Plum Pudding Bride Read Free

Three Musketeers .
    Outnumbered ten to one, d’Artagnan had just raised his sword. What did Peter want now? She had a vague recollection of him walking arm-in-arm with Kitty while making insipid conversation. She hoped Kitty did fall for him. He’d make the flighty girl a steady, doting husband, if not a particularly exciting one.
    “Get off the road.” Peter’s arm went around her waist as he dragged her to the dead weeds by the side of the road.
    He was stronger than she’d expected. His arm felt solid against her waist and the smell of wood shavings, likely from the packing material for canned goods, clung to him. But Arnie was twice as big, a real mountain of a man at six-foot three, with a brave personality to match. She was almost sure of that.
    A careening wagon sped towards them, skidding over deep ruts in the uneven dirt.
    Standing on the bouncing buckboard, a highly non-recommended pose at that rate of speed, the man driving the wagon pulled back on the reins. Mud splattered up as he came to a skidding halt in front of them. The man jumped to the ground and pulled out a gun. Staggering, as if one leg was injured, he pointed the gun at them.
    Peter directed an accusing glance at Kitty.
    Her sister couldn’t have possibly known they’d encounter a thief when they took this lonely road.
    Patience’s fingers clutched her reticule. As much as she was loathe to part with the twenty cents it contained at the moment, being held up by a desperate highway robber was a rather romantic adventure. She’d tell this story to her babies as they clustered peacefully around her feet in Arnie’s rustic home.
    “Hands in the air,” the unshaven man said. His voice was gruff and the smell of liquor clung to his tattered clothes.
    “How about I just toss you my reticule?” Patience reached down to unclip the quilted thing.
    The man swung forward and shoved her in the chest.
    The blow sent her reeling back, boots slipping out from under her. She landed, backside in the mud, only to look up into a pistol muzzle. She gulped.
    “I don’t take kindly to orders being disobeyed.” Leveling the gun at her, the man cocked the trigger.
    Her life, all twenty-five years of it, flashed before her eyes. She should have cooked the grits more often in the morning and not made Kitty do it. She should have spent more time in her Bible rather than reading Les Miserables for the seventh time. She should have been kinder to Peter. He meant well, after all. She brought her arm up in a vain attempt to shield her head from the coming bullet.
    From somewhere to the left, she heard Peter’s voice, the last voice she’d hear before the angels singing and glory.
    “Was this really necessary, Kitty?” Then Peter ran towards the man.
    The robber swung his gun over to Peter.
    Ducking, Peter charged forward, head down, and grabbed the man around the waist. He twisted the man’s wrist with his other hand.
    The man swung forward with a fist. The blow landed on Peter’s jaw and he grunted something that sounded like “Kitty.”
    If he was thinking about her when he was this near death, maybe he did have feelings for the girl.
    Using both hands, Peter threw the man backwards.
    The man stumbled into the mud but recovered his gun arm.
    Peter stood there fearlessly, as if the man couldn’t end his life with just the click of a trigger. “Hand over the weapon.” Peter’s voice was as matter-of-fact as if he was sorting preserves.
    She’d never taken him as the type to be calm in the midst of danger.
    “Never.” Raising himself on one arm, the man aimed the gun.
    Peter kicked the man’s hand and the gun went flying back onto the road. The impact made it discharge, sending a bullet up into the trees.
    Peter stared at the quivering leaves where the bullet had passed, and then he leapt for the gun. Grabbing up the weapon, he pulled back the hammer and aimed it at the ground. He squeezed the trigger. Dirt spat up from a bullet, but his wrist held the