From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March

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СКАЧАТЬ a swing of her arm, Annabel threw her wooden box down to the side of the tracks. The ground was hurtling past now. She said a quick prayer and jumped. On the impact her legs gave and she rolled along the hard desert floor.

      There was no crunch of breaking bones, only a dull ache down her side. She scrambled to her feet and dusted her cotton shirt and mended wool trousers. The train was shrinking in the distance. Cousin Gareth emerged onto the platform at the end, but by now the speed of the train was too great for him to jump down after her.

      “Who am I?” he yelled. “I have no memory.”

      No memory? Annabel’s brows drew into a puzzled frown.

      “Do you know me?” Cousin Gareth shouted. The wind tossed his words around the desert, and then the train vanished into the horizon, with only a puff of steam in the air and the slight vibration of the iron rails to mark its passing.

      Annabel did a quick survey of her surroundings. She could see for miles around, and the only construction was the water tower fifty yards back. She caught a flash of movement and strained her eyes. In the shade of the water tower stood a mule, with parcels loaded on its back. And beside the mule stood a big buckskin saddle horse. She caught another flash of movement. A man had vaulted into the saddle.

      “Wait!” Annabel yelled and set off running.

      The desert gravel that had appeared so flat was full of holes to trip her up. The sun beat down on her. The horse and mule stood still, but she dared not slow down her pace, in case the stranger wouldn’t wait. By the time she reached him, her lungs were straining and perspiration ran in rivulets down her skin beneath her clothing.

      It was cooler in the shade of the water tower, the air humid from spills evaporating in the heat. Annabel looked up at the man on the horse. Against the bright sunlight, he was little more than a silhouette, but she could tell he was young, perhaps in his late twenties.

      He wore a fringed leather coat and faded denim pants and tall boots and a black, flat-crowned hat and a gun belt strapped around his hips. He had brown hair that curled over his collar, beard stubble several days old, and narrow eyes that measured her without a hint of warmth in them.

      “What is this place?” she asked.

      “It’s nowhere.” He had a rough, gravelly voice.

      “Where is the nearest town?”

      “Dona Ana. Thirty miles thataway.” He pointed to the south.

      “Phoenix? Which way is Phoenix?”

      “Four hundred miles thataway.” He pointed to the west.

      “When will the next train be?”

      “Don’t rightly know. Same time tomorrow, I guess.”

      “But you must know. You came to meet the train.”

      The man shook his head. “I came to collect the freight a conductor had unloaded here. Could have been yesterday. The day before. A week ago. I don’t know.”

      “Is there anything closer than Dona Ana? An army post?”

      He shook his head again. “Fort Selden closed years ago. And if you want the train, Dona Ana is no good. The train goes through Las Cruces. That’s another seven miles south.” He raked a glance over her. “Ain’t got no water?”

      “No,” Annabel replied, her panic escalating. The stranger was the only one who could help her, but he seemed wholly unconcerned with her plight.

      The man untied a canteen hanging from his saddle and leaned down to hold it out to her. “Leave it in the mailbox.”

      Clutching the canteen with both hands, Annabel turned to look where he was pointing. By one of the timber posts holding up the water tank she could see a long wooden box with a chain and padlock anchoring it to the structure.

      “It’s a coffin!” she blurted out.

      “It will be one day,” the man replied. “Now it’s a mailbox.” He swept another glance up and down her. “Got no food?”

      “No!” Desperation edged her tone.

      He bent to dig in a saddlebag, handed down a small parcel. Annabel could smell the pungent odor of jerked meat.

      “Got no gun?” the man asked.

      She replied through a tightened throat. “No.”

      The man shifted his wide shoulders. “Sorry. Got no spare. Watch out for the rattlers.” He wheeled the buckskin around. “Stay out of the sun.”

      And then he tugged at the lead rope of the pack mule and kicked his horse into a trot and headed out toward the west, not sparing her another look. A sense of utter loneliness engulfed Annabel, bringing back stark memories of the despair and confusion she’d felt after her parents died.

      “Wait!” she yelled and ran after him. “Don’t leave me here!”

      But the man rode on without looking back.

       Chapter Three

      Clay Collier made it a mile before he turned around. Reining to a halt, he stepped down from the saddle to picket the pack mule next to a clump of coarse grass, and then he remounted and pointed the buckskin to retrace his steps.

      As he rode back to the railroad, Clay cursed himself for a fool. He had a poor record in looking after scrawny kids, and he had no wish to add to it. He’d been minding his own business—he always did—but a man didn’t live long in the West if he failed to pay attention to his surroundings.

      He’d seen the kid tumble down from the train as it pulled away. And then he’d seen the man in fancy duds chasing after the kid, yelling something. The wind had tossed away the words, but most likely the kid had been caught stealing.

      Clay slowed his pace as he approached the water tower. The kid was sitting on the ground, hugging his knees, head bent. When the thud of hooves alerted him, the kid bounced up to his feet and waited for the horse and rider to get closer.

      Clay shook his head in dismay at the forlorn sight. As scrawny kids went, this one was scrawnier than most. The threadbare shirt hung limp over a pair of narrow shoulders. The trousers, patched at the knee, stayed up only with a leather belt drawn tight. Beneath the battered bowler hat, the kid had a white, innocent face and the biggest amber eyes Clay had ever seen on a scrawny kid.

      Fourteen, he guessed, and still wet behind the ears. At fourteen, Clay himself had been a man, capable of doing a man’s job.

      He brought the buckskin to a halt in a cloud of dust, adjusted the brim of his hat and looked down at the kid. The hope and relief and gratitude stamped on that innocent face made something twist inside Clay. Damn that soft streak of his. Life would be simpler without it.

      “Here’s the choice,” he told the kid. “You can stay here and wait for the train. Likely as not there’ll be one tomorrow, or the day after. You have water and food and shade. You’ll be fine. If coyotes СКАЧАТЬ