Free California Carnage by Jon Sharpe

muscle tensed for action. His right hand dropped to the butt of the Colt, ready to draw the weapon and fire in the blink of an eye.
    The dark figure coming toward him stopped short. Fargo heard a startled gasp as the shape drew back a step.
    ‘‘Belinda,’’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper, ‘‘what are you doing up here?’’
    She had recoiled from the sudden violence of his reaction, but now she came forward again so that he could make out her face and figure in the light from the moon and stars. ‘‘I . . . I couldn’t sleep,’’ she said.
    ‘‘So you thought you’d wander around in the dark for a while and maybe get yourself shot?’’
    She must have taken offense at the tone of rebuke in his voice, because she said, ‘‘You don’t have to be like that about it. I just thought I’d come up here and keep you company for a while.’’
    ‘‘I don’t need to be kept company,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’m supposed to be standing guard.’’
    ‘‘Well, if I’m just going to be an annoyance . . .’’ Her voice was edgy with anger now.
    Fargo knew the thing to do was to let her be angry. Let her go back down to the tack room.
    If she was already having trouble sleeping, though, chances were she wouldn’t be able to doze off now. She would nurse her hurt feelings, and that would keep her awake.
    So he said, ‘‘No, stay. Truth is, I wouldn’t mind having some company for a little while.’’
    At that moment, one of the men below—Fargo thought it was Sandy—let out with a long, thunderous snore. That had been happening, off and on, all night. Fargo couldn’t help but chuckle at the woeful tone in Belinda’s voice as she said, ‘‘Good, because the tack room is right on the other side of where Mr. Stevens is sleeping, and that wall isn’t very thick.’’ She stepped closer and drew in a deep breath. ‘‘The night air smells wonderful.’’
    ‘‘It’s pretty nice,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘There’s a pile of hay over there if you want to sit down.’’
    ‘‘No, this is all right. There might be . . . uh . . . bugs in that hay.’’
    ‘‘Or rats,’’ Fargo said.
    Belinda shuddered and moved even closer to him.
    ‘‘Rats?’’ she said, with worry in her voice.
    ‘‘Don’t worry. You’ll hear them rustling around, if any of them are close by.’’
    ‘‘Oh, that makes me feel much better.’’ She was close beside him now, only inches away, her shoulder almost brushing his. ‘‘No one’s tried to bother the coach, have they?’’
    Fargo shook his head. ‘‘No, it’s been mighty peaceful tonight.’’
    ‘‘Except for the part where you killed a man.’’
    ‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘there was that.’’
    ‘‘I . . . I never saw a man die before.’’
    ‘‘The frontier’s a pretty rugged place,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Maybe you should have stayed back east. Where do you and your father live when he’s not running his stage lines?’’
    ‘‘St. Louis,’’ she said. ‘‘And he didn’t want to bring me. I insisted. I went with him to Texas when he was working there, and I thought California couldn’t be any worse than that.’’
    ‘‘It’s not. But if you didn’t run into any trouble in Texas, you were lucky.’’
    ‘‘Actually, Father clashed with Mr. Stoddard there, too,’’ Belinda said. ‘‘But it never got as far as violence. I suppose that must have been the last straw. Mr. Stoddard must have decided that Father would never get the best of him again, no matter what it took.’’ She laid a hand on Fargo’s arm. ‘‘There’ll be more danger before we get to San Francisco, won’t there?’’
    ‘‘I reckon you can count on that,’’ he told her.
    She stood there beside him for several moments, silent in thought. Then she turned to him and said, ‘‘Since we don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, I’m not going to wait to do this.’’
    She slid an arm around his neck, came up on her