Betrothed to the Bandit

Chapter One

Nevada, 1882

Dean Hunter slotted his Remington revolver into its holster and observed the shattered glass of four bottles that he’d shot from a hundred yards.

“I knew you were a good shot,” John said, slapping Dean’s back hard enough to raise dust. They’d been out on the prairie for hours target practicing and, between the two of them, Dean was the clear winner.

Dean strode toward their horses, which they’d tethered near Jasper Creek. It was autumn, and the wind whistling through the trees down Snow Mountain into the canyon was cold and damp. He walked fast to keep himself warm, exhaling white clouds.

“You know what that means,” John said, jogging to keep up with Dean’s long strides. “You’ve got to be the one to hold up the stagecoach on Friday.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, “but being good with a gun won’t matter much. I don’t plan on shooting anyone.”

“As long as everything goes smoothly, that shouldn’t be necessary,” John agreed. “Still, being able to shoot from a distance—that’ll come in handy. You could shatter a wheel spoke, make Barnaby halt his horses before anyone even sees you.”

“Not sure I like that idea,” Dean said. “People could be injured in the crash.”

Dean didn’t like the idea of robbing the stagecoach, period, but he knew that either he or John needed to do it. On it were thousands of dollars that belonged to the miners who worked for them in their co-owned Elkio Gold Mine.

John had discovered some of the gold in the driver’s possession. He’d figured out that Barnaby had driven the gold to Bells to exchange for paper money and was transporting the currency back to Elkio in the carpetbags of unsuspecting passengers on Friday’s coach.

They had to get it back. Their employees had earned that money, which far exceeded their meager salary. John said, “However you hold up the coach, don’t stick around too long. Remember, you only need to steal the carpetbags. Barnaby will have sewed the cash into the seams. Any other luggage can stay in the coach.”

Dean mounted his horse and waited for John to do the same. As they trotted back to John’s cabin, Dean said over the clip-clopping of hooves, “Quite a racket Barnaby has, using his stagecoach to transport stolen gold and boodle.”

“Aye,” John said. “Too bad he doesn’t use his genius for good, like you.”

Dean scoffed. “I’m hardly a genius. If I were, I wouldn’t agree to this scheme and risk a hangman’s noose or decades in prison.”

“You’re the reason our miners found gold in the first place. If what you invented isn’t genius, I don’t know what is.”

Dean was uncomfortable with the praise. He felt that he’d stumbled on his invention nearly by accident. Through experience being a miner himself and having a knack for material handling, planning, and drawing, he’d discovered a way to keep mining shafts from collapsing using hay and columns. His invention, called the Mining Girder, had all but eliminated deaths from suffocation in mines throughout the west.

The sun was setting by the time they arrived at John’s cabin. After they’d unsaddled and brushed down their horses, they retired inside. John lit a fire and the two business partners sat near it smoking their pipes.

“You know it’s up to us to get that money back to the rightful owners,” John said. “The law is as corrupt as Barnaby. We can’t rely on the marshal. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in on the racket and gets a cut for keeping his eyes shut.”

Dean drew the fragrant tobacco smoke from his pipe and stared at the crackling fire. “I know. It makes me angry, thinking about our workers and their families not getting the bonuses they earned. Wish I had the money to pay them, but my first royalty payment doesn’t come until March.”

Because John was a former lawyer and had knowledge of law, he’d helped Dean apply for a patent, and it had been officially issued by the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office last year. That meant Dean would earn a cut of the earnings from every mine that used the girder. Overnight, it seemed, he was on his way to becoming a very wealthy man, but that didn’t help in the interim.

“We’ll get their money,” John said firmly. “You’ll steal it from the stagecoach, and our miners will have the money they need in time for winter.”

“You’re sure the money’ll be on Friday’s coach?” Dean asked.

“According to my source in Bells. I’ll ride out there tomorrow and purchase a seat so I can be there when you hold it up. I’ll help you however I can.”

“My mail-order bride comes on Saturday’s coach, remember,” Dean said.

“Best make sure you’re alive to meet her.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Dean said wryly. They both knew robbing a stagecoach was risky, to say the least. The driver always carried a rifle, and if there was a guard up top, there would be at least two guns against his one.

“I’ll make sure the passengers in the coach don’t pull anything,” John said.

“Like another gun.”

“Exactly.” John leaned back and grinned at him. “So, tell me about this catalog bride. What made you do such a thing as order a woman? Couldn’t find one around here?”

Dean threw his box of tobacco at John, which he caught. “There’s hardly one woman for every sixth man. I did a head count at the town hall meeting a few months back.”

“You could do what I do and visit the Red Petticoat from time to time.”

Dean stood and grabbed the broom next to the poker. He brushed ash back toward the crackling logs. “Not my scene.”

John laughed. “Yeah, you like a woman who’s all bonnets and bows. Innocent and sweet, that’s your type. What’s her name?”

“Lydia Shaw. And what would you know about my type?” Dean growled, tossing the broom back to its stand. “Anyway, I’d better get to bed. I have a long journey home tomorrow.”

“You’re going all the way back to your cabin? Why not stay here until Friday?”

Dean shook his head. “Got to get home and make sure…” His voice trailed off, regretting he had opened himself up to more ribbing.

“Make sure it looks good for your bride,” John guessed. He laughed and pointed to a bedroom down the hall. “Get your rest. There’s an extra quilt in the cupboard.”

Dean said goodnight, eager to be free from John and any more comments about his mail-order bride, and walked to the bedroom.

He lit the lamp on the side table and sat on the bed. Removing a photograph from his pocket, he observed the face of the woman he would meet Saturday at the station. Her head was held high, her shoulders back, and the expression she leveled at the photographer was severe, like she was daring him to err. Long, dark hair framed her delicate face. The bodice of her light-colored dress was of some material that caught shine in the photographer’s lens, and small buttons dotted her collar, over her generous bosom, and down to her waist out of sight of the photograph. Dean believed it was the most beautiful likeness of a woman he’d ever seen. No one like her lived in Elkio.

He placed the photograph on the table and leaned it against the lamp so he could continue to look at it while he laid his head on the pillow.

He was almost more nervous about meeting her than robbing the coach. He hoped she would adapt to life out west with him. Because of the royalties he would earn from his invention, he would soon have plenty of money to buy her whatever she wanted to make her comfortable. He could give her a peaceful existence, or a luxurious one, whichever she preferred. He could add rooms to his one-room cabin, buy horses and a wagon to travel to town frequently, even take her overseas to London and Paris. With his incoming wealth, the possibilities were endless.

Having grown up in a poor family, his father also a miner before him, Dean had worked hard every day of his thirty years on Earth. His hands were still calloused from building the girders and wielding a pickax, though recently he’d taken a more supervisory role. People had commented that he looked to be the opposite of an artist and inventor. Due to his height and strength, they would sooner consider him a brute.

Before he fell asleep, he found himself hoping he appeared less rough and dangerous by Saturday when he met his bride, though only one day earlier he would do the roughest and most dangerous work of his life.