The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

they set out, and Eamon would find it hard to change horses in the middle of the night. That blown team was hauling an old carriage, one coachman, one young lady, and one big, heavy, crazed earl.

Ah. Nick and Jemison reined in. Just ahead, a coach was pulled over to the side of the otherwise deserted road. Nick couldn’t see the team, but there seemed to be two people standing outside the equipage . . . he watched, narrowing his eyes. It was a wretched dark night, and in spite of the moon he couldn’t make out very much.

The bigger figure was lifting the smaller figure back into the coach. That had to be them. Nick smiled. The little one had been on her feet, so she was alive. But then the big one had lifted her. Perhaps Eamon had drugged her, the scoundrel. It would be hard to ride off with a drugged woman over his saddle. After a moment’s whispered conversation, Nick and Jemison decided that if the team wasn’t completely blown, they could dump Eamon by the roadside and steal the whole rig.

They checked their pistols as they let the coach lumber back into the road. Then they watched.

The coach set out at a good clip, so Eamon must have managed to find a new team somewhere.

“We’ll steal it, then,” Nick said. “You ride ahead and hold them up; I’ll follow behind and get Eamon out.”

Jemison was standing in the stirrups, stretching out his legs. “Bloody hell, my arse hurts! How did we ride back and forth across Spain so easily?”

Nick grinned. “Are your pistols ready?”

“Yes.” Jemison settled again in the saddle and chirruped to his horse. It was a flashy animal, with big black handprints on a white ground; hardly a highwayman’s horse. But . . . they had to make do with what they had. He watched as the animal walked over to the grassy edge of the road, then trotted along silently, slowly gaining ground on the lumbering coach.

When Jemison drew level with their quarry, Nick set out after him. He saw Jemison rein his horse, saw him raise the pistol; he didn’t shout to make the team stop, but the team did stop, and Nick spurred up to the door. He knocked loudly on it. “Eamon! Show yourself!”

Eamon stuck his head out of the window, his mouth gaping open.

“Beautiful night,” Nick said. “Now get out of the coach and leave Julia behind.”

Eamon’s eyes protruded eggily from his head. “The devil I will!” He ducked back inside, shouting, “Drive on!”

But the coachman did not drive on. Nick glanced up ahead and saw that Jemison still had his pistol trained on the unfortunate man. He knocked again on the door. “Eamon! Come out now. We are two armed men. . . .”

The door burst open, sending Boatswain rearing. Nick held to the reins with one hand and grabbed for a pistol with the other. Eamon was scrambling out of the coach, a pair of pistols waving wildly in his fists. “Leave me!” he screamed. “Leave me or by God I’ll kill you!”

Boatswain dropped back down onto all four hooves and capered, Nick holding him tightly and cocking the gun. He watched in disbelief as Eamon raised a pistol and aimed it directly at Nick’s head.

“Leave me!”

Nick kicked Boatswain; the horse leapt forward as Eamon’s pistol exploded. Nick heard the bullet whiz past his ear; he turned in the saddle, cocking his pistol and aiming at Eamon, just as Eamon raised his other pistol.

The guns fired simultaneously, the sparks flying. Boatswain squealed and Nick felt the horse’s panic, but he pulled him in a tight circle and rode back to the coach; Eamon was lying on the ground, shot through the chest.

Nick swung down from Boatswain and stood by him as he calmed, then looped the horse’s reins over the handle of the coach door. Only then did he look at Eamon.

There he lay, dying, his hand fluttering like a butterfly over his chest, his eyes glimmering in the scanty moonlight.

Nick stepped over him and into the coach. Julia was there, on the seat, unconscious, looking small and broken, on the seat. But she was breathing. Nick searched in her hair for the place where Eamon had coshed her. There. An alarming swelling.

He cradled her head for a moment, hating the way it lolled, feeling for a pulse in her throat. It was strong and steady. For just a moment, he buried his head in her hair and breathed in her scent. She was going to be all right.

He arranged her more comfortably on the seat, then climbed down from the coach.

Eamon lay silently, staring up past Nick at the dark sky. Blood was pumping from between his fingers. Jemison, the coachman, and the team were silent, too; the only sound came from Boatswain, munching loudly on the long, sweet grass that grew by the side of the road.

“I’m for it,” Eamon whispered after a moment.

“Yes.” Nick said brusquely. “It looks that way.”

“Now I will never know the secret. She knew what it was. She knew. . . .”

“The Talisman is not for you, Eamon. You could never have used it.”

“That Russian came, and then he left,” Eamon said, his voice gaining a little strength. “I followed—I knew he was going for Julia and she is mine. I went to the house of the old man’s mistress to find your direction. There was Julia, walking along. I am going to marry her, and she will tell—” He collapsed back, gasping and looking with incomprehension at the blood that flowed beneath his fingers.

“You are dying,” Nick reminded him more gently. “You must tell me if there is anything you wish done, any final messages you need me to deliver.”

But Eamon was choking, the blood oozing sluggishly from his wound. Nick stood aside and bowed his head; he did not want Eamon’s last sight to be the face of his killer.

After Eamon’s final stuttering breath, Nick walked toward the team; Jemison still had his pistol held on the coachman. “He