A Cowboy for Keeps (Colorado Cowboys #1) - Jody Hedlund Page 0,1
hidden away and out of the conflict.
“That so?” The gunman’s revolver didn’t waver. “If she’s of no concern, then let her on out.”
Greta pressed against the door harder. She hadn’t brought Astrid all this distance to have her die at the hand of a robber. “She’s only eight years old—”
“I’m nine,” came Astrid’s indignant voice.
“Allow her to come out,” Mr. Steele said with a quiet urgency. “You don’t want her to end up an orphan, do you?”
Astrid an orphan? Never in Greta’s plans had she counted on dying before Astrid. The truth was, Astrid’s days were numbered, and Greta hoped to lengthen and make them as pain-free as possible. But she couldn’t do that if she let the robber kill her.
Swallowing hard, Greta stepped away from the stagecoach. The door flew open with a bang, and Astrid tumbled out. She landed with an oomph onto the grassy road but then bounded up as nimbly as a barn cat. Though the consumption had emaciated the girl so that she was thin and petite for her age, somehow she still retained a fresh and vibrant spirit that made up for her physical frailty.
Her big silver blue eyes, so much like Greta’s, took in the scene—the robbers, their guns, and all the passengers standing motionless with hands in the air. Astrid’s hair was also the same color as Greta’s, a golden brown now sun-streaked from so many days of neglecting her bonnet. Astrid had refused to allow Greta to plait her hair when they’d arisen at half past four in the morning for a hasty departure from the stagecoach station, and now it hung in tangled waves.
Even so, Astrid was the picture of perfection. She had dainty porcelain but beautiful features that drew attention everywhere she went. Greta had never considered herself to be a beauty, not like some of the other young women back home and certainly not like Astrid.
But too many people to recall during the journey west had exclaimed how much she and Astrid looked alike. The admiring glances and flattery had been strange but not unwelcome. At times, she wondered if maybe she was prettier than she’d realized, if maybe she’d been hasty in accepting the first mail-order bride proposal that came along.
Astrid took several steps in the direction of the closest robber. “Why are you wearing a sack over your head?”
“Astrid, come here this instant,” Greta whispered in her sternest tone.
The thief’s gaze darted over to the passengers, revealing a crooked, lazy eye that didn’t focus. “It’s what robbers do, kid.”
“W-e-l-l.” Astrid drew the word out and cocked her head. “It makes you look kinda silly, like a scarecrow.”
Greta lunged for Astrid, but the girl dodged away and skipped toward the robber.
His gun wavered, as though he was considering turning the weapon on Astrid.
“Astrid!” Horror rose in Greta’s throat, threatening to strangle her. “Don’t you dare go a step closer.”
Astrid halted and held out her hand. “Here’s some money, Mister. It’s mine, but you can have it since you need it more than me.”
The man’s lazy eye shifted to Astrid again. “Drop it on the ground.”
Astrid released a crumpled wad and a few coins. They bounced in the grass near the robber’s feet. “My sister has more—”
“No!” Greta couldn’t let these bandits discover her secret stash since she’d taken pains to sew the cash into the lining of her coat after the passengers had been warned not to carry valuables.
It was her jam money. Her earnings from picking and preserving the wild berries that grew on the farm. The accumulation of two years of working every spare minute.
Astrid turned her pretty eyes upon Greta. “They have to wear flour sacks instead of hats. Guess that means they need the money more than we do. Right, Mister?”
“Right, kid.” This time the robber’s voice hinted at amusement.
The thieves made quick work of emptying the locked box next to the driver and then divested each of the passengers of anything of value. Within a few minutes they ran off into the woods with their loot.
Greta stood with the others, surveying their belongings strewn over the grass surrounding the stagecoach. Astrid had lost interest in the robbers and was intent on picking a bouquet of wildflowers.
“We got lucky.” The driver broke the silence, his voice shaky as he closed the now-empty box next to him. “Last time the Crooked-Eye Gang struck, they killed three men—”
Mr. Steele cut off the driver with a glare and a curt nod toward Astrid.