Free Only Mine by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

the iron rim of a wheel with an eerie whine.
    “Obliged, ma’am,” the stranger said. “Might you know if the rifleman up top is getting low on cartridges?”
    “Oh, Lord!” Jessica grabbed Wolfe’s travel bag and rummaged quickly inside. “He has some in here. They were one of our wedding presents, like the repeating rifles.”
    “Sounds like my kind of wedding.”
    Jessica looked up into a pair of tired, yet amused gray eyes. Wordlessly, she held out her hands.There was a full box of cartridges in each. Then her breath came in with a harsh sound as she saw the blood sliding out from beneath the cuff of the stranger’s jacket.
    “You’re wounded!”
    “I’ll live, thanks to you and your husband. I can’t shoot worth a damn right-handed and I’d run my horse into the ground trying to get free of those Indians.”
    Reflexively, Jessica and the man ducked as bullets thudded against the stage. An arrow pierced one of the side curtains and buried its lethal point in the opposite side of the stage where Mrs. O’Conner huddled. The sight of the arrow set her to screaming again.
    The stranger ignored the pregnant girl. He scooped both boxes of cartridges into one big hand and turned to a front window. His shrill whistle pierced the sound of screaming. He shoved his arm out the ruined curtain and held the boxes up as close to the roof of the stage as he could. The cartridges were taken from his hands instantly.
    The stage lurched and staggered, slamming the man against his wounded arm. With a stifled curse he lowered himself to the seat, reached across his body awkwardly, and drew his six-shooter with his right hand.
    Mrs. O’Conner kept screaming.
    Jessica leaned past the broad-shouldered stranger and shook Mrs. O’Conner. When that had no effect, Jessica slapped her just hard enough to get her attention. The screams stopped as abruptly as they had begun.
    “There, there,” Jessica said, hugging the terrified girl and stroking her disheveled hair. “Screaming doesn’t do a bit of good. It only makes your throatraw. We’ll be all right. There’s no finer rifleman alive than my husband.”
    “I’ll second that,” the stranger said without looking away from the window. “He sat up there cool as a gentleman at a turkey shoot. And what he aimed at, he hit.”
    Mrs. O’Conner cringed when Wolfe opened fire once more, but she didn’t scream again. She simply wrapped her arms protectively over her womb and trembled while the coach shook and bounced her around. Jessica smiled encouragingly before she turned back to the stranger.
    “Let me help you, sir.”
    “It’s been a long time since anyone called me sir,” he said, smiling oddly. “My name is Rafe.”
    “Mr. Rafe,” she began.
    “Just Rafe.”
    He squeezed off a shot, then hissed through his teeth as the stagecoach lurched and banged against his wounded arm.
    “Save your bullets,” Jessica said as she began undoing buttons on Rafe’s jacket. “Wolfe has enough for a time. Let me see to your wound.”
    “Wolfe? Is that your husband?”
    She nodded.
    “Lucky man.”
    Startled, Jessica looked up. Rafe was watching her with clear gray eyes. There was appreciation in his glance, but nothing impolite. She smiled uncertainly and went back to work removing Rafe’s jacket.
    “Luck is a matter of opinion,” Jessica said. “Can you get your jacket off your right shoulder?”
    Shots came from overhead. A few shots came in reply from the Indians, but they sounded distant. Rafe looked out the window, holstered his gun,and shrugged out of his heavy jacket. Jessica realized anew how big the man was. Were it not for the humor in his gray eyes, he would have been a rather fearsome presence.
    “They’re still coming, but not for long,” Rafe said. “Your husband’s pure hell with that rifle. Besides, their horses can’t take much more. They ran me a good long ways before I cut the stage road.”
    With his good arm, Rafe braced both Jessica and himself