Free Josie: Bride of New Mexico (American Mail-Order Bride 47) by Kristin Holt Page A

do.” He bounced her in his arms as if she were a little child.
    “You’re a tease, Mr. Taylor.”
    They’d just reached the opposite corner when a man approached too fast and too close.
    Josie had walked to work and home again, often in the dark. She and Lessie had honed reflexes and learned to pay careful attention to their surroundings.
    She recognized danger when she saw it. “Adam— watch out!”
    The man charged. Sunlight flashed off his blade.
    “Knife,” she yelled. “He has a knife.”
    Adam flexed, twisting to put himself between her and danger.
    “ No .” On impulse, she kicked, desperate to deflect the man’s aim. “ No! ”
    She half-expected the attacker to flee.
    Often the threat of exposure ended such threats… but not this man.
    He fell back half a step, and lunged again.
    She wrenched her outside leg to block the blade. Her boot connected with the attacker’s arm, but ineffectively.
    Frustration mounted. Josie bucked to free herself from her husband’s hold.
    The villain feinted, thrust, slashed.
    Josie screamed.
    Adam could not defend himself while cradling her like a little child. But he spun, keeping her away from the knife blade.
    Her feet finally touched the boardwalk.
    Adam relented even as the attacker shoved free, sprinting back the way he’d come.
    Josie shook from crown to toe. She’d seen and survived and experienced plenty like this before… but this seemed… off. Not merely premeditated, but personal. This was no pick-pocket.
    Adam’s face lost its color. He clutched his ribs under his left arm. He pushed a hand beneath his suit coat and against the wound.
    “You’re hurt.” She grabbed his wrist, needing to know, desperate to see.
    His hand came away from his black suit vest, covered in bright red blood.
    “My God,” Adam said in shock, his expression one of disbelief and pain. “That man tried to kill me.”
     

     
    Adam kept his eyes open on the way back to the train car.
    No way would a thug jump him again without warning.
    His side burned, but best he could tell, the knife wound had grazed his ribs and was shallow. It stung like the dickens but compared to the attacker’s obvious intentions, Adam had come through it blessedly well.
    Josie had saved his life.
    Back on the private car, Josie called to Karl and Milton. “Are you three safe?”
    A quick conversation ensued, Josie insisted they lock the exterior car doors and watch for trouble.
    Adam doubted the ruffian would follow them on board the train, but he supposed that would depend entirely on the man’s motivation. Why would a brute in Gunnison attack in daylight?
    In the bedroom, he peeled off his ruined suit coat and vest. He pulled his damaged shirt from his trousers and stripped his union suit to his waist. He needed to get a look at the wound, clean it, and stop the bleeding.
    Josie gave the staff a hurried list of instructions. “Boil water. I need scissors, Mrs. Bushnell, and your finest needles and dark thread— heavy thread, if you have it. Drop the scissors and needles into the water, the thread, too, and find me tongs or something else to use to fish them out once properly boiled.”
    “Josie— it’s not that bad.”
    He held a clean handkerchief against the wound and the bleeding slowed instantly. He pulled the gash apart with his fingers to assess the depth and sure enough, a mere flesh wound.
    But Karl and Milton apparently believed her more than they believed him, for the men ran for the galley, apparently to boil water and gather her implements.
    Josie stormed into the bedchamber, pulling off her new jacket and tossing it at the chair in the corner. She rolled up her blouse sleeves and washed her hands in the sink.
    “I doubt I need stitches.”
    “I’ll be the judge of that.” She tempered her words with a soft voice, so filled with affection and concern he lost his will to argue with her.
    “I don’t want you to go back out there while that ruffian’s loose,” Adam told his