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“You here to visit family?”
“No. I’m a mail-order bride. The man’s name is Dr. Colton Lee.”
Denby began coughing.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just a tickle in my throat. Let’s get going. We should make it to Paradise before sunset.”
He got the horses moving but Regan swore the coughing fit must’ve meant something else because when she glanced his way, Denby was smiling.
Before they’d gone another mile, she spied another group of men riding hard in their direction. This time there were no bandanas and their open dusters were flapping like birds of prey. She grabbed her rifle and took aim. “I think the man that got away has returned with friends. You keep driving, I’ll try and hold them off.”
He let out a curse and slapped the reins down on the horses’ backs. The coach picked up speed, but she could tell by the rate they were moving that the poor beasts were tired. “How many men?” Denby yelled. He was unable to see the riders from his seat.
“Eight!” Regan knew there was no way she’d be able to hold her own against so many armed men. She was terrified, but as they got within range she steadied her aim and fired repeatedly. There were three men riding point. She hit one in the shoulder, but apparently, the bullet only grazed him because he slapped a hand over the injury and kept riding. They began returning fire but she realized they were firing in the air. They’d also halted their mounts. Curious, but not drawing down, she waited over her pounding heart.
“What’s the matter?” Denby asked.
“They’ve stopped.”
He pulled back on the reins to halt the coach and stood up cautiously. After assessing the riders, he waved his arms as if signaling them and asked her, “Did that rifle of yours hit anybody?”
“I caught the one in the black duster in the shoulder. Why? Do you know them?”
“Yep. It’s the sheriff, Whit Lambert.”
Her eyes widened. “I shot the sheriff?”
“No, ma’am. The man in the black duster is Doc Lee. You just plugged your soon-to-be husband.” And by his chuckles, he apparently found that humorous.
Regan was mortified.
The sheriff and his men approached on mounts held to a walk. Regan couldn’t take her eyes off the grim ebony face of the man she’d come to marry. He was tall and lean and sat his big bay stallion proudly. A mustache accented his tersely set mouth. A close-cropped beard dusted his jaw. She was pleased to finally put a face to the man she’d been corresponding with for the past few months, but her main concern was how he’d react upon learning who’d shot him. Regan also noted belatedly that the men who’d attacked the coach were also with the sheriff’s posse. Their hands were cuffed and neither looked happy about being apprehended. She assumed the body lying across the back of a black horse was the one she’d shot in the chest.
“Sorry about the shooting, Sheriff,” Denby called out. “We thought you were part of the gang that rode down on us earlier. She really didn’t mean to shoot the doc.”
The tall auburn-haired sheriff appeared as confused by Regan’s presence as the men of the posse seemed to be. “You were the one shooting at us, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sheriff Whitman Lambert. And you are?”
Drawing in a nervous breath, she gave the doctor a hasty glance. “Regan Carmichael.”
The doctor’s dark gaze flew to hers. “I’m truly sorry,” she replied guiltily.
The sheriff turned to the doctor and although his barely veiled amusement mirrored the reactions of the other posse members, the doctor’s jaw was tight with displeasure.
She felt terrible.
“Where’s Casey?” the sheriff asked Denby.
“Inside on the seat. He’s dead. I think his heart gave out during the gun fight earlier.”
The doctor dismounted, wincing a bit as he moved and entered the coach.
“Was it those two?” Lambert asked, pointing to the sullen, dirty-faced outlaws.
