Free Outlaw by Lisa Plumley Page B

were only a few wailing passengers, most of
them hanging from the windows to see what was happening, just as
Amelia's fellow passengers had done. She almost sighed with relief
at the sight of it. Civilization! Safety, only steps away.
    And there, only steps away himself, stood
Mason. His rifle, like the driver's, rested with deceptive
casualness over his shoulder. He spoke quietly with the driver, but
Amelia couldn't make out the words. Both looked intent on their
conversation—too intent to notice her. For a moment longer she
watched him, some sense of foreboding prickling down her spine.
    Why should that be? Amelia wondered, rubbing
her arms for warmth against a sudden chill. Mason was an outlaw
engaged in dangerous work. He'd probably robbed a hundred
stagecoaches, just like this one, and lived to tell about it.
Surely there was no cause for her to worry about his safety.
    Especially with her own safe rescue parked
just a few steps away. Breathing deeply, Amelia hoisted her
satchels and ran for the stage.
     
     
     

Chapter Six
     
    "They were on your stage, then?" Mason asked
the driver, hardly able to credit what the old man had told him
only moments before. "You're sure?"
    "Yessiree." Hooking both his thumbs into a
cracked leather cavalryman's belt small enough to fit Miss Curly
Top's waist, the driver squinted into the sun, deepening the
creases in his leathery skin. "'Bout two days ago, maybe three.
Dunno for sure." He spat into the gritty road between their feet
and glanced at Mason. "Been lookin' for 'em long?"
    Mason nodded. "Too long," he said, yanking
his black bandanna from his face. He didn't need it now. The breeze
swirled in cooling currents against his newly exposed skin as he
shoved the square of cloth into his duster pocket. No point
antagonizing the man who'd given him the first piece of useful
information he'd had in seven days' time.
    The Sharpe brothers had passed this
way. He'd begun to wonder if he'd misjudged them somehow, if he'd
lost the trail—and his last chance for redemption along with
it.
    "The boy was with them?" he asked the
driver. "Small, dark-haired boy about this high?" He raised his
hand to hip height, and a shaft of longing seared through him at
the memory of all he'd lost. First Ellen, and now—if he failed
again—their son, too. Ben. For an instant, he closed his eyes,
beating back the need to hold his child, his blood, his life—and
see him safe.
    "Yep," the driver said. "Damned ruffian
'bout sent my passengers screaming 'cross the desert with his
antics. Them three with him had their hands full, I'll tell
you."
    Mason smiled. "That's my boy."
    " Your boy?" The driver looked
startled for a second, then nodded, as though he'd known the right
of it all along. "Such a hell-raiser I ain't never seen." Looking
over Mason's black outlaw clothes, full gun belt, and rifle, he
added, "And no wonder, with a sire like you, sir."
    Mason tipped his hat. "I'll leave you on
your way," he said, too relieved at what he'd learned to waste time
wondering if the words had been an insult or not. He'd wager
not—not if the old man's gap-toothed grin was anything to judge by.
"Thank you."
    He turned away amidst the driver's
good-byes, his step lighter than any time since he'd left his
homestead on the Gila with the sheriff on his trail. Mason only had
a few day's gain on the lawman following him. But lawman or no,
barring disaster or capture, in a few days' time he'd see his son
returned to him.
    And by the first sunrise after, he'd see the
men who'd taken Ben repaid for their part in the thieving, else
know no rest until he had.
    The Sharpes had taken his boy to Tucson,
only two or three days' ride southeast. Even with Miss Twirly Curls
along for the ride, Mason could reach the former territorial
capital in that much time.
    Behind him, the harnesses holding the
stagecoach's teams of horses jangled—stirred by the animals'
movements, Mason supposed, as the driver climbed into his high-set
seat.