Bride For Marshall Read online

  Daring a quick glance, he confirmed she was crying. Not a lot, but even a little was too much, as far as he was concerned.

  “It’s not that, exactly. I…”

  He shook his head, unable to express his thoughts quite yet. She took the hint and remained quiet as they walked. The clouds that had been looming in the distance earlier were now directly overhead, reflecting Marshall’s emotions. If only he could point to them and say, “That’s how I feel.” No, he’d have to verbalize the battle brewing inside him.

  “I just don’t know how to be a father.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

  He didn’t like talking about his past, but with her he felt safe enough to try. “You know my mother raised me alone. That was because my father left before I was even born. All my life, it was just Mom and me. Mostly just me, because Mom usually worked at least three jobs to keep us both fed.”

  Small fingers squeezed his bicep, giving him strength to go on.

  “She did her best, and I love her for it, but I never had a father or anything resembling one. The closest I came was spending time with the families of friends. Even then, my friends’ fathers ranged from drunkards to captains of industry. Most spent little time at home, at least when I was around, so I don’t have any examples of ideal fathers. How am I supposed to be one when I don’t know what being one even means?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I’m a terrible father?”

  Colleen walked beside him quietly before speaking. “Do you remember telling me how you thought you were a terrible husband? Yet here you are, a better husband than I ever prayed for. I know, because I prayed for a good husband every day of my life. But God saw fit to deliver me so much more.”

  “With you as a wife, it was easy to muddle my way around marriage. Parenthood though…”

  She wouldn’t let him finish the thought. “Marshall, if you somehow figured out how to be a loving and supportive husband, I know in my heart you’ll be an even better father. If you don’t trust yourself, trust me. Trust that I would never have a child with someone I thought would make a bad father.”

  If only he could be sure of that. Those old feelings of self-doubt wouldn’t release their hold on him, though. He hadn’t been able to protect Andrew from the bandit’s bullets. He hadn’t even been able to protect little Lily. Andrew had somehow managed to push her out of harm’s way after he’d been shot. Andrew was the one who should be having more babies, not Marshall.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, pulling him out of his funk. The clouds had grown darker, and they’d walked farther than he realized. A hazy blur on the horizon foretold of rain, and judging by the speed it was moving, they’d never make it back to the cabin before they got drenched. Probably not even to their abandoned picnic.

  All other concerns evaporated as he racked his brain for a way to keep Colleen dry and safe. A small part of his brain tried to point out that he was already trying to protect his unborn child, but he ignored it to focus on the problem at hand. He hadn’t covered every inch of the area on his patrols, but he recalled the woods outside town being dotted with small hunters’ shacks. They weren’t big on luxury or space — or even cleanliness — but they provided enough shelter to survive a sudden blizzard. Or to stay dry during a rainstorm.

  Heading deeper into the forest, Marshall spotted a gouge cut in the side of a very large tree. “There!”

  Colleen tried to follow his finger, but didn’t see what he was pointing at. A big dollop of rain fell on his outstretched finger.

  “The cut in the bark of that tree. It’s a marker. Some hunter dug that into the wood to point the way to shelter. We’d better hurry.”

  The rain was coming down a little faster now, too much of it making it through the canopy and onto Colleen. Holding on tight to her hand, he walked briskly, keeping his pace just slow enough so she wouldn’t have to run to keep up. It wouldn’t do for her to trip and fall. That might hurt the b—

  He stumbled over his own feet and his own thoughts, and by the time he righted himself, he saw it up ahead. It wasn’t a house by any means, just a shack that was little more than a few moss-blackened boards haphazardly pounded together in the shape of a small box. Ten-by-ten at most. Still, the roof was intact, and there was even a small smokestack perched on top. That meant this hut had a stove or fireplace inside.

  “Why don’t you go on in,” he instructed. “I’m going to collect some wood before it really gets going. Just watch out for rusty nails in the floorboards.”

  “I could help,” she started, but he shooed her off toward the shack.

  “Go on, I think I can handle picking up a few pieces of wood.” He turned to his chore as she scurried away, then turned back. “And make sure no varmints have taken up residence in there before you go inside.”

  Colleen giggled. “Ooh, if it’s a fox, maybe we could keep it as a pet!”

  Marshall just shook his head and hurriedly started piling up any scrap of wood he could find. Pickings were surprisingly slim, mostly just skinny fallen branches. Before he could even wonder why, Colleen gave a short, sharp cry. He turned, ready to sprint to her aid, but even at a distance, he could see her laughing as she stood in doorway. A family of raccoons had probably startled her, and now she was trying to figure out a way to adopt them all.

  Turning back to his chore, he couldn’t help admiring his handiwork. He would have liked to have found more bigger pieces, but he somehow managed a respectable pile that would see them through the storm. That’s all he really needed, nothing more.

  Gathering up the pile, he struggled to keep them all together as he made his way to the shack. Then he heard a sound that curdled his blood and nearly stopped his heart. A sound more terrifying than a cougar’s scream, more fearsome than the howl of a lone wolf, and more bone-chilling than the blast of a gun.

  His wife’s scream.

  8

  A filthy, calloused hand slapped over Colleen’s mouth, cutting off her scream of terror. Surely Marshall had heard the first part though. She had to warn him to stay away from the shack at all costs. If he hadn’t heard…

  When she’d first flung open the door to the dilapidated little structure, she’d half-expected it to fall off its hinges. Instead, it had swung freely onto a surprising tableau: Two men sitting huddled next to a dingy cot. In the cot lay a man who didn’t look well at all.

  Colleen had cried out in surprise, then laughed at her silliness. Marshall had told her the cabins were meant to provide shelter for those in need, and obviously these men had found it first. She’d just hoped they wouldn’t mind some company because the rain had started to really come down.

  “I’m so sorry,” she’d said, beaming at the grimy hunters. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here.”

  The two men in chairs had slowly turned away from their ill compatriot — and once she’d had a good look, she wondered if maybe he was quite a bit beyond ill — and glowered in her direction. Colleen had cocked her head, puzzled because one of them looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Only when his eyes had opened wide and he’d pointed at her had she finally recognized him.

  And by then it was too late.

  “Jake, that’s one of them Mounties’ wives,” the short man from Mr. Shepard’s shop had said. “Get her!”

  The train robbers! Colleen had taken in a great lungful of air, but before she’d been able to let much out of a scream, the other bandit had lunged forward and silenced her. Now he had both arms wrapped around her, holding her arms at her sides, and a hand clamped over her mouth.

  “What’re we gonna do, Skeeter?” Jake whispered, his breath reeking of alcohol and decay.

  Skeeter, the shifty-eyed character from the shop, narrowed his eyes at her. “Kill her, for all I care.”

  All Colleen heard was Kill her baby. She struggled against her captor, trying to bite his hand, but only managed a tongue-full of salty grit. He clenched her tighter, cutting off her air supply just
enough to stop her from fighting.

  “We can’t kill her, not yet anyway,” Jake hissed, glancing over his shoulder as he kicked the door shut. “She ain’t out here alone. Maybe her husband…”

  “Nnn-nnn!” Colleen shook her head frantically and tried to say ‘Nuh-uh’ but it came out muffled against Jake’s hand. If she could convince them she was out on a walk by herself, maybe they wouldn’t go looking for Marshall. Maybe he’d get a chance to surprise them and rescue her.

  Skeeter squinted at her, malice pouring from his beady eyes. “You gonna scream if Jake lets go?”

  Colleen shook her head again. “Nnn-nnn!”

  “If ya do, I’ll cut yer throat,” Jake whispered in her ear as he dragged a filthy finger across her neck.

  Chills rippled through her body, and she knew without equivocation that he would keep his promise. She nodded again, this time in a more subdued manner. “Mmm-hmm.”

  Skeeter shrugged, so Jake released his grip on her mouth, but not her body.

  “Who’s out there?” Skeeter asked.

  “No one! My husband and I got into an argument and I went for a horse ride to clear my mind. No one knows where I am.”

  Colleen didn’t care for the glint that sparked in Skeeter’s eyes at that news, but she knew something he didn’t. If he so much as laid a finger on her, Marshall would cut it off!

  “So where’s your horse? We woulda heard a horse coming from a mile off.”

  “Yeah,” Jake added for emphasis.

  Colleen tried to figure out which one was the leader, but neither seemed particularly sharp. Skeeter had a lead on decidedly dim Jake, but not by much. They were neck-and-neck in a sprint to finish last where smarts came in.

  “Back a ways,” she said, pointing in the direction of town. “I stopped for a bite of lunch and decided to take a walk. Then the clouds rolled in. I saw this hut and thought I could ride out the storm in it.”

  Almost as if on cue, the rain hit the slatted roof overhead like a thousand hammers. Water dripped from unseen cracks, quickly becoming steady streams. One spattered off the forehead of the man in the bed. He didn’t wake, he didn’t even stir. His waxy, grey skin should have given it away immediately, but it wasn’t until he bore a drenching without flinching that Colleen realized he was truly dead.

  “Don’t worry about our brother,” Skeeter sneered, standing slowly, his furious gaze boring into her. “Dirk’s dead. Laid low by a Mountie.”

  Her stomach lurched. Only one Mountie had shot at the bandits, only one Mountie had hit his mark. Marshall. And the bloodlust in Skeeter’s eyes spoke of vengeance. But these men didn’t know — couldn’t know — that Marshall was her husband. Still, they probably didn’t care much about which Mountie warmed her bed, just that she was a member of the family. Skeeter shuffled so close she could feel the heat of his hate coming off him in waves.

  “Which one of ‘em done it? Huh?” He grabbed her shoulder and shook her hard. “I know you know. Now tell me so I can go kill that sonofa—“

  Jake grip loosened his grip slightly during the shaking, so when Skeeter started to threaten Marshall’s life, Colleen went into a frenzy. Screaming like a wild animal, she threw her arms wide, breaking what remained of Jake’s hold on her. Snarling with rage that someone dared to threaten the man she loved, she lunged for Skeeter’s throat, but he was too fast and too strong.

  “Hoo hoo!” he crowed, as he caught her wrists and crossed them in front of her body, rendering her powerless. “We’ve got a fighter, Jake!”

  He spun her around so she faced the front of the cramped cabin. Jake leered at her, grinning at her with his seven remaining teeth. But before he could make a move toward her, footsteps sounded outside. Jake drew his gun and moved next to Skeeter and her, glancing nervously at the man now holding her.

  Thank you, Lord! Marshall had arrived to save the day. Any second, he would break down the door and take her captors into captivity. The irony would be sweet, and she couldn’t wait to rub their noses in it.

  There was a pause, then the door swung open slowly. Marshall stood in the doorway, water running down his face in sheets as his eyes sought out Colleen. He didn’t move, didn’t draw his gun, didn’t charge the evil men. He just stood there, soaked to the bone and looking miserable. When his gaze finally locked onto hers, she couldn’t tell if he was relieved, scared, or angry. When she saw the man holding a gun to Marshall’s back, she realized it was all three.

  * * *

  Relief and resolve washed over Marshall when he saw that Colleen appeared unhurt, but when he saw some no-good, vile wretch touching her, the fingers of his right hand twitched. But his gun wasn’t on his hip, as it would have been had he worn his uniform.

  The man cramming a pistol into his spine had caught him completely unawares, arms loaded with a pile of fire wood. He’d just turned toward the cabin to see why Colleen had screamed the second time when a voice with a thick French accent said, “Don’t move!”

  Then he’d heard the tell-tale click of a pistol being cocked.

  Marshall had frozen in place, desperate to spin around and throw the wood at the gunman, but he man could have easily killed him long before he completed the turn. Instead he’d followed the man’s commands to drop the wood and head for the shack. It was his only chance to save Colleen.

  And their baby.

  If only he’d waited to collect wood until they’d been closer to the little hut, he would have noticed the fresh chicken bones — undoubtedly the remains of Mrs. Obregon’s “girls” — littering the ground outside the door. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to keep Colleen warm and dry, he would have seen fresh footsteps in a nearby mud puddle. If he’d been as alert as every Mountie should always be, he’d have sensed people had been in the area for days, maybe even weeks. A soft nicker had told him horses were nearby, though well-hidden.

  Now here he was, a fully trained, experience Mountie, with one bad guy’s gun in his back and his pregnant wife in another one’s clutches. He’d always prided himself on being prepared for every possible outcome of a situation, but he never expected to quite literally stumble upon the outlaws he’d been hunting for days. But this was no time to recriminate himself over dressing in civilian clothes on his rare day off. He’d have to make do with what he had at hand.

  Which was nothing except his wits.

  “Let her go,” he growled to the stocky one holding Colleen.

  The man cackled, but there was no humor in his eyes, only hate. “Ya hear that, Pierre? Fella wants us to let this fine little lass go.”

  “I hear, Skeeter,” Pierre said from behind Marshall. “You hear, Jake?”

  The thin, taller one standing next to Colleen and her captor said, “Huh?”

  The one named Skeeter rolled his eyes. In that instant, Marshall understood the new power dynamic of the band of devils. Dirk, the group’s leader during the train heist and the one Marshall had shot, lay dead on the cot. Skeeter was their new leader, Pierre a henchman and Jake…well, Jake was the spare. The sacrificial lamb they’d send to slaughter, if need be. He did as he was told, but nothing more — mostly because he was too stupid to think on his own.

  Hope surged forward, overpowering the despair he’d been feeling. Despite what Peter thought, the men at the robbery had appeared relatively dim-witted to Marshall. Dirk had been the only one with a keen glint in his eye — the other three had seemed about as sharp as spoons. With the brains of the operation eliminated, maybe Marshall had a chance.

  Skeeter tipped Colleen’s head sideways and pressed his mouth to her ear. “Thought you said you was alone out here. Liars go to Hell, ya know.”

  “So do thieves!” Colleen spit back.

  Marshall couldn’t have been prouder or more frustrated with her at that moment. Proud that she was holding onto that fire he loved so much, but frustrated that she’d sass a man who held her life in his hands. Literally.

  Skeeter only chuckled and looked past Marshall to Pierre.
“Where’d you find him?”

  “Outside, gathering wood. I got ze…how you say? Fall. I got ze fall on him.”

  “Drop,” Skeeter corrected, his gaze shifting to Marshall again. “You all look the same in those stupid red coats, but I’ll never forget those soulless eyes of yours. You’re the one who shot Dirk.”

  Marshall didn’t flinch, wouldn’t allow his eyes to waver, even for a second. He was in control here, whether these men knew it or not.

  “And proud of it,” he said coolly, as if they were discussing the weather.

  Skeeter’s lips began quivering and his knuckles turned white where he gripped Colleen’s arm. She didn’t make a noise, but Marshall noticed her wince. He wanted to make the men angry, but he’d have to tread carefully so they wouldn’t hurt Colleen.

  “That was my brother,” Skeeter whispered through clenched teeth, his voice raspy with rage.

  Marshall blinked as if he’d been slapped. He would never have guessed such a whip-smart criminal like Dirk would have a dullard for a brother. Besides, they looked nothing alike. Maybe they had different fathers. Regardless of their lineage, the entire situation had shifted under Marshall’s feet. Skeeter wasn’t just some dumb flunky — he was a man grieving the loss of someone he loved.

  “Mine too,” said Jake, glowering at Marshall.

  Uh oh. Two brothers desperate for revenge. This was officially not good. But he couldn’t let them see he was worried.

  “And you brought him here? Of all places? Must not have liked him very much, not that I can blame you.”

  Skeeter grew red in the face, and Marshall knew he’d hit a nerve. “Weren’t like we could just take him into White Fox for one of you to fix him up. ‘Sides, Dirk insisted.”

  “Huh, guess he wasn’t as smart as I thought,” Marshall said, hoping to drag more information out of them and stall for time so he could come up with a plan to get them out of this mess.

  “Hey! We been holed up here for a while now,” Jake answered, sentimentality fogging up his grey eyes. “Dirk said it was as good a place as any to die.”