of friends. Because, to her dismay, her instincts didn’t trust Jake Cooper.
“How are we going to get to Gold Run?” she asked.
Reluctant to consider the possibility of a ride on horseback, she nonetheless figured a jet was out of the question.
Jake, ever the gunslinger, stood up to strike a pose, his hand on his heart. “My dear lady, my train is at your entire disposal as of this moment. It will take you around the world, if need be.”
Given a skull and a sword, the man could have played Shakespeare in the most famous theaters. He was funny in a ridiculous kind of way, yet Tracy sensed Jessica’s hurt from across the table.
The young woman seemed so nice and obviously still in love with the jackass that it was hard to fathom what she saw in Jake. Or what she thought she’d seen.
Garrett also pushed his chair back. “Very well, thus the matter is settled. We shall depart for Gold Run tomorrow morning at dawn. Any objections?”
When there were none, he got to his feet, walked to the door of the dining room, and bowed in turn to her and Jessica.
“We ought to take some rest. Goodnight, ladies. Weedon, may I have a word with you in the parlor?”
“Absolutely.”
Despite an eventful day, Tracy didn’t feel tired. She needed fresh air to think, to clear her head, and to let this new universe sink in.
Once Weedon and White Fur followed Garrett inside the parlor, she bid goodnight to the two star-crossed lovers and pretended to go upstairs. Sneaking out proved easy considering the main door was unlocked.
Blissful air stroked her face. She didn’t intend to go very far, just a short walk up and down the street before going to bed. In spite of the chill, she enjoyed the darkness as much as the feeling of solitude.
About a hundred feet from the mansion, someone grabbed her from behind and brought a long knife to her throat. Her heart keeled as the cold metal pricked her skin and an ominous voice whispered in her ear, “You shout, and I’ll slice your throat. Now move.”
Never letting go of her, he started driving her toward a boxy black shape concealed in the shadows. A carriage? He was half pushing, half dragging her to the back of the wagon when the horses neighed.
She tottered from the sudden urge to kick, punch, bite, tear, but the weapon didn’t move an edge. As panic gnawed at the edges of her brain and threatened to engulf her, a second voice cut through the night.
“Hurry, I can’t hold the horses.”
Before the knife-man could shove her inside, the horses neighed again, shook their manes, and began pulling the wagon forward.
Tracy swayed on her feet, jostled by her assailant, his blade almost slicing her neck.
“Come on, they’re edgy.”
The carriage jolted and she heard a cry from the driver, born from pain and fear. Then the knife was wrenched away. She filled her lungs with air as the man holding the vanished blade was seized and violently repelled to the other side of the street. Knocked out, he crashed onto the sidewalk.
The scene happened so quickly that she didn’t have time to be scared. The horses quieted as soon as the attack was over. Getting her breath back, Tracy raised her head to take a look at her Good Samaritan.
The moon came out of the clouds, allowing her to recognize the short black hair, the night eyes, the pale complexion, the brooding features.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her breath shaky.
He was the drifter, the man who watched her earlier in the street and who stirred up Garrett’s jealousy. Why would this stranger rescue her? Coincidence, or another piece to add to the puzzle?
“It isn’t safe in the streets,” her rescuer said. “I’ll walk you home.”
Was she also supposed to trust this one? Probably not, yet he spoke with a faint Scottish accent that softened her distrust. As her gaze fell on the knife-man sprawled on the ground, she pushed the words out of her mouth. “Are they dead?”
“No, they’ll live.
“How are we going to get to Gold Run?” she asked.
Reluctant to consider the possibility of a ride on horseback, she nonetheless figured a jet was out of the question.
Jake, ever the gunslinger, stood up to strike a pose, his hand on his heart. “My dear lady, my train is at your entire disposal as of this moment. It will take you around the world, if need be.”
Given a skull and a sword, the man could have played Shakespeare in the most famous theaters. He was funny in a ridiculous kind of way, yet Tracy sensed Jessica’s hurt from across the table.
The young woman seemed so nice and obviously still in love with the jackass that it was hard to fathom what she saw in Jake. Or what she thought she’d seen.
Garrett also pushed his chair back. “Very well, thus the matter is settled. We shall depart for Gold Run tomorrow morning at dawn. Any objections?”
When there were none, he got to his feet, walked to the door of the dining room, and bowed in turn to her and Jessica.
“We ought to take some rest. Goodnight, ladies. Weedon, may I have a word with you in the parlor?”
“Absolutely.”
Despite an eventful day, Tracy didn’t feel tired. She needed fresh air to think, to clear her head, and to let this new universe sink in.
Once Weedon and White Fur followed Garrett inside the parlor, she bid goodnight to the two star-crossed lovers and pretended to go upstairs. Sneaking out proved easy considering the main door was unlocked.
Blissful air stroked her face. She didn’t intend to go very far, just a short walk up and down the street before going to bed. In spite of the chill, she enjoyed the darkness as much as the feeling of solitude.
About a hundred feet from the mansion, someone grabbed her from behind and brought a long knife to her throat. Her heart keeled as the cold metal pricked her skin and an ominous voice whispered in her ear, “You shout, and I’ll slice your throat. Now move.”
Never letting go of her, he started driving her toward a boxy black shape concealed in the shadows. A carriage? He was half pushing, half dragging her to the back of the wagon when the horses neighed.
She tottered from the sudden urge to kick, punch, bite, tear, but the weapon didn’t move an edge. As panic gnawed at the edges of her brain and threatened to engulf her, a second voice cut through the night.
“Hurry, I can’t hold the horses.”
Before the knife-man could shove her inside, the horses neighed again, shook their manes, and began pulling the wagon forward.
Tracy swayed on her feet, jostled by her assailant, his blade almost slicing her neck.
“Come on, they’re edgy.”
The carriage jolted and she heard a cry from the driver, born from pain and fear. Then the knife was wrenched away. She filled her lungs with air as the man holding the vanished blade was seized and violently repelled to the other side of the street. Knocked out, he crashed onto the sidewalk.
The scene happened so quickly that she didn’t have time to be scared. The horses quieted as soon as the attack was over. Getting her breath back, Tracy raised her head to take a look at her Good Samaritan.
The moon came out of the clouds, allowing her to recognize the short black hair, the night eyes, the pale complexion, the brooding features.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her breath shaky.
He was the drifter, the man who watched her earlier in the street and who stirred up Garrett’s jealousy. Why would this stranger rescue her? Coincidence, or another piece to add to the puzzle?
“It isn’t safe in the streets,” her rescuer said. “I’ll walk you home.”
Was she also supposed to trust this one? Probably not, yet he spoke with a faint Scottish accent that softened her distrust. As her gaze fell on the knife-man sprawled on the ground, she pushed the words out of her mouth. “Are they dead?”
“No, they’ll live.
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