Summer of Promise Read Free Page A

agents?”
    “Bandits.”
    Abigail’s heart began to pound. Though she had read several of the penny dreadful novels she had confiscated from students, she had thought the stories of bandits holding up stagecoaches were exaggerations. Now it was apparent that she was going to experience a holdup, and—if the stories had any validity—that meant . . .
    She bit her cheek again, the metallic taste telling her she’d drawn blood. Blood, just like . . . She focused on Lieutenant Bowles, trying to banish the memories.
    Without taking his eyes off the horsemen, the lieutenant motioned toward the opposite side of the coach. “Stay back,” he ordered, “and keep the others quiet.” Though Mrs. Dunn was still so deeply asleep that she had released her grip on her reticule and Mrs. Fitzgerald was snoring lightly, Abigail did not doubt that the women would scream if they realized what was happening. She had no idea what Mr. Fitzgerald might do, but she knew that any distraction could be dangerous.
    Abigail took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, then darted another look at the approaching men. She wouldn’t—she absolutely would not—look at the lieutenant’s revolver. “They’re soldiers.” She whispered the words, not wanting to waken the others. The approaching riders’ uniforms were the same shade of blue as Lieutenant Bowles’s. The difference was, these men wore bandannas over their faces. It could be to protect them from the dust, but the lieutenant’s intake of breath said otherwise.
    “Probably deserters, up to no good.” He leaned out the window, twisting to face the front of the coach, and yelled at the driver. “Don’t stop. No matter what happens, don’t stop unless I tell you to.”
    “But, sir . . .” Fear colored the coachman’s words.
    “Trust me. Keep going.”
    The driver cracked the whip, and the horses began to run, setting the coach to lurching. As her reticule tumbled from her lap, Mrs. Dunn’s eyes flew open.
    “What’s going on?” she screeched, her eyes focusing on the lieutenant’s drawn weapon. The scream wakened the Fitzgeralds, and the woman clung to her husband, fright darkening her eyes.
    “Quiet, everyone.” Abigail used her best schoolmarm tone, the one that never failed to silence unruly children. “It’s bandits.” She wrapped her arm around Mrs. Dunn’s shoulders and pressed the widow into the seat. If Lieutenant Bowles was going to save the gold or whatever it was the outlaws sought, he needed no interference.
    “No!” Mrs. Dunn struggled against Abigail, her eyes darting from the lieutenant to her lap. “My reticule. I need my reticule.”
    The heavy bag had slid to the other side of the coach, where it lay near the lieutenant’s feet. Though Mr. Fitzgerald looked as if he would retrieve the reticule, Abigail shook her head. “Not now.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the bandits approach. In seconds they would reach the coach. And then . . . Dear Lord, keep us safe .
    “Smelling salts! I need my smelling salts.” Mrs. Dunn’s imperious tone only worsened Mrs. Fitzgerald’s whimpering.
    As the widow stretched her arms toward her reticule, Abigail dug inside her own bag and pulled out a small vial. Mama had been insistent that a lady always carry smelling salts, claiming one never knew when there might be an emergency. Even Mama, who had been blessed with an active imagination, had probably never envisioned a time like this. “Here.” Abigail uncapped the bottle and thrust it under Mrs. Dunn’s nose. When the widow snorted with what sounded like indignation, Mrs. Fitzgerald buried her face in her husband’s coat, sobbing softly while he murmured reassurances.
    Outside, the palomino’s rider said something to his companion, and the other man raised his rifle to aim at the stagecoach driver. Abigail shuddered as dread surged through her veins. Please, no. The driver was an innocent man, only doing his job. He did not deserve to die.