The Sioux warrior dragged her off her horse and onto the back of his painted palomino. And Cordelia Cochrane realized she’d made a mistake. A bad mistake. Possibly a fatal miscalculation. For a newspaper story.
She’d ridden into the middle of an ambush. The ambush set by the Indians as they lay in wait for the search party. And she, like the railroad men, had fallen into their trap.
Cordelia struggled against the Indian’s iron grip, her arms trapped against her sides. She cringed at the sound of the firefight between the war party and the railroad men. Pressed against the Indian’s chest, she tried not to gag from the pungent aroma of bear grease.
Everyone from her editor to the head of the railroad had warned her. This was no place for a woman. She fought her growing terror. Would she be killed outright? And if not, how much would she suffer first?
God, help me. Please…
When the Sioux warrior grabbed the lady reporter and hoisted her onto his horse, Neil MacBride sprang out from behind the burned-out buckboard.
“Keep firing!” He thrust his rifle at John Tierney. “I’m going after the woman.”
There’d been no word from the Union Pacific surveyors sent ahead of the graders. But with a sinking feeling in his gut, Neil could guess what happened to them.
Breaking cover, shoulders hunched, he ran toward his horse, Mulligan. The lady reporter must’ve followed the search party to the missing surveyors’ advance camp. And only moments before the surprise attack.
Expecting to feel the burning sting of a bullet in his back, he zigzagged. A move he’d learned in battle to avoid certain death at the hands of Johnny Reb sharpshooters. A maneuver he prayed would serve him today in the face of the bloodcurdling cries of warriors.
Despite the popping retorts of the firefight, Mulligan hadn’t drifted far. “Good horse.” Requisitioned from the army by the Union Pacific, Mulligan was also a veteran of the uncivil war.
Tightlipped, Neil swung into the saddle. He dug his boot heels into the horse and spurred the animal. The horse’s hooves pounded the prairie earth. He urged the horse to greater speed.
Ahead, the woman grappled against the copper-toned arms of the Dog Soldier. While the rest of the raiding party battled Neil’s men, this Indian galloped for thetree line. He prayed the woman could slow the Sioux long enough for Neil to overtake them.
Clutching the reins, Neil leaned over the corded muscles of the chestnut quarter horse, balancing his weight.
More braves possibly waited in the shelter of the trees. Reinforcements. But Neil couldn’t take the chance of using his holstered Colt for fear of hitting the woman.
Had the woman been taken as bait to lure the railroad team into a massacre? Neil clamped his jaw and whipped leather.
Pulling alongside, he grabbed for the blond woman, whose hair tumbled down her shoulders and blew unhindered in the brisk prairie wind. Leaning out of the saddle, he seized the woman around the waist. The Indian snatched at the woman’s locks. Crying out, she reached behind her head in an attempt to loosen the pressure on her hair.
A tug of war ensued between Neil and the Indian. Both horses raced ever closer to the looming tree line. Trusting Mulligan, Neil let go of the reins. He lunged as far out of the saddle as he dared.
Neil drew back his fist and punched the Indian. With a grunt, the Indian’s grip slackened enough for Neil to pull the woman over the gap between the horses toward him.
She landed with a whoosh on her stomach across Mulligan. The Indian pulled a knife. Neil tensed, but hooves sounded behind them. Shots were fired. Bullets whizzed past.
The woman screamed. Neil flinched. But the Indian slumped and then veered his horse toward the trees.
In one smooth motion, Neil turned Mulligan. He pressed his hand against the woman’s back to keep her from sliding off.
He motioned at his charging men to give up the chase. The rest of the raiding party dissipated as quickly as they’d appeared, like morning mist over the mountains.
“Rendezvous at the camp,” he shouted.
He wanted to put as much distance between them and the Sioux as possible. He dashed across the open prairie. The men followed close behind. The woman trembled beneath his hand.
Reaching the ruined remains of the base camp, Patrick O’Malley pulled his horse up short. “Boss?”
Neil jerked the reins. And getting a good look at the destruction, he grimaced. Mulligan pranced sideways. The woman made a sound in her throat.
Tierney rested both hands on the saddle horn. “You okay, Boss?”
Young Doolittle coughed through the cloud of dust rising from the hooves of the horses. “Is Mulligan okay?”
Trust Doolittle’s primary concern to be the horse.
Neil willed his heart to settle. “Thanks a million, lad, for asking. Yes, by the way, I’m fine.”
He dismounted. Beneath a tangle of yellow hair, her face lay hidden in horseflesh. Neil started to reach for her but let his hand drop. “Ma’am?” He darted his eyes at O’Malley, at fifty-five the old man of the crew.
They’d fought and survived in the Army of Tennessee because they stuck together. Because they always had each other’s back. And these men trusted him with their lives once more when—at Neil’s urging—they signed on to build the transcontinental railroad for the Union Pacific.
O’Malley—the only one ever married among them—shrugged.
Neil cleared his throat and touched the woman’s ripped sleeve. She jolted, and Mulligan reared. Young Doolittle, true to form, grabbed for the reins. Neil caught the woman in a flutter of skirts as she crumpled.
A gentle hint of lavender teased his nostrils as he lowered her to the ground. She wobbled. He steadied her.
She was by far the prettiest, sweetest-smelling anything he’d come across since… Since ever?
Gaining her balance, the woman in her fancy city skirts whirled. Her eyes were the color of Wyoming bluebells. And the fact that he noticed set his teeth on edge.
He broadened his shoulders. “Are ya daft, woman? Following us out here?” He frowned at the deepening of his brogue.
What in the world had brought the lady reporter out from town and into the wilds? He didn’t like to think what a delicate creature like herself would’ve endured at the hands of—
Her eyes flashed. And not with fear.
Balling her fist, Cordelia socked him in the shoulder. “How dare you, sir!”
She’d show him daft. She’d made a mistake—a mistake with potentially tragic consequences—but a mistake anyone, male or female, could make. And she’d been prepared to express her gratitude until…
Until this Irish hooligan insulted her womanhood.
Rubbing his shoulder, the handsome railroad man stepped back a pace. Handsome with sandy blond hair and in his Union army greatcoat. Cordelia might be outraged, but she wasn’t blind.
A frown creased the strong brow over his hazel green eyes. “Of all the crazy stunts…”
His coat gaped, revealing a revolver strapped to his side and a shirt open at the collar.
A newspaper stringer, Cordelia couldn’t help but observe. Her job was to follow the laying of the track and write her eyewitness accounts. She was trained to notice details.
He flung his hand toward the distant ridge. “I just saved yer life, not to mention yer virtue, lady.”
She stiffened. “I’ll have you know I had everything under control before you came along.”
He rolled his eyes. “You looked like you had everything under control about the time the Injun took control of your scalp.”
The other men hee-hawed and slapped their thighs. She was sick of being treated like a half-wit. They wouldn’t have patronized her male colleagues.
Riding out alone from the end of the rails into Indian country probably wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. But she’d be dipped in tar before she’d admit anything of the sort to this blue-belly boor.
“You’ve cost me the scoop of the century.” She panned left to right with her hands, blocking the imaginary headline in the air. “Captivity among the Red Indians.”
He bracketed his hands. “Tenderfoot woman buried in lonely prairie grave when she stuck her nose in something not her business.”
She drew herself to her full height. “Not my business because I’m a woman?”
“You said it, Miss Cochrane.”
He knew her name? Although, as the only female in the bunch of reporters sent to cover the great race between the Union and Central Pacific railroads, maybe not such a surprise.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Your version costs too much to send over the telegraph. You pay for each word.”
“A practice”—the man smirked—“you might be wise to adopt in everyday conversation.”
The youngest one, a boy, snickered. Still mounted, the other two formed a semicircle around Cordelia and her handsome rescuer.
She sniffed. He wasn’t that handsome. Not that much.
The handsome one—stop it, Cordelia—studied her. She flushed, finding his scrutiny discomfiting.
But he pivoted toward the men. “They did not capture the equipment, did they?”
Something about the way he spoke… The brogue came and went.
As for the other men? Irish, every one of them. Veterans by the look of their boots and the dark Union stripe running the length of their army-blue pants. Recruited like so many others to lay rails and join the continent east to west.
The older one shook his head. “Too busy kidnapping the colleen, I ’spect.” His accent was thick.
Her blond rescuer—late twenties?—crossed his arms over his chest. “Thank heaven for small mercies.” Muscles bunched underneath the man’s blue flannel shirt and the army-issue suspenders.
She reddened. Making Cordelia angrier. At herself.
Her self-appointed rescuer gave her a swift, penetrating look. “I reckon we got what we came for anyway.”
The bewhiskered man on the middle horse cut his eyes at Cordelia. “Speaking for yerself, Neil?”
So his name was Neil. Her insides did a treacherous flutter.
Neil’s mouth flattened. “Hardly, but we’ll have to return to town for now.” And the look he tossed her way wasn’t flattering. “Money a’wasting ’cause someone can’t mind her own business.”
Her temper flared. “Whose business ought to be in a kitchen?” Maybe he wasn’t as handsome as she’d believed.
“Railroad business is not a woman’s business.”
She lifted her chin. “Horace Greeley sent me here to bring a human perspective to this grand adventure. And I’m not about to miss out on the biggest story since the war.”
“Trying to prove yourself?”
She pursed her lips. “Aren’t we all?”
His gaze hardened. “Not at the expense of me men’s lives you don’t, Miss Cochrane.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir. Your name?”
He scrubbed his hand over the bearded stubble dotting his strong jawline.
“It’s Neil,” the younger one offered. “Neil MacBride.” The boy grinned at her. “I’m Billy Doolittle. The old man here is O’Malley.”
O’Malley tipped his cap to her.
“And the one who don’t talk much is Tierney.”
Tierney, a rough-looking sort, twisted his lips. “As opposed to people who talk a wee bit too much.”
Billy Doolittle ignored him. “They served together in the Sixteenth.”
She arched a brow. “The Sixteenth. Same as Chief Engineer Grenville Dodge?”
Doolittle nodded. “Where our golden boy came to the attention of General Dodge after Neil saved his—”
“Enough.” Neil moved away and took control of his horse again. “Tierney’s right. Too much talk. We’d best head to town.”
He swung into the saddle. “Put some distance between ourselves and the Sioux before nightfall.” He peered at the sun descending behind the ridge. The horses nickered. The men tightened their grip on the reins.
“And what about me, Mr. MacBride?”
He cocked his head. “What about you?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “With my horse gone, do you intend to leave me out here?”
“Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, Miss Cochrane.”
Her breath caught.
Neil MacBride gave her a funny, lopsided smile. “But the Indians got far and away enough trouble without adding a crazy lady reporter to their already dire situation.”
“You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“Sure, and that’s a fine way to thank the man who saved you from certain doom.” He extended his arm. “What’s it going to be? End of rail is a good day’s ride from here. Come with us or take your chances.”
Her palm itched to slap his hand away, but as dusk deepened, she found herself with no other choice but to play by this aggravating man’s set of rules.
She grabbed hold of his hand, and in a flurry of skirts, he swung her onto the saddle behind him.
“Done the hostiles a favor today.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “’Cause I figure you—not smallpox—might singlehandedly bring about their early demise.”
She sputtered.
“More than likely, I rescued them from you.”
“How dare—”
“Better hang on, lady. ’Tis going to be a bumpy ride.” He spurred the horse forward.
Almost unseated, she wrapped both arms around him and held on for dear life. “Y–you are the m–most—”
“You are not the most grateful damsel in distress I’ve ever come across, either.”
“And you are the most patronizing, condescending man, Mr. MacBride, I’ve ever had the m–misfortune—”
Jolting over the uneven terrain, she cinched her arms tight around his waist. Sheburied her forehead into the rough wool of his coat and inhaled. Woodsy, sweet, and spicy. Bay rum. And something very male. Very Neil MacBride.
An unexpected combination, which caused her pulse to beat more rapidly. She steeled her resolve. He was a complication she’d best avoid if she aimed to impress Mr. Greeley and secure the plum European assignment he’d promised.
Provided, of course, she survived the Indians and the rough and tumble end-of-rails town. And Neil MacBride.