the riders from his seat.
“Eight!” Regan knew there was no way she’d be able to hold her own against so many armed men. She was terrified, but as they got within range she steadied her aim and fired repeatedly. There were three men riding point. She hit one in the shoulder, but apparently, the bullet only grazed him because he slapped a hand over the injury and kept riding. They began returning fire but she realized they were firing in the air. They’d also halted their mounts. Curious, but not drawing down, she waited over her pounding heart.
“What’s the matter?” Denby asked.
“They’ve stopped.”
He pulled back on the reins to halt the coach and stood up cautiously. After assessing the riders, he waved his arms as if signaling them and asked her, “Did that rifle of yours hit anybody?”
“I caught the one in the black duster in the shoulder. Why? Do you know them?”
“Yep. It’s the sheriff, Whit Lambert.”
Her eyes widened. “I shot the sheriff?”
“No, ma’am. The man in the black duster is Doc Lee. You just plugged your soon-to-be husband.” And by his chuckles, he apparently found that humorous.
Regan was mortified.
The sheriff and his men approached on mounts held to a walk. Regan couldn’t take her eyes off the grim ebony face of the man she’d come to marry. He was tall and lean and sat his big bay stallion proudly. A mustache accented his tersely set mouth. A close-cropped beard dusted his jaw. She was pleased to finally put a face to the man she’d been corresponding with for the past few months, but her main concern was how he’d react upon learning who’d shot him. Regan also noted belatedly that the men who’d attacked the coach were also with the sheriff’s posse. Their hands were cuffed and neither looked happy about being apprehended. She assumed the body lying across the back of a black horse was the one she’d shot in the chest.
“Sorry about the shooting, Sheriff,” Denby called out. “We thought you were part of the gang that rode down on us earlier. She really didn’t mean to shoot the doc.”
The tall auburn-haired sheriff appeared as confused by Regan’s presence as the men of the posse seemed to be. “You were the one shooting at us, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sheriff Whitman Lambert. And you are?”
Drawing in a nervous breath, she gave the doctor a hasty glance. “Regan Carmichael.”
The doctor’s dark gaze flew to hers. “I’m truly sorry,” she replied guiltily.
The sheriff turned to the doctor and although his barely veiled amusement mirrored the reactions of the other posse members, the doctor’s jaw was tight with displeasure.
She felt terrible.
“Where’s Casey?” the sheriff asked Denby.
“Inside on the seat. He’s dead. I think his heart gave out during the gun fight earlier.”
The doctor dismounted, wincing a bit as he moved and entered the coach.
“Was it those two?” Lambert asked, pointing to the sullen, dirty-faced outlaws.
“Their faces were covered,” Regan replied, “but I believe so. I hit one in the arm and another in the chest.”
“That’s him back there,” he said, indicating the lifeless body. He viewed her with the same wonderment Mr. Denby had earlier.
Denby came to her defense. “You aren’t going to charge her, are you? Had it not been for her, I’d probably be dead as Casey. The stage line will probably give her a reward for helping keep the gold I’m carrying safe.”
Regan knew stage lines sometimes did such things, but she didn’t need rewarding for protecting herself. She was a woman. Had the outlaws taken the coach, she might have been prey to an unspeakable assault and they may have discovered the large amount of gold coins sewn into the hems of her gowns. She took no joy in having caused the man’s death and if she was charged, she knew her Uncle Rhine would provide her the best lawyer his money could buy.
The doctor exited the coach. Ignoring her, he gave the sheriff a terse nod, as if verifying Mr. Casey’s demise, before haltingly climbing back into the saddle. His stilted movements made her believe his injury was more serious than the simple graze she’d assumed earlier. Again, she felt awful.
The sheriff said, “You won’t be charged, Miss Carmichael, but they will. They’ve been ambushing coaches up and down this trail for weeks. In fact, they took down a coach earlier today. The driver and guard were wounded and we were out looking for them when we came across them after you and Denby sent them skedaddling.