Badlands Bride. Cheryl St.John
of his people—rather, the people of his heart—and most of them were surviving on reservation land.
Buffalo no longer roamed the grasslands in great herds, like rippling black seas. The Oglala, Santee, Yankton and other Sioux had been forced to make treaties in order to receive food.
Cooper paced to his team of horses, waiting in the shade of a wind-bent tree. He ran a hand down the black’s hide and noticed his own skin, callused and rough, sun-darkened nearly to a shade like that of his Sioux family.
His white skin had given him an advantage over the men he called his brothers. He’d taken a land grant offered only to whites. He’d traded and sold years’ worth of furs for wagons and tools, caught his own horses and purchased everything else he’d needed to start his business.
For now, he could only take food and winter supplies to the reservation, but someday, and he hoped it would be soon, he would be in a position to really help his people. And Tess Cordell would help him do just that.
Hallie covered her mouth and nose with her damp handkerchief and tried not to choke on the thick dust gusting in around the drawn shade. The wheels hit another gully and her groan was drowned out by the other women’s cries.
Zinnia Blake held her wilted, green-feathered hat in place on her head with a dirty-gloved hand and Hallie tried not to laugh at the way the flesh beneath her chin jiggled. They hit another indentation and Zinnia flattened the hand over her enormous bouncing bosom. Even in the dim interior, her face glistened as red as a freshly washed tomato. “Isn’t it awfully hot for this late in the fall?”
“It can’t be much farther,” Olivia Mason predicted. She pounded on the roof with the heel of her hand and peeled back the shade. “Mr. Tubbs, is it much farther?”
The monotonous sounds of the creaking coach and the horses’ hooves were the only reply.
The wind stuck a coil of red hair to Olivia’s pale cheek and she dropped the shade back into place. “He promised we’d be there this morning.”
“Mr. Tubbs is doing the best he can,” Evelyn Reed said, coming to the driver’s defense. Hallie hadn’t heard her speak more than a dozen words the entire ten-day trip and figured she must be as tired of the other women’s complaints as she. Zinnia had been sick from the steamer’s constant chugging up the river. Olivia had insisted on changing clothes twice a day, and then complained about having no clean ones.
Once they’d crossed the Missouri and boarded Mr. Tubbs’s stage, things had grown progressively worse. Zinnia had a case of heat rash that drove her to tears. Olivia thought there should be a laundry at each rustic relay station. The meals were horrible, facilities for tending to nature’s call primitive to nonexistent, and Hallie had a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up.
But she was having a glorious adventure. She took copious notes, describing the weather conditions, the vegetation, the stark but beautiful outcroppings of stratum eroded by time and nature. She would have a story to beat all stories when she got home. Maybe she would even write an article for a magazine... or perhaps a book!
The jarring motion of the coach slowed, and the women glanced expectantly at one another.
“Thank God!” Zinnia panted. “We must be there. And, good heavens, I no doubt look a fright.”
Olivia tucked stray red coils into her neat chignon.
The stage picked up speed again. Overhead, Mr. Tubbs shouted unintelligible orders to the horses. Inside the coach, the farers bounced and jostled. Hallie flipped up the shade and peered through the dust, gritting her teeth at the jarring of her backside against the poorly padded seat.
Appearing from a cloud of churning dust, horses and riders drew up with the stage. Shots were fired, and piercing screams erupted beside her. Heart pounding, she watched the riders gain on the stage. “Stage robbers!” she cried.
She’d stayed up many a night, thrilling to the excitement and action depicted in dime novels. Now, here was she, Hallie Claire Wainwright, participant in an adventure as exciting as those! Her heart pounded and terror shivered up her spine. She strained to see through the thick haze of dust, trying to impress each detail into memory for later.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the stage slowed to a halt. The door was flung open and the barrel of a gun poked inside. Zinnia shrieked.
“Come out!”
Hallie glanced at the women’s panic-stricken faces. As long as they were being delayed, she might as well make the best of it. Her father would love the firsthand story of a stage holdup! Let Evan Hunter try to top this one.
“Let’s do as they say.” She gestured to the others, gathered her skirts and stepped out into the sunshine.
Chapter Two
Three bandanna-masked men in sweat-stained shirts and ill-fitting trousers pointed guns at the women exiting the coach. With their hats pulled low, the invisibility of faces and expressions was as threatening as the weapons. Two others in the same disguising attire sat atop horses. Another, this one barrel chested and short legged, held Mr. Tubbs at gunpoint on the ground.
The grizzled old driver squinted from the bandits to the women, one side of his unshaven cheek jerking in a nervous twitch.
“White women,” one of the three standing men said in awe. He wore a battered and wide-brimmed black hat.
The tallest, standing near Hallie, jerked his gun barrel toward the back of the stage. “The bags.”
The riders dismounted and lithely leapt onto the coach, unfastening the leather straps and tossing trunks and cases to the ground. Jumping back down, they opened the bags and trunks, pausing only seconds to shoot off resisting or locked latches.
The bullets frightened Zinnia to hysteria. She threw her hands toward the sun and wailed.
“Quiet!” The black-haired man moved forward and struck her with the back of his hand. Olivia couldn’t support her, and she wilted into an unconscious heap in the dirt.
“Take what you want and go,” Olivia objected. “There’s no call to hurt women.”
He yanked Olivia’s hair. She yelped, and her red mane tumbled across one shoulder. Grasping a strand in his leather-gloved fingers, he tugged her closer.
She slapped his hand away and stepped back.
“Open that pouch.” The man in front of Hallie, who appeared to be the leader, indicated her reticule.
He stood too close; his eyes were black and unyielding. The men’s aggressiveness frightened her. She’d never seen women treated disrespectfully. This was what the papers called the untamed West. There was no law. No one would even hear the shots. They could die out here and not be found for days or weeks.
Wisely, Hallie chose to open her bag and withdraw the contents. Three men darted forward, taking the other women’s possessions. At the same time, one climbed inside the coach.
The leader stuffed Hallie’s money into his pocket. She swallowed her objections. It was only money, after all, and her life was more important.
“You don’t cry.”
Hallie stared into his black eyes, her heart jumping into her throat.
“Do you talk?”
She raised her chin without reply. He circled her slowly, keeping the gun pointed at her. Halfway around, she had to turn her head and wait for him to approach from the other side. The way he looked at her body sickened her and made her feel naked.
“Lift your dress.”
She took a step back. “I beg your pardon.”
“You do talk.” He lowered the gun barrel to the front of