasn't fighting your battles, lady. Just keeping the stink from my table.”

Sarah looked at her bowl and wondered if this was what her life would be like from now on. Having to hide who and what she was, afraid her husband's associates would find her. Afraid some nosy matron would discover she'd been a Sioux captive. Would she be able to lose herself in the busy town of Cheyenne?

Maybe she shouldn't stay in Cheyenne. But she couldn't go south into Texas; Apache and Comanche raids still ravaged the settlements. There would be no place for her in the rigid social structure of the East. And she feared making the trip to Oregon without the protection of a husband.

The bowl of stew blurred as she stared down at it. She forced herself to finish her portion though her ever-present tension had stolen its flavor. When the Sioux had first taken her, she'd gone three days without being fed. She knew better than to not eat when food was available. She brought a spoonful to her mouth, consuming it for survival alone. If the stage were attacked somewhere on the trail still ahead of them, there was no telling how soon she would have an opportunity to eat again.

After supper, she took advantage of the laundry facilities the station offered and washed her kerchiefs, linens, stockings, and shirts. She'd just hung the last of her things to dry when Mr. Reimer stepped outside. She was in the side yard by the laundry lines, out of sight of any window or doorway. She stood still, hoping he would step away and not block her access to the station.

Her luck didn't hold. He headed straight for her. Sarah retrieved the wash basket and started for the porch, moving as briskly as she dared without revealing her fear. How many times among the Sioux had she been ordered to see to one task or another that took her away from the women, making her easy prey for the warriors in the village?

And now it was happening again, here, among her own people. The moonlight was too bright for her to mistake his expression. She hurried past him in a wide arc. He lunged and caught her, causing her to drop her basket.

“Where are you hurrying off to? Thought we'd have a little friendly visit, just you an' me.” He nuzzled her hair. The scent of him hit her face. Whiskey and sweat.

Fight.

Don't fight.

Scream.

Don't scream.

Nearly a year in the hostile care of warriors who used her and their other white captives as whores had taught her the hard way to suffer their outrages in silence. But she wasn't among the Sioux now. And only a few yards away was a station full of people. She felt the weight of her gun belt. Could she draw her pistol? Could she really shoot someone?

Mr. Reimer pulled her close. He kissed her cheek, his lips wet against her face. He took her silence as acquiescence. He tried to kiss her mouth but she turned away, pushing against him. Bile rose in her throat. His hand pinched her breast. Memories of the black, terrible days of her early captivity boiled to the surface of her mind. She began shaking and was only dimly aware when Mr. Reimer pulled back and muttered a curse.

Another man had come outside. Mr. Taggert. He leaned against the side wall of the station house, a knee bent as he withdrew cigarette papers from his jacket pocket. He selected one and set it on his bent knee. He returned the papers to his pocket and retrieved a pouch of tobacco. God, had he come to watch her be outraged?

“We're a little busy here, friend. Wanna find a different spot for your smoke?”

“Nope.” The man put a pinch of tobacco on the paper, then put the pouch away. He took his time rolling the paper over the tobacco.

BOOK: Logan's Outlaw

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