Ambush of the Heart (Rocky Mountain Marshals #1)

Chapter 1

Near Fort Collins, Colorado

U.S. Marshal Owen Riley was riding beside Delaney Bridger and her brother, escorting them to Fort D. A. Russell in Wyoming, when a bullet whizzed past him, so close he felt the heat of it.

Owen threw himself at Delaney to get her off her horse.

It was a reflex without thought. He held on to his reins and urged his well-trained buckskin mustang stallion to lie flat on its side.

He saw fellow Marshal Morgan Sawyer hit the ground a mere second before he did.

A third Marshal, Tex Mitchel, was already down, crouched low behind his horse, rifle drawn and aimed. Tex was bleeding.

Tex had Delaney’s brother, Boone Bridger, lying on the ground as well. The team of Marshals had been paid to get the Bridgers safely to Wyoming, and fortunately Delaney looked all right. She lay next to Owen with her pistol in hand. Her horse, meanwhile, took off down the hill they’d just crested.

Assessing things fast, Owen noticed Boone sprawled on his back, bleeding from a head wound.

Clive Duncan, the prisoner they’d been transporting, was facedown and not moving.

Clive was right beside Marshal Marley Tweedt, who’d been leading Clive’s horse as the man rode with his hands tied together.

Just beyond those two, Deputy Marshal Stan Ross also lay flat on his back, arms flung wide, unmoving, and bleeding from a chest wound.

The horses that hadn’t been forced down continued to stand. Owen knew they were well-trained horses, including their prisoner’s horse, as he’d supplied that mount himself.

Gunfire continued to rain down.

Stan’s spooked horse was trotting north, downhill, in the direction they’d been going. Other horses, trained or not, followed. Only Owen, Morgan, and Tex had managed to hold on to their mounts and had their critters down, acting as shields.

They had all just come out of a draw and then crested a hill. Of course, only someone from Colorado would call the rolling, rising mounds in these parts mere hills. Yet when you came upon a mountain close to hand, sure enough, they looked like hills.

They’d been skylined for just a few seconds on the trail to Cheyenne, riding north out of Denver along the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains, when they walked right into an ambush.

Five of them shot, four seriously. Marley’s leg bled, the wound bad enough that he’d let his horse get away.

Marley had crawled toward Tex, the closest shelter, and got his gun out, not paying his injured leg much mind.

Another glance at Tex told Owen he was bleeding but still in action.

There was a pause in the gunfire, a rifle. It’d sounded to Owen like a Springfield rifle, which carried an impressive load of bullets.

One gun. The rifle fire let up, then came more bullets about the time it would take to reload. But was it one gun or just the same kind of gun and multiple riders close together? Owen had learned not to jump to conclusions. Then he heard something, a grunt maybe, and the gunfire stopped.

Owen was pinned down near the top of the hill. He had his rifle out of the scabbard, resting it over his horse’s back, ready for the next round of gunfire.

But moments later, no one showed himself, and there were no more gunshots.

Regardless, Owen stayed where he was, ready for someone to come charging over the hill.

In the silence, a mountain breeze kicked up the acrid scent of gunfire, which to Owen smelled like brimstone.

It was as if the whole world had gone dead still except for the buffeting breeze.

With a glance back at Boone, he saw Delaney leaving the safety of the horse, her only shield. He quick grabbed her arm. “Don’t you dare go out there.”

She turned to him, furious, and cried, “I’ve got to help Boone.”

Owen’s grip gentled. “He’s down now. No one can get another shot in him. But if whoever opened fire on us comes over that hill, you need to be behind this shelter.” He gave his poor horse a little pat. He hated to reduce the loyal critter to shelter.

No more guns sounded.

She nodded. “Yes, it would be foolish, I know that.” She swallowed hard and swiped a wrist across her eyes. “I s-suppose he can’t get worse in a few minutes’ time.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s my job to keep you and Boone safe. I failed with him.” It ripped at Owen’s heart to see her cry, to see her brother bleeding from a head wound.

She calmed down and saw reason. It seemed she was a tough western woman. And pretty with her dark hair and blue eyes. He hated that he’d failed her brother, but he could still protect her. His hand on her arm felt a little too warm. He let go to face the hilltop and aim his gun again.

And then she was gone.

“Delaney! No!”

She’d dodged him neatly and was crawling, using her elbows to pull herself forward while staying flat.

He added wily to his other description of her.

He didn’t go after her but instead focused on the hill, ready to stop anyone who posed a threat to her.

She was soon beside her brother, where she tore a strip off his shirt to bind his wound. But it was an ugly shot to the head, and Boone remained limp on the ground.

He, Morgan, and Tex had partnered up before. Two other Marshals had ridden with them today, both of them now laid out on the ground. Stan Ross’s eyes were open, staring at heaven ’cause that was where he’d gone. Just a youngster. He hadn’t been with the U.S. Marshals Service for a full year.

Marley Tweedt, a tough Civil War veteran, was the oldest of them and mean. Alive but hurt bad. Owen had seen gunshots like this before. Unless he got real lucky, Marley was going to lose his leg—if the wound didn’t fester and kill him first.

Owen sensed his temper about to explode, but then his gaze landed on Delaney. The young woman had formed a bandage around her brother’s head. She looked around desperately, her eyes locked on Owen’s. “He’s alive,” she called.

Owen didn’t believe it, and yet at the same time he had to. Then he did a blamed-fool thing. He left the shelter of his horse and crawled over to Delaney.

She drew out a wickedly sharp knife. For a second or two, Owen was afraid of the fury in her eyes and the weapon in her hand, but then she slashed at her brother’s shirt, making another strip of cloth to bind his head before Owen reached them.

What Owen saw when he got closer to Boone gave him hope.

“The wound looks mean, but it’s a graze,” Delaney said as she tied the bandage around the pad she’d formed, just enough pressure to stanch the bleeding. “He’s going to live!” She said it with such force and certainty, Owen figured God himself had assured her of the fact.

Delaney’s pa was newly stationed at Fort Russell.

Though she’d never made such a claim, it was said she was a distant cousin a few times removed to the rugged mountain man Jim Bridger.

She sure seemed tough enough. Owen suspected she could’ve survived in the mountains with that old grizzly hunter.

Same went for Boone, whose toughness just might save him.

They were on this trail because the train that ran from Denver to Cheyenne wasn’t operating due to a wreck that tore up a stretch of track, which included a trestle bridge along the route. No one was making promises about when it would be running again.

A half day’s ride by train had turned into a few days’ ride on horseback.

Clive Duncan needed to be escorted to Cheyenne, where he’d been sentenced to hang.

He’d broken out of jail a year ago. The Bridgers, Delaney and Boone, had been standing on the station’s platform ready to board the train at the same time as Owen and his group.

When they found out Owen was changing plans to ride horseback to Cheyenne, the Bridgers asked if they could come along.

They wanted to get to Fort D. A. Russell, where their pa, Colonel Lionel Bridger, was the commander.

“Get back to watching for whoever shot my brother,” Delaney instructed, crawling on toward Marley.

Morgan rounded his horse and scrambled on hands and knees for the crest. It seemed to be safe so long as they kept low.

They headed for the top of a grassy knoll that rose from the rugged land.

But the gunfire had come from over this same hill, and Morgan didn’t like getting shot at more than any man Owen had ever seen.

And Owen feared that this time his friend was gonna die.

“Morg, no!” Owen hissed. “Let’s fall back. Now. That’s an order.”

Owen expected to be obeyed.

Morgan looked over his shoulder. The pure fury in his eyes would have scared a lesser man, but not Owen. He respected it, but at the same time, Morg was going to do as he was told.

Owen lowered his voice so as not to give themselves away to whoever had been shooting at them. “We need to find a better spot to make a stand. Sure as shootin’ they’re after our prisoner.”

Morgan gave the crest one more enraged glance, then turned back.

Instead, he went to the prisoner. Tex, his blood-soaked arm now with a kerchief wrapped around it, got to work loading Stan’s body onto his horse.

They were far enough over the hill that the horses could stand, but no one was going to dare sit up high on their backs.

Not until they’d put some space between them and whoever was shooting at them.

The prisoner was loaded next. Morg was a bit gentler with Marley, but he still hurriedly slung him, belly down, over his saddle.

Delaney guided her horse downhill, Tex leading the way with Boone limp across his saddle.

Delaney kept her eyes fixed on her brother, and in her expression, Owen could see the anger that her injured brother was being handled like this.

Yet along with her outrage was the grim acceptance that they had to get moving.

The men who’d shot them would be coming.