Free Frontier Courtship by Valerie Hansen Page B

awakening within her were anything but.

     
    Climbing stiffly into her wagon, Faith let down the flap for privacy before she loosened the bodice of her dress and slipped it off. The muslin bindings had bunched beneath her breasts, their roughness coupling with trail dust to cause an irritation in spite of her soft cotton camisole.
    Padding the bandages along the edges with tufts of lamb’s wool, she hoped to find enough relief to carry her through till evening when she’d ask Charity to apply clean dressings. At this point, it was hard to decide which hurt worse, her cracked ribs or the cure. Cautiously, she threaded her arms back into the dress sleeves.
    Papa’s Colt lay beneath the clothing in her trunk. Probing under the piles of folded garments, Faith lifted the holster and heavy pistol. The belt was much too big, as she knew it would be. Preparing to make the necessary adjustments, she seated herself on the ticking she and Charity used for their bed.
    The straw-filled softness beckoned, making her admit how much the trying day had already taken out of her. She’d rest for just a few moments, she thought, lying down on her uninjured side, the Colt beside her, her eyelids so heavy she could barely keep them open.
    Camp noises from outside the wagon became a muffled din as sleep overtook her. Drifting in and out of awareness, she only vaguely heard a man say, “I’ll kill him before I let him ruin my plans to marry Charity Beal,” but that was enough to snap her to wakefulness. She held her breath and listened.
    A different voice asked, “Aren’t you afraid of him?”
    “Naw. I don’t care who he really is or who he fought with in California. He’ll bleed to death easy as any man.”
    Faith’s eyes were wide, her lethargy gone. There was little doubt who the men were discussing, especially since she recognized the bloodthirsty speaker as Ramsey Tucker and the other as his cohort, Stuart.
    “I imagine he’ll be shot by renegade Indians real soon,” Tucker said, laughing.
    “What about Miss Faith?”
    Tucker shushed his companion. “Watch your mouth, you lamebrain. She may be about.”
    Stuart protested that he’d already checked the camp, then began to whisper. Faith could only catch a word here and there. “…trail…problems…accident…”
    She yearned to move and press her ear to the canvas but the straw in the ticking would surely rustle if she tried. Once her presence was discovered, there was no telling what might happen next.
    Slowly, cautiously, she reached for the Colt. Her fingers closed around the grip and drew it closer till it rested on her stomach. The firearm was heavy, weighing at least four pounds. She held it tightly with both hands, her eyes on the loose flap of canvas covering the rear of the wagon, her thumbs ready to pull back the hammer to cock and fire, if necessary.
    It wasn’t. Hearing the men walk off, she let out the breath she’d been holding and slowly sat up. Rapid-fire pounding of her heart accentuated her worst fears. Tucker was planning to do serious harm to Hawk McClain, with the help of Stuart and probably others of his henchmen.
    And it was all her fault. It wasn’t McClain they had started out to best—it was her. By allowing the plainsman to come to work for her, she’d unknowingly placed him in mortal danger!
    Maybe it wasn’t too late to save him by sending him away, Faith reasoned. Certainly she’d be no worse off than before, and since she now had indisputable proof of Tucker’s nefarious character, she’d be doubly on her guard. As long as she carried the Colt and stayed close to the other wagons, she was certain Tucker wouldn’t dare harm her, not if he really wanted to win Charity’s heart.
    The idea of her poor sister in the wagon boss’s bed turned Faith’s stomach. It didn’t matter how much he slicked himself up and minded his manners for courting, the evil shone through. Given time, Charity would see that. She must. Their future depended