Liz Ireland - Millie And The Fugitive

“Sorry, miss, I’m in a hurry,” Sam drawled.

His words, even spoken as casually as they were, sent the young lady over the edge. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks, and she recoiled from him, grabbing behind her at the black mane of his horse. “Please don’t kill me,” she pleaded frantically as she attempted to squirm away.

“I won’t,” Sam said.

“Please! I won’t say a word—on my honor!”

“I don’t believe you, but I’m not going to kill you.”

She ran a hand through her tangled black hair, her gaze darting frantically across the horizon all the while, no doubt hoping for rescue. “My daddy will pay you any amount of money for me, if you’ll only let me live.”

“Lady, haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?” Sam asked. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“What?” She stared at him dubiously.

“I’m not a murderer.”

“Yes, you are!” she cried vehemently. “I saw—”

“You saw what?”

Her voice was suddenly meek. “Nothing.” But she didn’t have to say a word for him to imagine exactly what she’d seen, or what she thought she’d seen.

Sam couldn’t help it. He laughed bitterly. Had he really thought the Fates were with him? No such luck! He had a witness who had been close enough to watch him tie up two deputies and club them on the head, but too far away to notice that he hadn’t killed them. Now he had to figure out what to do with her.

“Daddy can walk into the bank and take out thousands of dollars for you, just as soon as I’m returned. Believe me, I won’t fail to mention how you rescued me from that tree.”

“Money’s not what I’m after,” Sam replied.

“Then how about dry goods?” she asked hopefully. “My father owns a store. There’s all sorts of things there you might want. Fabric, food, guns... Well, he naturally might not want to give you guns—”

“Quiet!” He couldn’t think, with her frantic babbling in his ear.

What could he do with her? Hitting two men on the head was one thing, but a woman... He had never hit a woman before. Besides, a woman was more delicate. He couldn’t risk causing her serious harm, or, worse, accidentally killing her. That would make him a murderer. He looked down at the rope in his hands. Same if he tied her up. He didn’t know when someone would find the two deputies. Could be today, could be a few days.

This woman was just a skinny little thing. Wiry. Despite her dark hair and eyes, she had pale skin that looked soft and pampered. He doubted she’d last two hours out here if he gagged her and tied her up.

What in the Sam Hill was he going to do?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she blurted out fearfully. “If you don’t believe me about my father, just ask anyone. My name’s Millie—”

“I don’t want to know your name.”

“But if you’d just listen—”

“Shut up!”

Tension caused beads of sweat to gather at the back of his neck, and as he reached back to wipe them off, the girl named Millie drew back anxiously. He had her good and scared, all right.

Maybe that fear could work to his advantage. If he could just get her far enough away, where nobody had ever heard of Jesse Winter, maybe find a safe place to dump her... He needed to get moving.

He glanced at the gray mare. She looked like a game little horse, but he wasn’t so certain about the silly gear she was decked out in. “Can you ride that thing?” he asked, nodding toward the side saddle.

“Mrs. Darwimple!” she cried indignantly.

In his panic, Sam heard a woman’s name and feared the young woman had a companion. He pivoted anxiously in the saddle. “Who?”

Millie recoiled from the barrel of his gun as it swung around her way. “Mrs. Darwimple is my horse,” she clarified, boldly shooing the barrel away from her person. “I don’t like you calling her a ‘thing.’”

“Oh.” The tension gushed out of him in one breath as he looked again at the little mare. Mrs. Darwimple? What kind of nut named a horse something like that? He glanced back at the black-haired young lady. She was staring back, a slightly indignant, prissy purse to her rosy lips. For a crazy moment, he wondered what would happen if he kissed the pout right off of those lips of hers.

Maybe taking her wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe...

He shook his head. He just didn’t have time for maybes. “I don’t care what her name is. Can you ride her?”

“Can I!” Millie bridled proudly in front of him. “Daddy says riding is the one thing I do exceptionally well,” she boasted. Just as quickly, an idea apparently struck her. “If you want, I could ride into town for you and get whatever you need for—”

“Forget it,” Sam said, cutting her off. “I hope you’re telling the truth, because—”

“I told you, I’m very honest,” Millie said, annoyed.

“Fine. Then get up on that horse.” He grabbed her by the arm, eased her down, and followed right after her.

“I can mount by myself.”

“Good for you,” Sam said, watching as she swung up to her preposterous perch. As soon as she’d crooked her leg into position, he took the leftover rope and reached beneath her knee.

“What are you doing?” she cried in shocked outrage.

“Tying you to the saddle and the saddle to me,” he answered, looping the rope around her knee and pulling it into a snug knot.

“But that’s dangerous!” She shot him an angry glare. “If my daddy hears about this—”

His eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Listen, Princess. Two minutes ago you were telling me ‘daddy’ was going to shower me in riches.”

The reminder failed to calm her. “My daddy will see to it that you’re strung up from the highest gallows, you filthy murderer! And don’t think he won’t. My daddy has influence!”

With a heavy sigh, Sam mounted his horse again, feeling less optimistic now that he was saddled with a mouthy woman. He would have to figure out a way to get rid of her, fast. There was so little time. Two weeks.

“Kick that horse into a gallop and keep your lip buttoned,” he instructed her.

In answer, she jutted out her chin belligerently.

Fine. Sam spurred his own horse and watched in solemn amusement as the little princess was yanked into movement. Her starchy white ruffled pinafore and yellow skirt flipped into her face momentarily, until she sputtered and waved them away, tucking both underneath her firmly. She threw him a last angry glance before setting her jaw and concentrating finally on the landscape ahead of them.

Sam was at least grateful to note that she hadn’t been lying about her riding skill. Which meant that if he couldn’t travel light, he could at least travel fleetly. But then, he had to.

His brother’s life depended on it.

“When my father hears about this, you’ll be done for.”

And her father would hear about it, once someone found the bonnet Millie had dropped as she and the desperado galloped away. Naturally, the man hadn’t noticed it was missing—probably hadn’t even noticed its dangling chin ties looped around her saddle to begin with. It was her very best bonnet, too, festooned with grape clusters and even a little redbird. But men of this man’s ilk probably didn’t pay any attention to hats unless they were the type measured by how much fluid could fit inside them.

Once her jaunty bonnet was found so near the deputies, Sheriff Tom McMillan was bound to put two and two together. If her bonnet was found. She had to keep up hope. “You’ll never get away with this,” she said menacingly.

The desperado rolled his eyes toward the star-drenched heavens. “Shut up and eat.”

Shut up? Never in her life had anyone ordered Millicent Lively around so brutishly! Just why did he feel it necessary to be so rude, anyway? She was apparently going to spend her night tied to a tree. Wasn’t that punishment enough?

This had to be the worst day of her whole entire life, Millie thought, giving in to her sulky mood. First she had had a dreadful argument with her father, who had forbidden her to break off her engagement. He thought she was getting a reputation for being fickle, and needed to settle down. Millie would admit, eleven fiancés was quite a number to have gone through—but that didn’t mean she was wrong to not want to marry Lloyd Boyd, one of the clerks at her father’s bank. And not even a very good bank clerk, as she’d reminded her father. Lloyd, daydreaming about more romantic jobs, was forever counting out the wrong change.

But he was also one of her oldest friends. The only reason she’d agreed to be engaged to him was simply that the supply of men to affiance herself to was running very low. And it was terrible not to have a fiancé at this time of year, with Christmas coming. And her birthday was in December, too. But a girl just didn’t marry a friend. That would be too boring! For a husband, a girl wanted someone different, mysterious....

She looked over at that outlaw and shivered. Maybe not too mysterious!

But at any rate, she certainly wouldn’t marry anyone against her will. So she’d decided to run away. Well, naturally, she wasn’t really going to run away. She’d simply intended to stay out long enough for her father to begin to worry, then to repent his outrageous ultimatum, and then to feel so terribly guilty that he would never cross her wishes again. Three hours would have done it. He knew she never missed the noon meal.

And she was certain this would have all worked according to plan—except that some ruffian would have to come along and kidnap her!

She couldn’t be certain, but she was afraid this man was that wife-murderer who’d just been sentenced to hang. There weren’t too many murderers in Chariton, after all. Just her luck that she would be out when one of the few managed to escape!

Despair threatened to overwhelm her, but she held her head high. She couldn’t give in. Couldn’t let this barbarian see her fear. She looked upon him imperiously, turning up her nose at the cold biscuit that he held. “Eat? I’d rather die!” she said, never taking her eyes off him.

Not that she could forget what he looked like. Ever. His deeply tanned skin, dusty brown hair and gray eyes would haunt her forever now. As would the shock of landing in the desperado’s fearfully powerful embrace when she tumbled out of that pear tree. The odd thing was, she would have found the man handsome, if it weren’t for the fact that he was a murderer and a kidnapper and God only knew what else. He also had strong hands and an impressive build—the better to maim and abduct with, she supposed.

“It seems to me that after going to all the trouble of taking a hostage,” she lectured primly, “you could at least provide me with a hot meal.”

“Sure,” the man drawled. “I guess I should build up a big snuggly fire to warm your dainty feet by, too.”

She tossed the black hair that she had braided after her captor finally stopped for the night. For a few hours’ rest, he said. As if she could get any rest roped to a tree trunk, out in the chilly night air! “As a matter of fact, I would appreciate a fire very much. And if my daddy ever learned that you had extended that kindness, I am certain he would ask the authorities to be lenient.”

“I’ll bet,” he said flatly. “The last thing I need is you sending smoke signals to daddy.”

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about that,” she assured him, in a voice that let him know precisely how preposterous that idea was. “The only Indian blood in my family is a distant cousin on my great-great-grand-mother’s —”