Chapter 18
“Sherry?” Wyatt called out as soon as he let himself in the parlor house, his heart in his throat. This love between he and Sheridan was still new, still tender, and knowing how her family treated her, he could only imagine her heartbreak when Katie lied to her.
Lily looked up from the book she’d been reading, tossed it aside and rose from her chair. She strode toward him, her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. She looked like she had a few things to say to him, but she simply said, “She’s gone, Wyatt.”
“Gone? Gone where?” He ran his fingers through his hair, more exasperated than ever. If only Sheridan had given him a chance, he could have explained—everything.
Lily shrugged. “She got on the afternoon stage for Santa Fe. Where she’s going after that, I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“Back to New Orleans?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I love her.”
“And that’s why Katie was at your house?” Lily advanced on him, her hands still on her hips, anger in each step. “How could you have done that to her? How could you break Sheridan’s heart like that?”
“Katie just showed up. I wasn’t even home. I was working the ranch. I didn’t invite her. I don’t want anything to do with her. I love Sheridan. I have from the moment I saw her.”
Lily studied him and he grew a bit uncomfortable beneath her stare, but then she smiled. “You do love her. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I wouldn’t lie about that, Lily. She has my heart.”
Her smile widened. “Then you best get moving. The stage left about fifteen minutes ago. You have time to catch up and stop it.”
“Thank you, Lily.”
He left the house, mounted Brigadier, and rode out of town as fast as his horse could carry him.
Sheridan wiped her eyes for the thousandth time, her handkerchief now soaked through, but it was the only one she had, as ineffective as it was.
She uncrumpled it, hoping to dry it somehow, but doing so only brought more tears.
It wasn’t even her handkerchief. It was his—Wyatt’s—his initials embroidered boldly in the corner.
“Are you all right, dear?” Her fellow passenger, an older woman she didn’t know, asked before handing her another handkerchief, this one dry.
Sheridan accepted the handkerchief with gratitude and dabbed at her eyes. “No, I’m not all right.”
“How can I help?”
She gave a rueful laugh. “I’m not sure anyone can help me.”
“How do you know that?” The woman reached across the space between them and patted her hand. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Sheridan looked down at the wrinkled hand atop hers, then looked up into the most beautiful—and wise—light-brown eyes she’d ever seen.
Surrounded by more wrinkles, there was such compassion and knowledge in those eyes, she could only stare.
Could she tell a complete stranger that her heart was broken?
That the man she loved was in love with someone else?
Yes, she could, but before she could admit it, the woman nodded sagely.
“Your heart’s been broken.”
Sheridan stiffened. How had she known? It must have been the copious amount of tears that seemed to have no end.
“Oh, my dear, I’ve seen that look more times than I can count. In fact, I’ve been where you are, my heart broken.” She smiled in a comforting way, then held out her hand. “Mrs. Mildred Evans.”
Sheridan took her hand and shook, then offered her own name.
The woman continued. “I know you don’t think so, but your heart will mend. It always does.”
“Not this time, I’m afraid. I will never give my heart to another person again.”
Mrs. Evans laughed softly, as if she knew something others didn’t.
“You say that now, but I can tell, just by looking at you, that you have a lot of love to give. You’ll find that special someone.
I have faith that you will.” She laughed again and squeezed her hand.
“I’ve found it four times, so far. Been married that many times, too. ”
Stunned by Mrs. Evans’ admission, Sheridan opened her mouth, but before she could respond, she heard shouting from outside the coach demanding that it stop. She tensed. Could this day get any worse? Not only was her heart broken, but she was about to get robbed, too!
Mrs. Evans must have thought the same as she stiffened as well, but still she smiled, as if this happened to her every day. Or maybe, she considered it an adventure and the way to meet her next husband.
“Stop the coach!” The voice demanded again.
She could feel the horses slowing down, then heard the sharp bark of a rifle being fired, but she couldn’t tell who fired it. Was it the would-be robber? Or the man who rode shotgun atop the coach beside the driver, who’d been introduced simply as Ace?
The stagecoach came to a stop. Moments later, footsteps crunched the gravel beneath someone’s feet. “Stay inside!” Ace ordered through the shade that covered the window.
The robber must have been hit. Might even be dead.
Sheridan pushed the shade aside and peeked outside.
Her heart immediately stopped beating for a full minute before resuming with a painful thud.
She recognized Brigadier, his sides heaving, sweat glistening.
Below him, on the ground, blood spreading from the wound in his leg, turning his light brown trousers dark, was Wyatt.
“Wyatt! Oh my God, Wyatt!” She scrambled out of her seat and through the door then ran to where he lay, dropping to her knees beside him.
“I thought I told you to stay inside!” Ace barked at her.
She ignored him and pulled Wyatt’s head onto her lap. He opened his eyes—his tiger’s eyes—and sighed.
“I love you, Sherry. Don’t go. Katie lied,” he whispered just before he went entirely limp.
Panic made her cry out even as she cradled his head in her lap. “Please don’t die, Wyatt. I love you, too. I need you.”
The man who carried the shotgun poked Wyatt, drawing a groan from him. “He ain’t dead, ma’am.”
“He’s not?”
“No, ma’am. He won’t die from that gunshot wound to his leg. It’ll just hurt like hell.” Ace loosened the bandanna from around his neck and tied it around Wyatt’s leg, just above the wound, drawing a groan from him, making his eyes fly open.
“Shit! That hurts!”
Ace chuckled. “Serves ya right, tryin’ to hold up a stagecoach. What were ya thinkin’?”
“Wasn’t trying to hold up the stage. Just needed you to stop.
” Wyatt pulled in a deep breath, wincing as he did so, then turned his attention to her, his gaze roaming over her, the look in his eyes filled with love and pain and hope.
“I couldn’t let you leave, Sherry. You’d be taking my whole life with you. I don’t think I could have borne it.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet?” Ace’s tone was mocking as his focus shifted between them. “But I don’t believe you.” He jerked his thumb toward the driver still perched high in his seat. “He don’t believe you neither. That’ll be up to Marshal Goodrich. He knows what to do with stagecoach robbers.”
“He’s not a bandit, sir!” Sheridan insisted. “He’s going to be my husband. And he doesn’t belong in jail. He needs to see a doctor.”
Ace had the audacity to laugh at her. “If’n you say so, but we’ll let Marshal Goodrich decide. Now move aside.”
Sheridan rose to her feet, but she didn’t take her eyes from Wyatt, her heart pounding much too hard in her chest. She watched, her breath held, as Ace rudely pulled Wyatt to a sitting position, then yanked him to his feet so he could march him to the open door of the stagecoach, only to push him roughly inside.
Wyatt let out an ‘oof’ as his face hit the floor.
“You don’t need to be so brutal,” Sheridan reminded Ace, but it didn’t seem to make a difference, at least not where Wyatt was concerned.
The man didn’t apologize. Instead, he simply stared at her, his mouth drawn into a thin line, his eyes narrowed. His mouth opened, but no words were issued, before he turned on his heel and walked away, hopefully to catch Brigadier and tie his reins to the back of the vehicle.
Sheridan scrambled into the coach, careful not to jostle or hurt Wyatt in any way.
She didn’t take her seat. Instead, she helped him turn onto his back, then sat on the floor, as dirty and disgusting as it was, and lifted his head to her lap.
Despite being shot, despite being in pain, Wyatt still smiled.
She had the inclination to wipe that smile off his face. This wasn’t amusing in the least. “What did you think you were doing, Wyatt? You could have gotten killed.”
“Couldn’t let you leave, Sherry. I love you.” He ended on a groan as the stagecoach lurched forward, then reached for her hand as the driver turned the coach around and headed back to town.
Mrs. Evans grabbed for the strap nailed to the side of the coach so she wouldn’t lose her seat and leaned forward just a bit. “Is this him? The man who broke your heart?”
Sheridan nodded as she smoothed his hair away from his brow. He’d lost his hat somewhere, probably when he fell from Brigadier’s back.
“He’s handsome,” she commented as her gaze slid over him, then she reached out and touched Sheridan’s shoulder with her free hand.
“He’ll be all right, my dear.” She smiled in a reassuring way.
“Are you going to stay and marry him? After all, he chased you down so you wouldn’t leave.
Got himself shot for his efforts. Out of all my husbands, none ever went to such extremes. ”
Sheridan drew in her breath, her gaze roaming over him.
His eyes were closed. He was still bleeding, but the bandanna tied around his thigh seemed to have slowed the initial surge of blood.
His breathing was slow and even and that stupid smile seemed to be permanently etched to his face.
Ace was right. Wyatt wasn’t going to die.
It didn’t take very long before the coach stopped again. Heavy boot heels pounded on the raised wooden sidewalk just moments before the coach door swung open. “Caught this man trying to rob my stagecoach.”