Beaten, Broken, Abandoned—Until A Cowboy Found The Mail-Order Bride

Chapter 11

The storm came on a night when the moon was full and the snow had been falling for three days.

Four riders this time, not three. They came up the road at a gallop, their horses’ breath steaming in the cold, and they did not stop at the edge of the property. They rode straight for the house.

Caleb was standing guard at the window, and he saw them first. “Ida! Get Lily to the back room. Margot — the rifle.”

Margot grabbed the rifle and took her position beside the window, her heart pounding against her ribs. Beside her, Caleb eased the door open and stepped onto the porch, the lantern light falling across his face.

“Four of them,” he said. “And they’re not stopping to talk.”

The riders pulled up short at the sight of him, their horses skidding in the snow. Garrett was at the front, and this time his face carried no smile at all.

“Mr. Morrison,” he said. “I warned you. I told you this wasn’t over. And now here we are.”

“You’re on my land,” Caleb said. “Turn around and leave, and I’ll let you live.”

“Turn around and leave?” Garrett laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You think you can scare me with a rifle and a dead man’s name? I’ve got men crawling all over this territory, Mr. Morrison. You can’t fight all of us.”

“I don’t have to fight all of you,” Caleb said. “I just have to fight you.”

The crack of a rifle split the night. It came from the house, from the window where Margot stood, and the shot took the rider to Garrett’s left in the shoulder, sending him tumbling from his saddle with a cry.

Garrett’s eyes went wide. “You — you brought a woman to fight your battles?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Caleb said, and there was something almost like pride in his voice. “My wife is a good shot.”

The next moments unfolded like a fever dream. The riders opened fire, and Caleb dove for cover behind the porch rail, returning fire with a steady hand. Margot loaded and fired, loaded and fired, her movements smooth and practiced, her mind clear and cold as the winter air. She had practiced for this. She had fallen off Thunder a hundred times, had nursed a hundred bruises and a hundred failures, and all of it came down to this single frozen moment.

Ida appeared in the doorway, her own rifle in her hands, and the two women fired together, one from the window and one from the porch, driving the attackers back into the open ground.

And then, from the direction of the road, came the sound of more horses — many of them, riding fast.

Garrett turned, and his face went white. A dozen riders were coming up the road, led by Sheriff Harrington, and behind them were the ranchers of Cheyenne — men Caleb had shared many a winter with, men he had fought beside and argued with and traded with, and who had come now because they had decided that this was their fight too.

The town had come to war.

The attackers broke. They scattered like frightened birds, Garrett’s voice hoarse and desperate as he tried to rally them, but it was no use. The Cheyenne riders swept over them, and within minutes the fight was over. Garrett was taken, his men were bound, and the law had won the day.

Sheriff Harrington found Margot standing in the doorway, still holding her rifle, her hands shaking with the aftermath of it all.

“You’re some kind of woman,” he said, and there was a new respect in his voice. “I thought you were running from trouble. Turns out you were running toward it, and facing it down.”

“I had help,” Margot said. “I had a lot of help.”

Harrington nodded. “I’ll see these men get on a train to Denver, where the federal authorities can handle them. And I’ll send word to Boston about this Blackwell fellow. I suspect he’s got more enemies than he knows what to do with.” He paused. “You’re safe now, Mrs. Morrison. You’re one of us.”