The Lady and the Lawman Page 23

  He threw on some clothes and dragged the man into jail in under an hour. It took less time than that to put a posse together.

  Knowing many in the town were not overly friendly with Dalton, he went from door to door seeking, and receiving, the help he needed. They rushed to follow, pulling their guns, rifles and any other weapons they could carry from their homes and businesses. On their doorsteps, wives kissed their men goodbye, eager to have the town free of the ruthless man once and for all.

  ***

  Shots were fired into the darkness around them. They had been riding up to Dalton’s house, six men in total. As the first rounds were fired, they dispersed and circled round the main building.

  Grant led the men, guns blazing. If Maggie was in there, he damn well was going to get her, and fast. Tom had come to town to help, ready and willing to accompany his brother.

  Guards standing watch were taken out quickly and easily, either shot dead where they stood or surrendered without a fight. It took only ten minutes until they were walking up the front steps of Dalton’s mansion, guns ready.

  Grant found Dalton in his library, behind his desk. Waiting.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  “That whore from Croft’s? Fitting that you married her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Grant growled.

  Tom entered the room and stood next to his brother, shoulder to shoulder.

  “Your sister was also a slut. It must run in the family.”

  Tom cocked his gun, ready to shoot him.

  Grant put his free hand on top of Tom’s wrist, preventing him from killing the bastard—yet. The man had answers and he needed them before he shot him squarely between the eyes.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  Dalton laughed, deep and corrupt. “She’s not here. Search the place, you won’t find anything.”

  Tom left the room, only briefly, to instruct the other men to ransack the house.

  “You’re going to jail, Dalton. Why not come clean?”

  Dalton’s hands rested flat on his desk. “And I’m stupid enough to believe that?”

  “All right. You’re a dead man. Any last words?”

  “You want me to incriminate myself. You believe I’m linked to the stage robbery.”

  “I know you’re linked to the stage robbery. And the murder of two men. And the kidnapping of my wife. And the rape of my sister.”

  Dalton stuck his chest out like a strutting peacock. “What a proud list of accomplishments. You killed my horse. I think we’re even.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “You think I’ll go easily?”

  Dalton moved his hands to his lap. Before Grant could fire, Dalton’s gun came up from behind the desk. He heard the gun cock as another fired. Grant’s gun went off as well.

  Acrid fumes filled the air. Men rushed from different areas of the house as Grant and Tom stared at Dalton’s dead body. One shot killed him instantly, right between the eyes. The second hit lower, right into his heart.

  ***

  It had been over a month since she was taken from Cranston. Margaret had spent the weeks agonizing over Grant’s demise. William never let a day pass he didn’t tell her he was dead, shot in cold blood. One day he even added he'd been dragged out onto the plains, shot and left for the vultures to pick over. Even though his words were only meant to upset her, it had worked. He wanted to burn the finality of the situation into her brain so she would accept it and adjust to marrying him. As if she could ever do that.

  The journey back had been long and monotonous, lacking all excitement and possibility the trip west had offered. She had not been allowed from William’s sight for any amount of time, except in the evenings when she had been locked in her room at the many hotels and way stations they had stayed in on their trip. One night she climbed from the window and walked along a precarious ledge before jumping to the ground. She’d only taken five steps before William had grabbed her. Punishment was severe, the bruises finally fading after three weeks. The blows were to areas of her body that didn’t limit her ability to be seen in public.

  His façade as a doting fiancé remained. Since that night, she’d been too much in pain, and afraid, to try again.

  Their wedding was imminent. Hope was all she had, and that was fading quickly.

  The short ride from Pennsylvania Station was in the back of his carriage. The driver had met them at the train and escorted them directly to the waiting coach. The bags would follow after them.

  It was a hazy afternoon, the August air humid, claustrophobic. Her traveling dress clung to her skin. They had barely spoken since Pittsburgh, and she made no move to hold conversation now, either.

  It had been over two months since she had originally fled from William’s threats. Now, everything seemed different, not just the changing seasons. Maybe it was her, but something had definitely changed. Lost in her thoughts, she noticed too late they were not returning to her house, the carriage instead heading downtown.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, turning quickly from the window.

  Seeming unconcerned by her question, he removed imaginary dirt from his coat. “We’re going to my townhouse. You don’t think I’m going to leave you alone in that big mansion of yours with the chances of you running away again? I don’t trust you, so I will be keeping my investment,”—he placed a hand on top of hers then squeezed painfully—“safe until we are legally wed.”

  Her anger flushed red. She yanked her hands out from under his. “This is highly inappropriate, William. What are people to think?” Hopefully his longstanding attention to propriety and custom would change his mind.

  “No one would question, Margaret. No man likes to watch his fiancé slip away. You belittled me once, not again. Besides, there are the servants, so we won’t be without chaperone,” he continued, adding the last bit with a bit of sarcasm. The servants would offer her no protection from his advances. He was their master and paying their salary, and for all she knew, victimized just like herself.

  He opened the front door for her and followed her into the foyer. Handing the coats to the butler, he ushered her into the library and poured them both a glass of port. The room was beautifully appointed, although not in the same class as her father’s mansion. Everything was in its place and the home spotless.

  Marrying her would mean an alliance in the high society of Philadelphia for William. It would be quite a coup. He was so desperate for all the Atwater name offered, he had become obsessed with seeing this through. So driven, he was willing to murder, and she was next.

  She would give the name, the money--everything--up for Grant. She would turn her back on all of her wealth just to have what they had shared.

  “I’m tired, William, and I’d like to rest before the theater,” she said as she put her untouched glass on an end table. Early still, William had plans for a final appearance as the affianced couple at the theater that evening.

  “Of course.” He led her toward the stairs and followed closely behind. She was sure she could feel his breath creeping down her neck.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, nervous and wary of his closeness.

  “Let me show you to your room. You’ve forgotten yourself. You don’t know where it is.” He took a firm grasp on her arm and led, practically pulled her up the steps.

  “Let go of me!” she all but screamed, struggling against his tight grasp. Her cries fell on deaf ears. He continued to pull her up the stairs using uncommon strength. Her toes barely touched each riser. He stopped close to the top and shoved her to the ground, causing her to trip over the top step and falling hard on the uncarpeted landing. She broke her fall with her hands and the impact made her groan in pain. Turning her head, she looked at his polished shoes and crisp pant legs. She watched as his foot kicked her squarely in the belly. As she curled into a ball, she all but hoped air would enter her lungs so she might scream. Looking up into his face, she saw William’s face return to its normal sickly
pallor from the brilliant red of anger.

  “I should beat you within an inch of your life for disobedience. But, I need you pretty for the theater and I can’t have you looking anything less than beautiful for the ceremony tomorrow.”

  He pulled her to her feet by her elbow, opened her bedroom door and shoved her into the room. She stumbled to regain her balance and held one hand over her ribs and belly.

  “You have two hours until we go to the theater.”

  There were too many things she needed to be ready for. The theater was nothing in comparison to spending the rest of her life married to a dangerous, ruthless man. Of course, her life might be very short-lived if he was able to succeed with his plan.

  Deep down in her heart, she was waiting for Grant. Tomorrow she and William were to marry in a simple ceremony. But it would be a wedding nonetheless, and the outcome would be the same. She still held hopes Grant was alive and would somehow come for her.

  She took in her surroundings, noting the furnishings, not remembering them being so extravagant and overdone before. Her months in Cranston had subdued her tastes, making her take note of the important things, craving soft comforts of home only a husband could give. All of the expensive fabrics and antiques didn’t create the feeling of home like the joy of sharing a cozy bed with Grant, or the soft breeze blowing over the prairie.

  She ached with homesickness. Climbing gingerly into bed and curling into herself, she sank in to the depression that was slowly claiming her. Tears welled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks, wetting the curls about her face. The pain in her side was nothing compared to the pain in her heart.

  Two hours later, she was still crying. Servants had delivered a dress for her to wear, a special request from the modiste upon their arrival home. It was beautiful green silk, but the company she would be wearing it in all but ruined it. It had taken her most of the time allotted to don the dress, the buttons quite difficult with her sore side. A knock on her door brought her out of her melancholy. “Yes?” she asked, as she wiped the tears from her face.

  “Are you ready to go, my dear?” He asked through the door.

  She wanted to scream at him, claw his face and run from the house, but couldn’t. Painfully, a hand covering her bruised ribs, she climbed from the bed and answered him. “Of course. Just give me a moment.”

  Touching her hands to her hair and glancing in her mirror one last time, she checked for loose pins. He didn’t like her hair unkempt, and she wasn’t in the mood for his tirade over wayward curls. Her strength to fight him, to hold him and his marriage off, was weakening. At least the theater was a public place, where many eyes would be on her, anticipating and talking about her impending wedding, and he would have to maintain the appropriate distance permitted a fiancé. Opening the door to the crisply dressed man, she plastered a fake smile on her face and took his arm.

  ***

  The theater had been a blur. She could barely remember which Shakespeare play she’d sat through. Her own little play was turning into a Greek tragedy, with the villain being the proud William preening in front of all of Philadelphia society. Smiling, making small talk and accepting congratulations were in order for the intermission and their exit. William squeezed her waist, prompting her into conversations. He knew his hold was painful, getting her in the exact location he’d kicked her earlier. It was a reminder to Margaret of his control over her.

  All too quickly, the evening was over. They were once again alone in his house. She had been escorted once again to her room, but this time William didn’t leave her at the door. He followed her inside.

  The room was large. It had a fireplace filling one wall, surrounded on both sides by paintings depicting summer landscapes of the Pennsylvania countryside. The floors were oak, with a beautiful Persian rug covering the glossy surface. A large canopied bed with a thick comforter and lush pillows filled most of the room. The windows were closed, probably locked, even with the stifling summer heat circling about them.

  She gulped at the room’s closeness, of her surroundings, of her whole predicament. In another situation, she would have found this room to be romantic and enchanting. Spending the evening in such surroundings with Grant would have been a dream.

  She remained quiet, fear paralyzing her where she stood. Would she have to go to bed with William? Would it be tonight? Now?

  “My dear, why don't we share some champagne?” He directed her to a high-backed chair in front of the unlit fireplace. Commanded into action, she moved and took the offered seat. He sat opposite her and began to pour the golden liquid for both of them.

  She gave furtive glances toward the empty bed, aware of it looming in the room—and in her mind. She thought back to moments when Grant had merely to brush a hand over her skin, jolting warmth through her. Looking to William, however, only brought a sickening feeling to her stomach. How was she expected to do the wonderful things she had with Grant, her husband, with this man? Would she ever feel such incredible pleasure from a man's touch again? Margaret slowly sipped at her bubbly drink, hoping it would calm her nerves.

  “May I propose a toast? To tomorrow, when you will make me the wealthiest man in the world.” He raised his glass.

  She tried to hold back the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks. She refused to believe Grant was dead, and in a mere twelve hours, she’d be married to this monster.

  When William completed his toast—she had barely touched hers—he stood and offered his hand again. How could she keep him away? Her mind drew a complete blank.

  “Now my dear, it is late and I still have work to do.”

  She tried to keep from exhaling too loudly.

  “I can read your thoughts clearly enough. Don't think I wouldn't want to take you over to the bed right now and show you things I'm sure your cowboy husband was incapable of. As I said earlier, and instead of what you might think, I am a gentleman. I will wait until after the ceremony tomorrow to show you the extent of your wifely duties.”

  “Like you did that day in the drawing room?”

  She watched Hunt's jaw twitch. She'd hit the target she'd aimed for, but knew the retaliating wrath could be severe. Why was he waiting now? He'd had her once, what would keep him from raping her again? She surmised he wanted the protection of the law and God on his side before he harmed her. Once they were legally married, there would be nothing she could do to protect herself from his advances, or anything other damage he wanted to inflict.

  She couldn’t help herself. She exhaled again with relief, causing William's lips to press together into a thin line of distaste.

  “Your dress for tomorrow is in the armoire. Be ready at ten. We are expected at the church at eleven.” He bowed his head at her slightly and left the room. She heard a key and the lock turn in the door.

  She walked over to the door and leaned against it, glad for once there was a barrier between them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The maids came at eight to assist her with her wedding gown. They fawned over her, telling her how beautiful a bride she was, how wonderful the dress was, and so on until Margaret had a throbbing headache and wanted to scream at the women to leave her alone. There was nothing she could do but sit and let them tend to her hair, brushing it out, then fashioning it into a complicated style, all twists and curls. The pins were tight at the back of her head, making the pulsing at her temples as loud as her racing heart.

  At ten, she was ready for William. The maids had finally left, and she was ready. Primped for a wedding she knew to be a sham. Even if it was legal and binding, in her heart it wouldn’t be real. She preferred the simple affair she’d had with Grant with flowers from the rectory garden and simple vows.

  She’d thought of no plan, no way to escape his clutches—or marriage. She’d all but pushed him to the edge of his tolerance. If she went too far, he would marry her this morning and have her killed later in the day. Her chances of remaining alive, no matter how slim that was, would hinge on whether she
obeyed his every command.

  “My dear, how lovely you look. Shall we?” He offered her his arm. They stepped into a waiting carriage and were sped toward the church without haste.

  Once inside the stone walls of the sanctuary, the ceremony went quickly. It was a small affair, the priest who officiated and several close friends of William’s as witnesses. He held her arm, roughly at times, to prevent her from bolting.

  Run away she would, if only he’d given her an opportunity. From the moment they alighted the carriage until they were at the altar, he had his grip on her arm.

  When it was time to say her vows, his hold tightened painfully, making her cry out. The priest laughed at her supposed eagerness and continued through the remainder of the service. Before she knew what had happened, the priest blessed them husband and wife, and she was being led from the church, returning with equal haste back to William’s townhouse.

  As soon as the horses started to move, he was upon her swiftly, his lips on hers. He placed his arms on her shoulders, held her to him even as she struggled from his hold and from the onslaught of his kisses. When she parted her lips to scream, he took the opportunity to force his tongue inside. Her skin crawled at the contact.

  Trying not to gag at his foul breath and the tongue that was snaking around in her mouth, she bit down hard.

  Pulling back, he wiped the back of a hand over his face, his gaze intense and evil. Before she could move, he struck her across the face. The blow knocked her to the floor of the carriage. Her hip hurt from the fall and she held a hand to her cheek. The metallic taste of blood ran over her tongue, and she dabbed at a cut at the corner of her lips. The door handle pressed uncomfortably into her back. Turning, she grabbed it and desperately tried to open it, without success. His hand clamped down on hers, making the metal bite into her palm.

  “Struggle and fight all you want. I actually enjoy it.” William laughed at her, and she finally recognized true fear.