Wayward Mail Order Bride 2 by Montana West

Author:Montana West
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mail order brides, mail order bride romance, montana gold, western romance, mail order wife, spirits of the western sky, mail order mama
Publisher: Global Grafx Press
Published: 2015-12-08T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bal Brooks rode Paul Butternut’s painted mare on the only road headed south. He kept the beast pumping hard, desperate to make up for lost distance, for lost time. So much lost time, he couldn’t help thinking. So many missed opportunities. But no more. This is one chance I’m not gonna miss. This may be my last chance.

Last chance to be a real man, and a real father, to earn the life I have, the things I enjoy. At least somebody in my family will be able to enjoy life.

Something caught Bal’s eye, a horse about two hundred yards ahead, coming out of a cluster of honeysuckle. Bal’s systems lit up, nerves rising to the surface of his skin, heart pumping blood through his limbs. He slowed his horse’s gallop to give himself enough distance to assess the rider as a possible threat before deciding to act, and how to act. But the closer he looked at the horse and its rider, the quicker he realized that this was no threat coming his way, no bandit with guns blazing. The rider was slumped forward, arms draped over the animal’s shoulders, face-down on the base of the neck.

As he got closer, Bal could make out the arrow planted in the man’s shoulder blade. His black jacket marked him as a man of the cloth.

“Reverend Wallace?” Bal muttered, before calling his name even louder. But it was obvious that his old friend and spiritual leader wasn’t hearing him, nor was he going to respond. His lifeless body was beyond communication, perhaps beyond rousing.

***

Gideon woke up in a bed, his shoulder pulsing with agonizing pain. He was dizzy, confused, his thoughts foggy and unwieldy. His mouth was dry, his stomach churning nauseous butter and curdled milk in his stomach.

He looked up to see Selma Brooks dabbing his forehead, eyes wide and anxious. “Reverend,” she said, repeating it louder to capture his attention. “Reverend!”

She raised a glass of water to his lips. It was lukewarm but refreshing, bringing a little clarity back to his dazed perspective. “You’re okay, Reverend, you’re alive.”

“What ... what happened?”

Bal stepped up to the bed, standing behind his wife. “Doc took a Cheyenne arrow out of your back, had to push it out the other side.”

Gideon winced, the painful throb returning to his shoulder. Visions of the party's meeting with the Cheyenne came pounding back to Gideon’s memory, flashes of violence and panic, fear and sudden death. “We were ambushed,” Gideon said, “by a band of Cheyenne, on our way to capture that band of thieves.”

Selma could barely force herself to ask, “The others?”

Gideon shook his head, trying to get up but wincing with the incredible pain in his shoulder. “You’re supposed to relax,” Bal said. “That doc’s no artist with a sewing needle.”

“Was he killed?” Selma asked Gideon.

“Who, that tobacco man, Francis James? I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Not him,” Selma said, her voice strained and urgent, “our boy, our Horatio!” Gideon shook his head, confused. Selma looked up at Bal.

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