A Frontier Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page A

just wished that she knew, for sure, what future she might have with him.

C HAPTER F OUR
    As Duff rode back home, he couldn’t get Skye McGregor out of his mind. Or at least, her voice. Had he actually heard her speak to him?
    Yes, he had heard it . . . but that may well have been a trick of his mind. The real question was not whether he heard it, but whether she had actually spoken to him. No, that was impossible. Skye had been dead for four years, and not once in that four years had he ever heard her voice before.
    â€œSkye, would you say something to me now, lass?” he asked softly.
    There was no response.
    â€œSure ’n I dinnae think you would be for saying anything to me. So why did you back in the stable? ’Tis marrying Meagan you want, is it?”
    Would it be a betrayal of Skye’s memory for him to marry Meagan?
    That was it, he realized. Almost from the moment he had met Meagan, he had compared her to Skye. He knew what caused him to think he had heard Skye’s voice. It was because he was trying to reconcile his love for Skye with his feelings for Meagan.
    Pulpit Rock, Colorado
    Max Dingo and two other men waited at Pulpit Rock on the stagecoach road between Glen Rock and La Bonte. Dingo, who was their leader, had long, stringy hair hanging down to his shoulders, and a full, unkempt beard. At the moment, he was relieving himself.
    â€œHey, Dingo, I see the coach comin’,” Nitwit Mitt called. His real name was Nat Mitchell, but long ago he had picked up the moniker Nitwit Mitt and accepted the sobriquet without comment.
    â€œAll right, boys, let’s get ready,” Dingo said, buttoning up his trousers.
    â€œHow much money you think they’re carryin’ on that coach?” the third man, Wally Jacobs, asked.
    â€œWe won’t know till we stop it and find out, will we?” Dingo replied. “Get mounted.”
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    The six-horse team moved at an easy lope, and the wheels of the stage kicked up a billowing trail of dust, a goodly amount of which managed to find its way into the passenger compartment. Otis Boyd, his wife Liz, and their two children, Harry and Kathy, were the only passengers in the coach. Kathy, who was no older than six, began coughing.
    Liz Boyd took a handkerchief from her handbag, held it under the spigot of the water barrel, and wet it. She wrung it out so that it wasn’t dripping, then handed it to the little girl. “Here, honey, this will help. Hold it over your mouth and nose. The damp cloth will filter out some of the dust.”
    Kathy took the handkerchief and did as her mother suggested.
    Suddenly there was the sound of gunfire outside, and the coach rumbled to an unscheduled halt.
    â€œWhat is it?” Liz asked in fear. “Otis, what’s going on?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Otis answered, looking out the window. “It could be nothing, maybe just someone signaling the driver to stop so they can catch a ride.”
    They heard loud angry voices outside, but couldn’t understand what was being said.
    Suddenly, a rider appeared just outside the stage. He was wearing a handkerchief tied across the bottom half of his face. “You folks in the coach,” he shouted in a loud, gruff voice. “Come on out of there!”
    â€œOh, Otis!” Liz said in a frightened voice.
    Cautiously, Otis opened the door and stepped out onto the ground. He turned and helped his wife down, then the two children.
    Liz looked up toward the driver and saw that he was tending to the shotgun guard, whose head was tilted back. His eyes were closed, his face was ashen, and the front of his shirt was soaked with blood.
    â€œOtis, that man has been shot!” Liz cried.
    â€œThat he has, lady,” one of the two riders said. Both men had the bottom half of their faces covered. “I shot ’im.” He held up a canvas bag. “I shot ’im for this here money pouch. And now, I’ll be