The Engagement Bargain. Sherri Shackelford

blue color.

      “Don’t give up,” Caleb ordered.

      Seeing her on that stage, he’d recognized a woman who didn’t shrink from a fight. If she needed a challenge, he’d give her one.

      “Don’t you dare let them win.”

      * * *

      The words drifted over Anna. She’d already lost. She was going to die for the cause.

      At least her death would not be ordinary.

      Clenching her jaw, Anna fought toward the surface of her consciousness.

       Don’t you dare let them win.

      The opposition would not have the satisfaction of her death. She’d traveled to Kansas City alone, an unusual occurrence. The speech had started well. There’d been hecklers. There were always hecklers. Anna had learned to ignore them.

      Then she’d heard the shot.

      The truth hadn’t registered until searing pain had lanced through her side.

      For a moment after the disruption, the world had gone silent. Disbelief had held her immobile. She’d looked in horror as a dark, growing stain had marred her turquoise day dress. The ground tilted. She’d staggered and her knees buckled.

      Her mother had advised her against speaking in such a small venue. Reaching a few hundred people wasn’t worth the effort when crowds of thousands awaited them back East. Grand gestures were needed for a grand cause.

      Two ladies from the Kansas chapter of the movement hovered over her, shouting for help. She’d met them this morning—Miss Margaret and the widow, Mrs. Franklin.

      A dark-haired man knelt at her side and pressed his palm against the wound, stemming the flow of blood. Anna winced. The stranger briefly released the pressure, and she glanced down, catching sight of a jagged hole marring the satin fabric of her favorite teal blue dress. She always wore blue when she needed extra courage.

      The man gently raised her hip to peer beneath her, and she sucked in a breath.

      “It’s not bad.” The man’s forest-green eyes sparked with sympathy. “The bullet has gone through your side. Doesn’t look like it struck anything vital.”

      Her throat worked. “Are you a doctor?”

      “A veterinarian.”

      Perhaps her death would not be quite so ordinary after all.

      The absurdity of the situation lent Anna an unexpected burst of energy. “Will you be checking me for hoof rot?”

      “I’ll do whatever is necessary.” The man glanced at the two women hovering over them. “If the hotel is our only option, we must leave. At once. You keep fighting, Miss Bishop.”

      She was weary of fighting. Each day brought a new battle, a new skirmish in the war for women’s rights. Each day the parlor of her mother’s house in St. Louis filled with women begging her for help. Though each problem was only a single drop in the oceans of people swirling around the world, she felt as though she was drowning. She’d given all her fight to the cause, to the casualties subjugated by an unfair and biased system. She didn’t have any fight left for herself.

      Mrs. Franklin lifted her gaze to the nearby buildings, then jerked her head in a curt nod. “It isn’t safe for her here. I’ve sent two others to fetch a surgeon and notify the police. Someone else may be hurt.”

      “I’ll see to Miss Bishop,” the man said, “if you want to check for additional injuries.”

      “Maggie will stay here and coordinate with the authorities,” she said, her expression stalwart. “I’ll remain with Miss Bishop.”

      Anna nearly wept with gratitude. Despite his reassuring words, the man kneeling at her side was a stranger, and she’d never been comfortable around men. Her encounters were rare, often tied with opposition to the cause, and those men mostly looked at her with thinly veiled contempt. Or, worse yet, speculation. As though her call for independence invited liberties they would never dream of taking with a “proper” woman.

      The man ripped Anna’s sash and tied it around her waist as a makeshift bandage. All thoughts of men and their rude propositions and knowing leers fled. The pain in her side was like a fire spreading through her body. It consumed her thoughts and kept her attention focused on the source of her agony.

      The stranger easily lifted her into his arms, and her head spun. Her eyelids fluttered, and he tucked her more tightly against his chest.

      A wave of nausea rose in the back of her throat, and her head lolled against his shoulder. What reason did she have for trusting this man? Someone wanted her dead. For all she knew, he’d fired the shot. With only the elderly Mrs. Franklin as her sentry, there was little either of them could do if his intentions were illicit. Yet she was too weak to refuse. Too weak to fight.

      “Who are you?” she asked.

      He picked his way over the debris left by the fleeing crowd. “I’m Caleb McCoy. I’m JoBeth Cain’s brother.”

      Her eyes widened. “Is Jo here?”

      He nodded. “We’re staying at the Savoy Hotel, same as you. Jo was hoping to see you.”

      Over the past year, Jo’s letters had been a lifeline for Anna. Her glimpse into Jo’s world had been strange and fascinating. Anna had been raised with an entirely different set of values. Husbands were for women who lived a mediocre existence. As her mother so often reminded her, Anna had been groomed for the extraordinary.

      The cause was her purpose for existing.

      Her mother had been fighting for women’s rights since before Anna was born. There were moments when Anna wondered if her birth had been just another chance for her mother to draw attention to the suffragist movement. Women didn’t need men to raise children. They didn’t need men to earn money. They didn’t need men for much of anything, other than to prove their point. Her mother certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about the details of Anna’s father.

       He doesn’t matter to me, why should he matter to you?

       Why, indeed.

      The pain wasn’t quite so bad anymore, and Anna felt as though she was separating from her body, floating away and looking at herself from a great distance.

      Mr. McCoy adjusted his hold, and her side burned.

      She must have made a noise because he glanced down, his gaze anguished. “Not much farther, Miss Bishop.”

      An appropriate response eluded her. She should have answered Jo’s telegram. When Jo had discovered Anna was speaking in Kansas, she’d requested they meet. Anna had never replied. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, and Jo’s world held an undeniable fascination.

      Pain slashed through her side. “Will you tell Jo that I’m sorry for not answering sooner?”

      “You can tell her yourself.”

      Jo was intelligent and independent, and absolutely adored her husband. She had children, yet still worked several hours a week as a telegraph operator.

      Anna had never considered the possibility of such a life because she’d never seen such a remarkable example. Marriages of equality were extremely rare, and if Anna let her attention stray toward such an elusive goal, she lost sight of her true purpose. Besides, for every one example of a decent husband, her mother would reply with a hundred instances of drunkenness, infidelities and cruelty. Unless women obtained a modicum of power over their own fates, they’d forever be at the mercy of their husbands.

      Mr. McCoy kicked aside a crushed picnic basket, and Anna’s stomach plummeted. Discarded blankets and the remnants of fried chicken and an apple pie had been crushed underfoot. “Was anyone else hurt?”

      “Not that I know of.”

      Disjointed