Bride On The Run. Elizabeth Lane

that someone would recognize her? The sketch on the Wanted poster was taken from her performance picture—Anna DeCarlo in low-cut satin, her hair piled high on her head, her face artfully painted, her rhinestone earbobs sparkling with light. Her present, subdued appearance had fooled Stuart Wilkinson. But it would not fool a seasoned bounty hunter. One chance encounter, one careless slip, and she would be hauled back to St. Joseph in irons to face Louis Caswell’s own brand of justice—and Anna’s instincts told her she would never live to tell her story in a court of law.

      She had spent long hours speculating why Harry had been murdered. Caswell had all the earmarks of a lawman in the protection business. Had Harry threatened to expose him with evidence? Was that why the safe had been rifled? Had Caswell found what he was looking for?

      Anna ran a hand through the muddy tangle of her hair, pushing it back from her face. She was tired of questions, long since sick of fear and uncertainty. But even here, in this deep, isolated canyon, there could be no refuge. Her time here would be nothing more than an all too brief respite from terror.

      The path meandered through the willows, then curved back behind the barn. Lamplight danced and flickered through the open chinks between the boards. Anna heard murmur of voices and the low, wheezing snort of a mule. This, she swiftly realized, was where Malachi had taken Lucifer to dress his wounded side.

      “Well, I don’t care what Carrie thinks. I say she’s pretty and I like her.” Joshua’s voice piped through the wall with bell-like clarity. “Why do you want her to leave, Pa?”

      “I didn’t say I wanted her to leave.” Malachi’s shadow moved, blocking the light as he worked. “I said we talked it over and came to an agreement. Anna’s not the kind of woman who’d be happy in a place like this.”

      “How did you know? Did she tell you?”

      “She didn’t have to tell me.” Malachi muttered a curse as some unseen object clattered to the floor. “Blast it, Josh, she’s not what I expected, let alone what I wanted for you and Carrie. And I’d wager I’m not what she wanted, either. The only thing I can do now is clear the road, drive her back to Kanab and put her on the stage.”

      The silence that followed Malachi’s outburst was broken only by the low, wet breathing of the mule. Anna stood frozen to the spot, knowing she should leave at once, but strangely unable to move.

      “Well, why don’t you sleep with her for a while before you decide?” Josh’s voice cut through the stillness like the sound of a tin whistle.

      Malachi first response was a half-strangled groan. Then, finding his voice, he demanded, “Who the devil put that idea into your head?”

      “Eddie Johnson’s pa. When he was here this spring I heard him tell you that the only way to really get to know a woman was to sleep with her.”

      “You’ve got big ears,” Malachi growled, “almost as big as Sam Johnson’s mouth.”

      “But what about it?” Josh persisted with maddening innocence. “You slept with Ma. And Anna’s your wife now. What’s your bedroll doing laid out here in the tack room?”

      Was Malachi grinding his teeth or had Anna only imagined hearing the sound? She bit her cheeks to hold back her amusement as she imagined Josh’s earnest eyes and Malachi’s reddening face.

      “Pa?”

      She heard the exasperated hiss of Malachi’s breath and waited tensely for the explosion that was bound to follow. Instead, Malachi’s shadow moved lower against the light, as if he had dropped to his son’s eye level. When he spoke his voice was so low that she had to press close against the wall to hear him.

      “Son, it isn’t that simple,” he said, stumbling over the words. “When a man and woman share the same bed it’s supposed to mean something.”

      “Like what?”

      “Like—” Malachi cleared his throat. “It’s like a promise, that they’ll always love each other and stay together. It means they want to be a family—”

      “I slept with Cousin Katie when I was six and we went to her house,” Josh interjected. “I didn’t know it meant any of them things, or I’d have climbed out and slept on the floor.”

      “Those things.” Malachi pounced on the grammar mistake like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. “It’s those things, not them things.”

      “Those things,” Josh corrected himself. “But anyway, I don’t see what all the fuss is about sleeping with somebody.”

      “You will when you’re older.” Malachi’s voice rasped with unease. “Anna and I aren’t much more than strangers. Even if she did plan to stay, I wouldn’t be sleeping with her anytime soon. I’d give her some time to get used to me.”

      “Oh.” Josh sounded crestfallen. “But what you say can’t be true all the time. Eddie Johnson says there are ladies in Kanab who’ll sleep with anybody who pays them enough money. You don’t even have to—”

      “That’s enough!” Malachi cut in irritably. “Hand me that big tin of salve, and stop asking so many questions.”

      “But, Pa, how will I ever—”

      “I said that’s enough. Go and see if Carrie needs any help with supper. Go on.”

      Anna heard the boy moving away. Then he seemed to hesitate. “I didn’t mean any harm by it, Pa, saying you ought to sleep with her.”

      “I know you didn’t son. Run along, now.” Tenderness muted Malachi’s voice. Anna pushed herself reluctantly away from the wall. She’d done enough eavesdropping for one night. It was time she found her way back inside before she stumbled into quicksand, got bitten by a snake or carried off by marauding bandits. Some women took wild, dangerous places in stride. Unfortunately, she was not one of them.

      Malachi’s tender, stumbling words echoed in her memory as she picked her way through the mud. Would she ever meet a man to whom lovemaking was a promise, a vow to stay together forever and build a family? Not likely, Anna reminded herself. Such blessings came to women who deserved them, not women who’d made the kinds of mistakes she’d made—and certainly not women who were wanted for murder.

      Had she taken a wrong turn? Anna gasped in sudden surprise as she stumbled into a muddy hole and felt water seeping into her fragile kidskin boots. The swollen river had spread into the willows here, rousing myriads of small creatures that squeaked and splashed in the darkness. To her left, the massive trunk of a dead tree, its roots likely drowned in some long-ago flood, rose against the sky like a gnarled and twisted hand. She would have remembered such a tree if she’d come this way before. Clearly, she had stumbled onto the wrong path.

      As she turned to go back the other way, she heard, on the wind, the now familiar call of a coyote. Faint though it was, the sheer lonesomeness of it prickled the skin on the back of her neck. It was only an animal sound, she knew, but that long, haunting wail seemed to contain all the sorrows of the world. It seemed to rise from the very depths of her own battered, frightened heart.

      She listened, her throat tightening as the sound faded away. Then, lifting the sodden remnant of her skirt, she began trudging back along the path. The smell of coffee drifted to her nostrils on the night wind. Giddy with relief, Anna sucked the rich aroma into her senses. Yes, this was the way back. Minutes from now she would be sitting in the warm, cluttered kitchen, holding a hot mug and laughing at her own foolishness.

      And yes, by heaven, she would survive this experience. As soon as the road was open she would be gone. She would put this place and this great, brooding hulk of a man behind her and she would never look back. California lay ahead of her with its glittering promise of fame, fortune and freedom. All that and more—maybe even happiness.

      She squared her shoulders and began to sing.

      “Love, oh, love, oh careless love. Love, oh—”

      The song died in her throat as a shaggy,