Her smile widened. “Then you best get moving. The stage left about fifteen minutes ago. You have time to catch up and stop it.”
“Thank you, Lily.”
He left the house, mounted Brigadier, and rode out of town as fast as his horse could carry him.
Sheridan wiped her eyes for the thousandth time, her handkerchief now soaked through, but it was the only one she had, as ineffective as it was. She uncrumpled it, hoping to dry it somehow, but doing so only brought more tears. It wasn’t even her handkerchief. It was his—Wyatt’s—his initials embroidered boldly in the corner.
“Are you all right, dear?” Her fellow passenger, an older woman she didn’t know, asked before handing her another handkerchief, this one dry.
Sheridan accepted the handkerchief with gratitude and dabbed at her eyes. “No, I’m not all right.”
“How can I help?”
She gave a rueful laugh. “I’m not sure anyone can help me.”
“How do you know that?” The woman reached across the space between them and patted her hand. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Sheridan looked down at the wrinkled hand atop hers, then looked up into the most beautiful—and wise—light-brown eyes she’d ever seen. Surrounded by more wrinkles, there was such compassion and knowledge in those eyes, she could only stare. Could she tell a complete stranger that her heart was broken? That the man she loved was in love with someone else? Yes, she could, but before she could admit it, the woman nodded sagely.
“Your heart’s been broken.”
Sheridan stiffened. How had she known? It must have been the copious amount of tears that seemed to have no end.
“Oh, my dear, I’ve seen that look more times than I can count. In fact, I’ve been where you are, my heart broken.” She smiled in a comforting way, then held out her hand. “Mrs. Mildred Evans.”
Sheridan took her hand and shook, then offered her own name.
The woman continued. “I know you don’t think so, but your heart will mend. It always does.”
“Not this time, I’m afraid. I will never give my heart to another person again.”
Mrs. Evans laughed softly, as if she knew something others didn’t. “You say that now, but I can tell, just by looking at you, that you have a lot of love to give. You’ll find that special someone. I have faith that you will.” She laughed again and squeezed her hand. “I’ve found it four times, so far. Been married that many times, too.”
Stunned by Mrs. Evans’ admission, Sheridan opened her mouth, but before she could respond, she heard shouting from outside the coach demanding that it stop. She tensed. Could this day get any worse? Not only was her heart broken, but she was about to get robbed, too!
Mrs. Evans must have thought the same as she stiffened as well, but still she smiled, as if this happened to her every day. Ormaybe, she considered it an adventure and the way to meet her next husband.
“Stop the coach!” The voice demanded again.
She could feel the horses slowing down, then heard the sharp bark of a rifle being fired, but she couldn’t tell who fired it. Was it the would-be robber? Or the man who rode shotgun atop the coach beside the driver, who’d been introduced simply as Ace?
The stagecoach came to a stop. Moments later, footsteps crunched the gravel beneath someone’s feet. “Stay inside!” Ace ordered through the shade that covered the window.
The robber must have been hit. Might even be dead.
Sheridan pushed the shade aside and peeked outside. Her heart immediately stopped beating for a full minute before resuming with a painful thud. She recognized Brigadier, his sides heaving, sweat glistening. Below him, on the ground, blood spreading from the wound in his leg, turning his light brown trousers dark, was Wyatt.
“Wyatt! Oh my God, Wyatt!” She scrambled out of her seat and through the door then ran to where he lay, dropping to her knees beside him.
“I thought I told you to stay inside!” Ace barked at her.
She ignored him and pulled Wyatt’s head onto her lap. He opened his eyes—his tiger’s eyes—and sighed.
“I love you, Sherry. Don’t go. Katie lied,” he whispered just before he went entirely limp.
Panic made her cry out even as she cradled his head in her lap. “Please don’t die, Wyatt. I love you, too. I need you.”
The man who carried the shotgun poked Wyatt, drawing a groan from him. “He ain’t dead, ma’am.”
