The driver of the stage, Levi Jefferson, was about ten years older than Matthew, a man with leathered skin and a smile that revealed two missing teeth. Although they’d never met before, they knew each other by reputation. What Matthew had heard about Levi, he liked. And when he learned that the stage was carrying 250 pounds of gold bullion out of Idaho City—at the current rate of exchange, the treasure was valued at over a million dollars—he was even more glad for a seasoned driver holding the reins. No wonder the transport had been kept secret. No wonder William had been nervous and anxious for another guard.
Matthew would have liked it better if they could have made the trip down to Boise City without passengers. But if they hadn’t allowed passengers, it might have drawn attention. Better not to do that. Wells, Fargo had announced this as a route change, nothing more. The stage shouldn’t be at any more risk than any other coach leaving one of the gold camps—and that risk had been high for a long time.
Matthew stood back and watched as six paying passengers climbed into the coach for the journey down to the capital of the territory. Next, the messenger, Barclay Jones—a lad of about eighteen or twenty who looked like his smooth skin had yet to feel a blade scraping off facial hair—climbed onto the roof of the coach, leaving the seat next to Levi for Matthew.
Had he ever been as green as that kid looked? he wondered as he settled into place.
“All right, folks,” Levi called to the passengers. “Hold tight.”
With his left hand, Matthew gripped the double-barreled shotgun that rested on his thighs as Levi slapped the reins against the horses’ backsides. The coach jerked forward. Levi kept the horses to a jog until they were out of town. Then he asked for speed, and they gave it. Dust rose in a cloud from the bone-dry road. The coach rocked and bucked, familiar and strange at the same time.
“I heard you were gettin’ married,” Levi said in a loud voice.
“I’m planning to.” If I can change the bride’s mind.
“Gonna give up drivin’ coach altogether?”
He rolled the question over in his mind, examining it from every side before answering, “Yeah, I reckon I will.”
“Don’t think I could stay in one place for long. I like my freedom. Unfettered.”
“That’s what I thought when I took the agent position for the summer.” He looked at the driver. “Being unfettered doesn’t seem all that important to me anymore. I discovered I like being part of a family.”
He recalled coming home from the express office and sitting down to supper with Alice and Todd—and sometimes with Shannon. It had been good. He’d liked it. Home. Family. Wife. Kids. They’d always seemed right for others but not for him.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Shannon pressed her face against Ginny’s neck and fought another wave of tears, determined not to cry in front of Todd, who waited for her outside the livery stall.
“Shannon, we need to talk.”
How she longed to talk to Matthew. How she missed the sound of his voice.
“We can’t leave things like this.”
Had she been wrong to walk away? To run away? No, he should have told her he didn’t love her when he proposed. He should have admitted that it was a marriage of convenience, for the sake of his nephew.
“I do love you.”
She couldn’t stop the tears now. They tracked down her cheeks and dampened the bay’s coat.
“I hadn’t had a chance to recognize what I felt for you . . . I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
“Neither have I,” she whispered.
Ginny nickered softly.
“I do love you . . . Shannon, please.”
Her pulse quickened.
“I do love you . . . Shannon, please.”
The memory of her father’s words replaced Matthew’s. “But if it’s merely your hurt pride that is keeping you from hearing him out, that is keeping you from healing the rift between you, that is something else again.”
But it wasn’t only hurt pride . . . Was it?
“Pride is cold comfort, dear girl.”
She straightened away from the horse. “What have I done? Why didn’t I listen to Matthew?”
Pride. Oh, her cursed pride. Her father was right. If only— “What are you doing, boy?” Joe Burkette’s voice cut into her private thoughts, the tone sharp and demanding. “Get that dog out of here.”
Shannon wiped away her tears before stepping out of the stall.
“Todd and Nugget are with me, Mr. Burkette.”
A smile replaced his scowl. “Miss Adair. I didn’t know it was you.” If he noticed she’d been crying, he didn’t let on.
Joe had come to her rescue the previous week when she’d needed to escape Matthew, but that hadn’t made her like him any more than before. Still, as long as she needed to board her horse in his stables, she would have to get used to seeing him.
“There is good news out of Richmond,” he said. “Have you heard?”
She shook her head.
“Last week, General Early broke through the Union forces southeast of Frederick, Maryland, and his troops entered the District of Columbia. They had to withdraw the next night, but I predict the general will go on harassing the Yankees for some time to come.”
Why didn’t the news make her happy? It was obvious Joe thought it should. And he was right. It should. It would have not all that long ago. Now all she could think about was that people were suffering, many were dying, on both sides of the conflict.
Joe took a step closer, lowering his voice, implying his words were confidential. “There should be more good news for the Confederacy today. Money, and lots of it. Gold for guns and ammunition and food. It could help turn the tide of the war.”
Shannon felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach—and once again wondered why what Joe had said didn’t bring her pleasure.
“We should know soon enough.” He glanced toward the main entrance into the stables. “Shouldn’t be long.”
Shannon reached with one hand to close the stall door, then held out her other hand toward the boy. “We’d best go, Todd. Father will be wondering what’s keeping us so long.” Glancing again at Joe, she said, “Good day, Mr. Burkette.”
They walked outside, into the bright morning light. Already the July sun was hot. At the parsonage, a shady spot on the porch awaited them. But instead of setting off in the direction of the church, she continued down Montgomery Street into the heart of town.
“I thought we were goin’ to your house,” Todd said.
“We are. I just . . . I just need to see someone first.”
“Who?”
Who, indeed. But that niggling feeling wouldn’t leave her, and she realized she wanted—needed—to see Matthew.
She quickened her pace, pulling Todd along with her.
The stage slowed as it approached the sharp bend in the road, rocking to the left as they began the turn. A moment later, one of the lead horses gave a cry of alarm, and Levi braced his feet as he pulled back on the reins. The coach ground to a halt. A half dozen men on horseback, neckerchiefs covering the lower half of their faces, blocked the road. Their guns and rifles were leveled directly at Levi and Matthew.
“Morning, gentlemen,” one of the masked men said as he nudged his horse forward. “I believe you should throw down the bullion so we can all be on our way and no one will get hurt.”
“Perhaps you should come and get it,” Levi replied, a snarl in his voice.
One of the passengers leaned out the window. “What’s going on?”
Matthew barked an order. “Stay inside.”
The leader of the band of thieves chuckled. “Very good advice.
Now about that bullion.”
Levi looked at Matthew, as if hoping he had another alternative.
Unfortunately, he didn’t.
The leader raised his voice, presumably so the passengers could hear him equally as well as the men atop the stage. “Gentlemen, we are not thieves. We are Confederate soldiers, and all we want is to relieve you of the treasure being carried by Wells, Fargo & Company as an agent of the Union government. The gold will assist us in recruiting for the Confederate Army.”
If Matthew wasn’t mistaken, the speech was almost identical to one the notorious Red Fox—a Confederate captain by the name of Rufus Henry Ingram—had given two months earlier during the robbery of a stage coming out of Virginia City carrying silver bullion from the Comstock. The newspapers had dubbed him “the gentlemanly robber” and his compatriots had been referred to as “Jeff Davis men.”
After shooting a sheriff and deputy, he’d escaped capture in California.
Looked like the rumors of his coming to Idaho rather than hightailing it back to Missouri were true.
The six men were well armed, and Matthew could be certain the Red Fox and his band of thieves wouldn’t hesitate to use their weapons if provoked. “Better give them what they want,” he said to Levi, his gaze never leaving Captain Ingram.
Muttering something unintelligible, Levi wrapped the reins around the brake handle before reaching into the boot for the first heavy bag.
From behind Matthew, Barclay Jones whispered, “I think I can take him.”
Matthew had forgotten the kid was there. He opened his mouth to tell the young messenger not to do anything stupid, but before he could speak, gunfire exploded near his left ear.
Horses reared and whinnied. The stagecoach bucked and jerked. More guns fired. Something hit Matthew, something that sent him flying off the driver’s seat. He hit the ground hard, his ears ringing, the air knocked from his lungs.
I’m shot. The realization was accompanied by a feeling of surprise, though it shouldn’t have surprised him. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced thieves or been fired upon, though it was the first time anyone had hit his target.
He struggled to drag in a breath of air. Then the road seemed to give way beneath him, and he was tumbling down the hillside.
“Sorry, Miss Adair,” William Washburn said to Shannon. “Stage left more’n an hour ago.”
Of course. Of course he was already gone. Why had she thought he would still be here?
The young clerk who worked in the express office cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Washburn.”
William looked over his shoulder. “What is it, Ray? Can’t you see I’m busy with Miss Adair?”
“Yessir. But I think you’d better have a look at this telegram. It’s for the sheriff.”
William released a sound of frustration as he turned away from the counter. “What is it?” He took the paper from the clerk’s hand, began to read, then glanced up, his expression altered. “I’ll be back,” he said to Shannon before skirting the counter and heading for the door.
“What on earth?” Shannon looked at Ray. “What was that about?”
“News from Idaho City. The sheriff there got word a gang of Confederate robbers might be after the treasure that left here this morning.”
“We should know soon enough.” Joe Burkette’s words echoed in Shannon’s mind. He had known about the Confederate plan to rob the stage. That was what he’d meant when he’d said it shouldn’t be long.
And even as that realization swept over her, she remembered the conversation she’d overheard in the livery stables several weeks before. “We’re all tired of waiting,” Joe had said then. This was what he’d been waiting for. She was sure of it.
Another memory pushed the others from her head. The image of another robbery attempt and the bloodied, wounded passenger as he was carried to the doctor’s office.
“Oh, Matthew,” she whispered, spinning toward the door. “Be careful. Dear God, don’t let anything happen to him.”
Matthew returned to consciousness—and wished himself back into oblivion at once. Pain radiated from somewhere on the left side of his body. He couldn’t be sure where he’d been hit, wasn’t sure he wanted to look.
He opened his eyes. The sky was pale blue, the sun relentless, baking the ground around him. He turned his head slightly to one side, feeling as if the grit of the hillside was grinding into his skull.
He seemed to recall that his tumble down from the road had been steep and taken a long time to end. So much for trusted recollection when a man got shot. He wasn’t much more than three or four yards down a slight incline.
What surprised him more was that the stagecoach was nowhere in sight. How long had he been out? Where had they gone?
He tried to sit up, and pain detonated in his body afresh. He cried out and fell back, squeezing his eyes shut.
But it wasn’t physical pain he was trying to shut out. It was knowing that Levi Jefferson never would have left Matthew behind. Not as long as he was still alive. And what about the kid? Barclay. Was he dead too?
He should have been more vigilant. He should have been prepared at every turn in the winding road south for a band of robbers. Wasn’t this exactly what William had worried would happen?
He thought about trying to move again. He should at least see how bad the bleeding was. Not that he could do much about it. He opened his eyes once more, gritted his teeth, and lifted his head off the ground enough to explore. The left side of his shirt had turned a maroon color as the blood dried. It looked like God had been watching out for him. A few more inches to the right, and the bullet would have pierced his heart.
His tumble down the hillside had been stopped by a clump of prickly shrubs. He needed to get away from them. He needed to get up to the road. He had to try . . .
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass. Instead, blackness enveloped him once again.