stood on the front porch. She waved, and Chayston, swallowing the bitterness that still let loose inside him at times, waved back. No one had ever known about the ring he’d purchased, and no one ever would.
Bidding farewell to Seth, he urged Buster into a trot.
The gelding was sure-footed and took to the mountain grade as easily as he’d traveled across the valley. Here, too, the trail was clear, but if snow had let loose it would be higher up, where the road made a long S-curve and the mountainside was the steepest. A couple of miles later, as Chayston rounded the first corner, shouts had him nudging Buster into a faster pace.
Following the road all the way around the curve, he slowed momentarily. Sure enough, a snowslide covered the road a short distance ahead. The stage was there, up to its axels, and Riley was pushing, while his shotgun rider, Coop, was tugging on the reins of the four harnessed horses.
Chayston had yet to pull Buster to a complete stop when a head popped out of the stage window. He couldn’t see much except a thick red scarf.
“Yoo-hoo,” a female voice shouted. She was waving a hand, too. “You, on the horse. We are in need of assistance.”
Obviously.
“Would you mind?” she continued before he had a chance to let his thought loose.
He minded, all right. Minded a lot of things right now.
“Glad to see you, Chayston.” Coop dropped the reins and rested both hands on his knees. “We’ve been at this for hours.”
Chayston withheld the fact he’d already surmised as much and dismounted. The snow he trudged through to check the stage horses grew to knee deep. The animals were sound, though tired from trying to pull the rig.
“We’re stuck,” the woman said.
He let his gaze bypass her to land on Riley, who was sweating despite the temperature that was dropping by the minute.
“Picked up a boulder trying to roll through the snow. It’s stuck in the spokes, up against the axel.” Riley took off his hat and brushed back his mass of curly gray hair. “Tried to pound it out, but the snow’s packed it tight.” He nodded toward the snow-free wider section of road where Buster stood. “Gotta get through the snow before I try again. We’re too close to the edge here.”
The snow piled up against the mountain had forced the stage to travel near the far edge. Chayston noticed, too, the deep ruts behind Riley that disappeared when the road curved again around the hillside.
“Can you help us or not?” a demanding voice asked.
Chayston couldn’t remember disliking someone on sight, but it was happening. This woman was making his stomach ferment like a barrel of apples turning into vinegar.
“He’ll help, all right,” Riley said. “This here is Sheriff Williams.” Gesturing toward the window with a thumb, Riley said, “Chayston, meet Miss Violet Ritter from Cincinnati.”
Chayston didn’t bother glancing her way. He’d already known her name and where she was from.
The snow was thick and hard to plod through. As he passed the window, she asked, “Williams? Are you related to General Williams?”
“He sur—”
“How long have you been pushing this thing?” Chayston asked, interrupting Riley before he could say more.
“Over a mile,” Riley answered. “I’ve been trying to hold up the back end. The front axels are turning, but the back one’s locked tight.”
Chayston’s well-placed kick was a mistake. The snow between the spokes was rock hard and the action shot a sting from his toe to his knee. Riley had been driving the stage for years, and there was no doubt the man had already tried everything within his power to get it rolling again. “You’ve been holding up the back end?”
“Not much else we could do,” Riley answered. “Tried shoveling, but that just gave way for more snow to fall.” Lowering his rough and raspy voice, he added, “I didn’t dare pound on the axel too hard. If the wheel broke this close to the edge, the stage could tumble right over the edge, taking your papa’s new bride with it.”
Violet slapped four fingers over her lips to stifle her gasp, but wasn’t quite fast enough. The sheriff had turned around. His glare was so dark and cold her very toes shivered. Of course they—her toes—had been shivering all day. If she ever found who’d stolen her boots she’d see them tarred and feathered. Arrested, too.
The door of the stage flung open, almost striking her head still poking out the window. Startled, her shoulder collided with the window frame and then the curtain got caught on her scarf, blinding her. Somewhat frantic, she tugged the material away from her face only to find those menacing eyes glaring at her again, now from inside the stage.
Violet gulped. The General had known her stepfather, so she’d understood he’d be older, but not so much he’d have a son older than her.
“You’ll need to get out, ma’am,” the sheriff said.
Son or no son, the General was her one chance at happiness, and she wasn’t going to give that up. “It’s Miss. Miss Violet Ritter,” she replied staunchly. “And, no, I don’t need to get out.”
“Yes, you do.”
His tone held so much contempt the smile she forced upon her lips hurt.
“No. I. Don’t.”
“Yes. You. Do.” He gestured toward the snow. “We gotta carry the stage, and need to get rid of as much dead weight as possible.”
The stage rocked and the noise overhead said one of the other two men was unloading things off the top. Her things. Violet sat back and crossed her arms. “I am not dead weight.”
“Right now, that’s exactly what you are.”
Mr. Riley’s voice floated down from above. “She doesn’t need to get out, Chayston.”
“Yes, she does,” the sheriff answered, never taking his eyes off her.
“No, I don’t,” she argued. “The driver said so.”
Without a hint of warning, he grabbed her by both arms and dragged her off the seat. Violet tried to catch ahold of something, anything, and finally managed to snag the door frame. “Let go of me, you beast!”
“Let go of the door,” he demanded.
“No.” Digging her fingernails into the wood, she held on with all her might.
It wasn’t enough. With another completely uncalled-for wrench that pulled her right up against him, he hauled her out of the door. Fearing he might dump her into the snow, Violet grabbed his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist.
He grunted and twisted, trying to dislodge her, but she hooked her ankles and clasped her hands together.
“For Christ’s sake, woman,” he growled, “let go.”
“No.”
His hands were tugging at her thighs, which had her cheeks burning, but keeping all ten toes was worth a bit of embarrassment.
“She ain’t got any shoes.”
That was Mr. Riley, and thankfully his comment caused the sheriff to quit trying to pull her off him.
“No shoes?” he barked like a vicious dog. “Who the hell travels to Montana in December with no shoes?”
Good and flustered, Violet snapped her head back to glare at him. “I had shoes—boots—but someone stole them on the train. Outlaws, no doubt, the sort you should be out chasing instead of accosting women.”
His eyes were brown, with tiny bits of gold, and glaring at her with enough loathing she should shrivel up like a raisin. Which was not about to happen. Her body,