Amanda glanced at the gun nestled against his hip, the gun that only hours before had thrilled her with its implied danger. But now the sight of it made her shiver imperceptibly, until she decided that he’d never use it on her. The dratted posters hadn’t said Dead or Alive, for heaven’s sake, and any reasonable human being would have to know that Honoria Grenville wanted her granddaughter returned in one piece. One unscathed piece. No. Marcus Quicksilver would never use that lethal-looking weapon on her. Amanda was convinced of that. She, on the other hand, had no qualms whatsoever about using her own weapon on him.
“My grandmother is offering five thousand dollars for my return, Quicksilver,” she said, taking a step or two in his direction, pinning him with her gaze, unafraid of him now, thinking that perhaps he should be afraid of her. “It’s a very generous reward. You already know that, of course. But I’ll be even more generous and give you even more if you don’t take me back to her.”
He didn’t answer, but continued to unfasten the leather straps that bound the horse to the stagecoach. The mare nodded her head agreeably, as if Amanda’s offer had a certain appeal, but the bounty hunter didn’t respond, didn’t shrug or even send so much as a questioning glance in Amanda’s direction.
“Did you hear me, Quicksilver?” she demanded. “I offered—”
Now he snapped his head toward her and growled, “I heard you. Hell, all of Sidney and half of Nebraska probably heard you. Do you want to get to Denver or not, brat?”
Brat again! Amanda fought down the urge to launch her foot into his kneecap or leave the imprint of her hand on his handsome face. “Yes, of course I want to get to Denver, but—”
“Then shut the hell up.” He backed the horse away from the coach, snagged Amanda’s arm just above the elbow and started down the street. “Come on.”
It wasn’t as if she had any choice, she thought, while she trotted along beside him, doing her best to keep her feet from catching in her hem. The town—another combination of clapboard and canvas—was dark, for the most part, except for a saloon here and there where music and yellow lamplight spilled through open windows and doors. The bounty hunter stopped at a hitching rail, where he released his grip on Amanda in order to tether the mare, who whinnied in protest.
Amanda felt like whinnying, too, as she stood nearby, massaging her sore, probably bruised arm. She looked around her for a possible avenue of escape, and her gaze lit on the sign over the building directly behind her.
“The railroad depot,” she exclaimed. Thank God. Now she could claim her bag, change her clothes, brush her hair and put some of the gold coins stashed in a satin side pocket to good use. “I’ll retrieve my valise and pay you a hundred dollars in advance for your services, Quicksilver. Let’s go.”
She snatched up her skirts, whisked through the depot door and assumed it was she who was leading the bounty hunter until her feet suddenly went out from under her and her backside made abrupt contact with the hard wooden seat of a bench.
“Wait here,” he told her. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut. You got that?”
Amanda got it, all right. How could she not, especially when she saw that his eyes had turned that stormy color again and his right hand had come to rest on the butt of his gun? He wouldn’t use it, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t dare. The gesture was merely meant to frighten her, to reinforce the notion that it was he who was in control. For the time being, anyway.
“If you’ll just get my bag for me, perhaps we can discuss this over a nice supper,” she said, as sweetly and as calmly as she could. “My treat.”
“Right.” Marcus gritted his teeth as he strode toward the stationmaster’s window. Maybe he should have wired ahead to have the luggage taken off the train. Even with the telltale initials on the bag, at least there was cash inside. It might have been worth the risk, he thought, but it was too late now.
He glanced back to make sure the runaway heiress was still firmly planted on the bench where he’d left her, then jabbed his finger down on the brass bell on the counter. The stationmaster appeared, looking as if Marcus had just rousted him from a good night’s sleep, then took forever to wipe his spectacles and to fit them on the bridge of his nose before he managed to squint through his little wired window. “Can I help you, mister?”
“How soon’s the next train west?”
The man yawned and blinked and scratched his jaw. “Lemme go see,” he said, just before disappearing from the little cage.
Marcus turned around, angled his elbows back on the counter and surveyed the waiting room of the depot. Her Ladyship was still right where he’d left her, sitting like an aggrieved princess on her wooden throne, glaring an occasional green dagger in his direction. He found himself wishing she wasn’t quite so pretty when he noticed how she drew the gazes of the several male passengers scattered through the room. Two young cowhands bent their heads together and exchanged what appeared to be appreciative whispers. Not far from them, on another bench, a weasel-faced fella in a checkered suit seemed particularly intrigued with Amanda, and kept peeking, all beady-eyed, around the edge of his newspaper to get a better look at her.
In response, Marcus could feel the muscles in his shoulders bunch and all his nerves snap to attention, and he wasn’t sure whether his reaction was male and territorial or whether it was purely business. Business, he told himself. Professional caution. That was all it could be, after all. Amanda Grenville was his bounty. She wasn’t his woman. Thank God.
A sleepy voice came from the wire cage. “Next train’s due within an hour. It’s an immigrant train, though. Next regular one’s tomorrow morning.”
An immigrant train! Marcus could just imagine Her Ladyship’s expression when forced to travel with the teeming masses. He glanced back at her now, then swore when he saw that the weasel in the checkered suit had changed seats and was now attempting to strike up a conversation with Amanda, who didn’t appear at all resistant to his overtures. First Dobson and now this. God dammit, did she intend to talk to everything in pants between Omaha and Denver?
“Be right back,” he told the sleepy stationmaster.
His spurs bit into the soft wood floor as he stalked across the room toward the happy couple. On closer inspection, though, Amanda didn’t appear all that enthused. Her face was a few shades paler than when Marcus had last seen it, and her hands were twisting in her lap. Her eyelashes fluttered up to him, and her eyes looked wildly bright when she spoke.
“There you are, dearest. Did you manage to locate my bag?”
Dearest? For a second, Marcus wasn’t sure just who she was talking to, much less which bag she was talking about. Was she as crazy as she was rich? Then he noticed that the glad little smile on her face was composed less of teeth than of nervous twitching lips.
He glanced at the newspaper that the weasel clutched in his hand and caught a glimpse of a headline—the word Runaway—which gave him a good idea just what the man was up to. No wonder Amanda looked panicky as a deer in the bright beam of a headlamp. But she hadn’t panicked, had she? Much as Marcus hated to do it, he gave her credit for her presence of mind and quick thinking in addressing him the way she had. Now it was his turn to do some fancy brainwork.
Marcus leaned down to brush a kiss across her soft cheek and to whisper, “Don’t worry,” close to her ear. “Sorry, darlin’,” he drawled, straightening up. “That bag’s nowhere around here.” He shrugged helplessly, then grinned at the weasel. “Fine thing for a husband to lose his wife’s suitcase the first night of their honeymoon, huh?”
The man’s beady eyes enlarged. “Honeymoon? The two of you are married?”
“Just.” Marcus smiled with as much husbandly pride as he